The City with Too Many Vowels

We're on the road to Essaouira (pronounced Ess-uh-wee-ruh, you have no idea how long it took me to get that right), a beautiful port city roughly 3 hours drive from Marrakech. Of the multitude of interesting factoids I’ve heard about Essaouira, the most important is that several Game of Thrones episodes were filmed there. GAME OF THRONES!!!

Ok, fan girl moment over. Because of its position along the coast and relative to Marrakech, it’s been an important port to all manner of kings and conquerors since its founding, and thus has been kept in relatively good shape. The route to Essaouira is mostly relatively lifeless desert, but every now and then you see something cool…

GOATS IN TREES!

So, while we’re trapped in the car, let me introduce you to someone new:

This seemingly adorable canine is actually the most annoying creature you’ll ever meet. Imagine an ADHD inflicted rabbit on speed and you have a less irritatingly energetic animal than Y. Yes he’s cute, but trust me the cute wears off when he’s been trying to hump your leg for 3 hours, has bitten you once and has peed on you twice. At this point in the trip, he was still cute. It was when he tried to fight a camel that we realized he was truly insane.

After briefly surveilling the city from above, we retired to the beach, where we enjoyed several hours of relaxation and delightful conversation with a lovely Canadian teacher, with brief bouts of saving Y from drowning.

Roughly 3 hours in to the experience we realized that we had forgotten one crucial element: Sun block. Thus began the worst sun burn of my adult life. Dazed and groggy from the sun and the incredible length of time since our last meal, we set off in search of food, shade and possibly some aspirin. But H had other ideas. Apparently it was imperative that we see Essaouira’s famous fish market.

So we staggered onward bitching and moaning, following H as he sped frantically through the market, heatedly bargaining and buying large quantities of every edible (and a few possibly inedible) fish known to man. Occasionally we held back to step in pools of rancid fish guts, complain and day dream about fish-free food. But those dreams would have to wait, because as we were just about to slip into tantrum mode, we were confronted by a grinning H holding 3 enormous plastic bags, full to the brim with various unappetizing fish, that we were informed would be our lunch. BUT FIRST…we had to find someone to cook them.

 Fast forward to me and A holding the impressively heavy, now leaking bags of fish parts as H runs off to find the car and iceboxes to transport them home. Imagine our horror as H plops each fish between layers of dirty ice, stopping occasionally to pick fallen specimens from the sidewalk (where people walk and spit and frequently defecate) and place them snugly with the others. Now imagine our embarrassment as tourists stop to watch and take pictures.

Hunger overcomes mortification and we’re finally on our way food-wards through the medina, to knock on a little door in an alley that I wouldn’t have otherwise noticed. We’re now hungry enough that we feel slightly ill, but all there is left to do is hand over the fish and wait. Which is what we did.

Skepticism aside, the food was quite tasty and it fortified us for our continued exploration of the city.

Essaouira is charming and inviting and utterly different from Marrakech. The ocean breeze is refreshing after the oppressive heat of the city (the rancid fish smell that permeates everything even reminds me a bit of fisherman’s wharf). The streets are just as crowded but less frenzied. People yell, trying to sell their goods but no one touches you or follows you. The ancient walls are crumbling and the streets are maze but somehow the city feels inviting. The nooks and crannies give it charm and make it wonderful to photograph.

The view of the sunset from the ramparts was romantic even to cynic like myself. I sincerely hope to return.

Hydrophobia and Other Problems

I’m sure you’re familiar with the dance you do entering almost every building after a heavy rain. You either hop, skip and jump around the enormous puddle that has formed or you step directly in it, soak your shoes and the bottom half of your jeans and probably fall on your ass. Regardless of the potentially humorous outcome, you inevitably think “Man, it must really suck to live on the ground floor. I bet all the apartments are totally flooded.” Moment of concern over, you shake the water out of your shoes, grin a little schadenfreude grin and prance up the stairs to your undoubtedly dry non-ground floor apartment. Unless you live in Morocco, where it is possible to completely flood a 4 storey building.

“How the hell do you flood an entire apartment building?” you might ask. Well it’s simple: You don’t follow the basic steps and precautions necessary to build a domicile that is capable of weathering the elements. Shoddy workmanship, cost cutting and complete apathy for personal safety all combined to drown my apartment in over an inch of water (2 in the kitchen) in the space of an hour. It wasn't even that big of a storm. Which brings us to…

Basic building tips from someone who’s not even vaguely qualified to build a house:

• Drains should drain. That is to say, water should be capable of passing through them. They should not be rendered useless by a little rain, removing which is their only purpose in life.
• Drains should be placed in a place where water would actually collect (balcony, shower…etc). It is not helpful to weirdly slant a surface away from a drain, because no matter how much you want it to, water will not flow upwards toward your poorly placed drain, it will collect elsewhere and then seep under windows and doors.  
• Speaking of which, caulk is a wonderful thing (yes, giggle a bit, get it out of your system). It is supposed to be used to seal areas that could come into contact with and have to contain water. It has been around for a very long time and is not expensive. It can, however, prevent expensive aesthetic and structural damage as a result of water leaking and collecting where it shouldn't. USE IT!!!!! This should be a major step in the window/sliding glass door/bathtub/shower installing process. If someone had thought to do that, I wouldn't have spent 2 hours wading through a pond in my own apartment and trying and failing to drain said fucking pond.
• Moving on, floors are supposed to be flat. If they are not flat and it rains and the rain seeps under uncaulked windows and doors, it will collect (initially) in the inconveniently placed valleys formed by uneven floors (which, in my apartment are the kitchen, the middle of my living room and the left side of my dining area). It will then spread to encompass the entire available surface. Seriously, I shouldn't need to have a drain in the middle of my living room.
• If the ceiling is leaking profusely and regularly, that is not just considered annoying, it’s a major structural issue. Fix it before the roof caves in.
• Unrelated to the current issue but still important are washing machines and their placement. Washing machines connect to the wall in 2 places: the water main and a power socket. It is therefore impractical to put these outlets on completely different ends of a balcony and makes it completely impossible to use said washing machine.
• A note on aesthetics: if you spend the time and money on ornately carved doors and cabinets, why wouldn't you shell out a little bit of cash for light fixtures? The holes in the walls with bare bulbs hanging out are starting to get to me.

Thank you for listening. Let me know if you have any other tips about how not to completely fail at safely and effectively erecting a building, or if you have any pond removal tips, because apparently this will be a recurrent issue. I’d also like to point out that unlike the hundred year old buildings in the medina, whose problems put my dysfunctional little apartment to shame, my building is actually relatively new and should not be leaking from every available orifice.

Also, a quick shout out to my bitchy neighbour who seems to think that this and all the world’s problems are my fault: The entire building is flooded because it’s built poorly. I did not use my telekinetic powers to reroute the rain into your apartment. Like everyone else that lives in this building, I was also inconvenienced by the flooding, actually more than you were. Therefore I will not pay for the water damage to your ugly couch. It was not my fault. Get over yourself.

The Not So Secret Garden

I know it’s a cliché, but it really does take my breath away every time I come here.

A little background info: This is the Majorelle Garden, named after its creator, Jacques Majorelle. It is one of Marrakech’s most well known, most frequently visited and, in my opinion, most aesthetically pleasing attractions. Established in 1947, it masterfully arranges a variety of vastly different plant types from 5 continents, establishing its creator as one of most significant plant collectors of all time, apparently. After his untimely death, the garden fell into disrepair until it was acquired and restored by French couturier Yves Saint Laurent, whose understated memorial is on the premises. Coming from the noise polluted, garbage strewn, kamikaze motorcycle infested entropy that is Marrakech, it is a welcome reprieve.

I think what I love so much about the Majorelle Garden is that it’s a little bit of everywhere. From the moment you enter, you’re transported from the dusty redness of Marrakech to the bamboo forests of Asia…

The stalks of a thousand bamboo shoots rise from the ground like so many overgrown asparagus, tattooed with the names, visiting dates and relationship statuses of the millions of shitty, vandalizing tourists who came before me.

To the American West…

Cacti from 3 continents (yes, I did count them) compose the central area of the garden. Far from reminding you of the desert that encroaches on all sides, the cacti are succulently green and carefully arranged in meticulously raked sand, a living salute to the Zen garden.

To the Mediterranean…

Brightly coloured water fixtures abound. When tourists aren’t endlessly snap snap snapping pictures in front of them, they are a lovely place to sit and watch the fish frolic and the turtles endlessly hump each other. So different from the needy strays that chase and beg in the city. Soft tendrils of vines drip through the rafters, placing fragrant flowers at nose height and providing a emerald veil to shield face sucking teenaged tourists from the civilized world. The ponds radiate a coolness that seems to quell the oppressive heat of the day.

An impressive slice of the world’s flora is displayed in brightly coloured pots, arranged with such beautiful randomness that it could only have been deliberate. Sturdy succulents jutting spikily out of urns, delicate ferns spilling softly out of pitchers, palm fronds fanning between the two and everywhere bamboo. Everything is densely green with carefully placed brush strokes of vibrant oranges, blues and golds. One wonders how many days, months, even years of planning must have gone into making it all look so effortless.

It is every inch a couture garden.

In the Northwestern corner is the brilliantly blue and gold building that houses the Berber Museum.

A small but impressive collection of elaborately dressed mannequins, intricate jewelry and gadgets and gizmos of all manner and function that you can’t quite understand despite the trilingual explanation immediately in front of you. A creatively arranged crash course in Berber history, culture and language.

Just around the corner is a mini gallery showing some of Yves Saint Laurent’s paintings and collages, meditations on the theme of love.

Just the fact that this place is able to exist, completely encapsulated and independent from the rest of the city is wonderful to me.

Perhaps this is why my most precious moment thus far has been sitting here in what I have come to think of as my bench. There’s a sudden chill in the air, the sun momentarily covered by clouds, the onset of a lazy drizzle, the whisper of wind that doesn’t quite reach me. If I close my eyes it reminds me just enough of San Francisco to make me slightly homesick. Light rain drops raise goosebumps on my arms and smudge the ink on my now slightly soggy but incredibly entertaining book (I Wear the Black Hat by Chuck Klosterman, I highly recommend it). I am deliciously free of tourists, who have fled the rain hissing and growling like the sodden cats they are. For the first time I am alone outside, unhindered by leering eyes and pointing fingers and snapping cameras. And I feel something similar to comfort. 

Accidental Brilliance (Is There Any Other Kind?)

So you know how I have absolutely no sense of direction? You remember my first day here, when I got lost, frantically trying to find my apartment, right outside my apartment. Well, it turns out that when I’m not looking for something, I’m really good at finding it.

The day started off as usual, woke up, looked at my watch, Holy Crap! How is it possibly that late?!?! You know the drill. Determined that this would be the day I would finally master my neighbourhood, I boldly got up and took a long, leisurely shower, courageously poured myself some Frosted Flakes and intrepidly procrastinated on Facebook. Then my internet died and I actually left the house.

To begin my great adventure, I wandered down Blvd Mohammed VI (turns out that the touristy shopping street has a name, I know this now thanks to Google Maps, not to any kind of actual of actual signage!!!), to the centre commercial (outdoor mall type thing) which is apparently home to brands with which I’m familiar: Zara, Mango, Etam…etc. Super expensive. Comfortingly familiar. Unlikely to be patronised. Next!

I staggered onwards, the sun starting to set my hair on fire, in search of the Guéliz open market. For reference, a brief overview of my diet thus far: bread, cheese, water. Seriously, that’s it. I desperately need some source of protein and vitamins, but the meat at the supermarket has caused me to spontaneously become vegetarian and the fruit and veg are either obviously rotting or have been turned into their respective raisin equivalents. Thus, I was on the hunt for fresher produce and animal flesh. I walked to the corner where Google Maps said the market would be. It was not there. I have since learned that once you leave the US, Google Maps is wrong. Do not listen to Google Maps. It will get you lost. Also, do not ask other people for directions. They will also get you lost. They’re probably basing their directions on Google Maps. Anyway...I thought, it’s a big market, it’s difficult to misplace, keep walking, you’ll find it eventually.

So I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I walked. And I walked. You get the idea. On the way, I passed 14,000 hotels, 6 bars and a Pizza Hut. Then I came across a wall. You might even call it a great wall. It gave off a very distinct aura of wallness, very fortressy. That is to say, that it seemed to be very intent on separating 2 sections of the city, both physically and idealistically. Then it hit me: I had found the medina.

[Short geographical interlude: Guéliz, which I have referred to a few times, is the newer part of the city, built by the French exactly 100 years ago when Morocco was a colony. It has larger roads, European shops and expats (in theory. I haven’t met any of them). This is where I live. The medina is the walled off older section of the city. This is the city that existed before the French invaded and has remained largely the same, despite the French influence. This is where most of the interesting, typically Moroccan things, buildings and people happen. It’s a World Heritage Site and is thus swarming with tourists.]

I crawled onwards, blinded by the sun, brought to my knees by thirst, until I found...What? I thought this place was impossible to find...Jemma el-Fna: the single most talked about tourist attraction in Marrakech. A notoriously difficult to find square, packed with vendors selling every imaginable food, animal and trinket. Surrounded by a maze of trolleys and shops. Home to acrobats, snake charmers, and musicians of every kind. Or so I’m told. It was almost 6pm by the time I got there, so everyone had either packed up and left or was packing up and leaving. But that’s ok. Now I know how to get there. And I’m going back tomorrow.

I see white people!

Still haven’t been to the old part of the city, as I’m not really sure how to get there (or, more importantly, how to get back), but I did find the touristy shopping street in Guéliz (Hence the title). Haven’t really explored all that much, as I was dying of dehydration and sun stroke at the time, but I was still excited to see some familiar-ish looking things, like the Canadian flag (don’t know why), counterfeit designer bags and (unfortunately) MacDonald’s. 

Interesting new developments:

There is a sushi restaurant about a 20 min walk away from my place! Probably not a very good sushi restaurant, but sushi none the less.

There is a Vietnamese restaurant about a 10 min walk away from my place. Seems a little random, but no more so than a sushi restaurant. Now if I can just find an Indian restaurant, I’ll be good food-wise. Also, pizza. Real pizza though.

I found a shoe store, so I can buy new shoes that won’t mangle my feet. The only thing that’s weird is that in most of the stores (primarily selling junky tourist stuff but some cheap clothing places too) there don’t seem to be very many customers, or, ANY customers for that matter. Maybe that’s because we’re at the tail end of summer tourist season (although I can’t imagine what it’s like here in July) or because tourists spend more time in the medina (the older, “historical” part of the city), but it’s still a little weird how empty the stores are.

There is a movie theatre! From what I can tell, it plays Wolverine in French, and nothing else. It also doesn’t have any dates or times posted. Either Moroccans have some kind of telepathic connection with movie theatres or there’s a trick I have yet to learn. I’ll figure it out. Or I’ll find someone who knows and bug them until they tell me. The same goes for store opening and closing times. There doesn’t seem to be any kind of pattern or rule. I will investigate more.

I no longer flinch at the sight of dead animals. The dead kitten I saw today made me a little sad, but not as queasy as it would have a couple of days ago.

I am developing a fear of dogs. Those motherfuckers are scary. Also, nothing like the “dogs” I’ve encountered before. I have come to the conclusion that the animals that we, in the US, consider to be dogs are actually very large, particular dumb cats or possibly children in disguise (RIP Lulu). Real dogs have multiple rows of teeth like sharks and can give you rabies by just looking at you. Do. Not. Touch.

I have to fight the urge to take home the cats I see on the street. They probably wouldn’t appreciate my attempts to save them, and my landlord definitely wouldn’t appreciate the fleas. (But they’re so cute and I need a cuddly little friend and there’s an adorable little ginger cat on my street and I would name him Hobbes and love him forever [said quickly in a high pitched girly voice]).

Things that have stayed the same:

My internet dies for a couple of hours every day. Usually at the most inconvenient moment possible, like right before leaving when I want to consult a map (or right after returning and wanting to consult a map as I may have a vague idea of where I am now, even though Google maps doesn’t), right before a Skype date I’ve been looking forward to all day or in the middle of a conversation with my mother, who assumes that some kind of violent abduction scenario is the reason for my abrupt departure. This is irritating and probably not fixable. I anticipate it being a problem for future attempts at lesson planning, given that the internet blackout is always in the evening.

Marrakech is roughly the same temperature as the surface of the sun. I don’t anticipate this changing in the near future.

I still have no friends.

I caused ANOTHER car accident today. The guy actually looked injured this time. Not severely, but you never know, internal bleeding and whatnot. Once again, he turned around on his MOVING motorcycle in the middle of a BUSY INTERSECTION to continue staring at me and got side swiped by a car, which threw him off his bike. I have no sympathy. I doubt he learned anything from the experience. I will never get used to the constant catcalls and honking cars and being followed on foot or on motorcycle or by car. I know it’s cultural and something I’m “going to have to get used to” but I really hate feeling like I’m under a microscope all the time. I already feel awkward and sweaty and out of place, being constantly singled out doesn’t make it better. Do they really have nothing better to do than leer at me? I know I’m white and have cool hair, but I’m really not that big of a deal. Get over it.

That is all for now. 

Why I Am Upset or My First Day in Marrakech

I needed this trip to be transcendent, to make up for all the procrastinating I’ve done since college and to distract me from all the awfulness that has been filling my life since then.

I needed this trip to be transcendent to compensate for all the things I’ve given up to make this move possible.

I needed this trip to be transcendent so I could rub it in the faces of all the people who told me I couldn’t do it and that I was crazy to even try.

So imagine my surprise when I walked through the door of my new “home,” bracing for the worst and saw a truly amazing apartment. 1 bedroom, 1.5 bath, kitchen, balcony, washing machine, stove, oven, pots and pans and cutlery all slightly dusty but waiting to be used! By me! For those of you who remember the disaster that was the last apartment I blindly took as a part of a teaching job, you’ll understand why this was such a big deal. And it had internet. Surprisingly fast internet. Possibly even better than my internet at home. And the lovely man (let’s call him H) who had so promptly and perkily picked me up at the airport would be returning in a few hours to show me my new school and to bring me a phone. I was hopeful (and you know me, I’m never hopeful).

But then…

H was an hour and a half late to meet me. I know I have to get used to the chronic lateness as it is cultural, but I’m a little bit German and thus, every time someone is over an hour late, I want to punch them in the face. Luckily, I was able to distract myself with indecision and self loathing. I spent that hour and a half trying to force myself to get over the debilitating fear of going out alone, so that I could get some food. This made me physically ill. And incredibly pathetic.

But then…

Just as I had finally worked up the courage to open the door and then hopefully step out of it, H appeared, like a knight in dusty armour. I wouldn’t have to go out alone after all! He walked me to and from school, giving painfully slow, clear and loud directions, as one would to a brain damaged monkey or a tourist. I felt patronised, but still not entirely sure where I was or what he was talking about. But in theory I now knew how to get to work. Baby steps.

The men I met at work are all admin people, not teachers, and, as previously stated, men. I have not met a single woman. The men looked at me like I was naked and seductively gyrating at that, when, in reality, I was almost entirely covered in baggy clothing that left everything to the imagination and was trying to hide behind H, who was giving them meaningful looks. I missed St Giles.

But then…

I became aware of the horrific blisters that had developed on my feet, making it incredibly difficult to walk. But if I were ever to leave the house again, I would need a test run with a guide. So, feet be damned, I was going to stick it out. And maybe I would catch a glimpse of somewhere that sold food. I still hadn’t eaten anything other than apple sauce on the plane, and I couldn’t remember where the stupid supermarket was. Obviously I was going to starve to death and my parents would bask in the glow of a thousand I told you so’s.

But then…

H took pity on me (as, by this point, I was truly pitiful) and walked me to the supermarket. I was now in close proximity to food! Starvation was no longer a pressing issue! I momentarily forgot about the festering wounds on my feet and my complete lack of directional abilities. I felt I knew what I was doing. I told H I could make it back on my own. He looked doubtful. I told him I’d be fine. I could do this! He raised an eyebrow. I walked into the supermarket.

But then…

I couldn’t do it. I spent half an hour circling the 6 blocks around my apartment, being leered at the entire time. I finally gave up and called H, who was once again extremely and genuinely helpful (although now slightly worried about my ability to survive in the wild) and showed up to shepherd me a block away from where I’d been sitting, to my door, which I’d passed 5 times without realising it. By this point, my feet were actually bleeding. I tried to pretend that it wasn’t a big deal because I technically work with this person and didn’t want him to see me fall to pieces.

But then…

I realised: I have internet access so I can call my mum! I can tell her about my soul-crushing embarrassment and loneliness and throbbing foot pain and hope to God that this approximation of human contact will make me feel better! It rang…once…twice…three times…She picked up…I burst into tears…the connection died. That previously perfect connection has not come back since. I’ve been trying for hours. I’ve restarted, unplugged, patched, troubleshooted and reverted. I’m a woman possessed, completely unable to stop restarting and unplugging and patching and troubleshooting and reverting. Because now I’m totally alone. And I have nothing to distract me from it. And because for once I was actually hopeful, and now I just feel stupid.

Willkommen! Bienvenue! Welcome!

Hello and welcome to my latest attempt at entertaining friends and family and keeping them up to date on my many foibles during my many travels. This blog begins in with my (hopefully amusing) trials and tribulations in Morocco and with my work at the American Language Center. That is to say, it does not begin at the beginning. For previous disasters in France and Central Europe, and my adventures at Lycée Alfred Kastler, please direct your attention to quichelauren.blogspot.com.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let us begin...