Dakar to The Gambia to Casamance

From where I left off…I think. We went to see a music festival down the road in Dakar. It was a fairly large lineup consisting off some famous Senegalese hip hop artists (I’ve recently learned that Senegal is famous for it’s hip hop and rap artists, although Cote D’Ivoire has just pulled out in front), as well as African singers from Congo and Cameroon. One dude named Caffe (?) was a massive crowd favorite. He’s from Congo (I think) but now lives in Paris. A dance troupe from Soweto, SA drove the crowd wild when they emerged. The most fascinating aspect of the festival was the crowd was completely sober. Not a lick of drink was available, other then pop, but that didn’t stop everyone from having ball. Dancing in the aisles, shouts of Wow to the stage (which, in Wolof, means ok). I left at around 3 am and the party was still going strong. Could you ever imagine that happening in Toronto?! There’s an obsession for the human form in Senegal, mainly in maintaining the best you can have. This mostly applies to the men. All up and down the beaches in Dakar are workout stations, somewhat similar to Venus Beach in LA. People are always going for runs. It’s incredible. So there’s a fair amount of eye candy to be seen in Dakar; very lean, long, muscular young men. Who needs tv? And I got the pleasure of receiving many a marriage proposal from such men, which I’m sure had everything to do with my sparkling personality rather than my Canadian passport. Right? One gentleman treated the proposal as a type of business agreement. He thought I should continue my travels, and in the process learn to speak French fluently, as opposed to my ‘conversational’ French. All the while we would be in contact, learning more about one another. Without a doubt, he believed, we would find one another compatible enough for marriage. After I was done with my wanderlust I would the return to Senegal where we would marry and divide our time between Canada and Africa. Under no circumstances would he stay in Canada for the winter though.This was all discussed after knowing one another for about 2 hours. I politely refused to sign on the dotted line. I average on 3 proposals a week. My, so tempting. Pap invited us to see La Lute one holiday Thursday. This is Senegal’s sport: Wrestling. We arrived at the same arena where we saw the music festival to find a very different form of crowd. There was still non alcohol or drugs to be seen but there definitely was a sense of aggression in the air, an overwhelming smell of testosterone. Pap herded us through the gate while a large group of young men spurred each other on, rushing at one another, shouting wildly. It was the first time I felt concerned for my safety. I quickly learned though that this was all part of the show. The group of guys at the gate were part of one wrestlers entourage. Their job being crowd rousers, basically cheerleaders. They rushed onto the grounds just after D, Pap and I found a spot right in front of the grounds, near the press and beside the sport doctor, pumping their fists in the air, taunting the crowd. On one side of the arena was a group of singers and a mess of drummers, pounding out beats, encouraging the cheerleaders and the crowd. On the other side was a slew of cops armed with frikin AK 47s. Doing laps around the grounds were the competitors, all wearing various types of Juju (good luck charms; voodoo), warming up with their coaches and trying to psyche out their opponents. The first match finally started. The competitors were checked for weapons and sanded down. One dude was massive. He seemed to be a favorite and I was shocked when he went down, fairly quickly too. Immediately tears formed in his eyes and he slouched his way into the crowd, asking for money. Turns out La lute is Senegal’s answer to WWF! It was fantastic! A true comedic spectacle. It wasn’t until I was in Africa the first time that I learned that Rasta came from Ethiopia. It wasn’t until I was in Dakar that I learned about Baye Fall. This is a sect of Rasta, but instead of Haille Selasie, the marabout Bamba is the ‘god’. A marabout is an Islamic holy man, well, witch doctor. Politicians will go visit top marabouts for ‘aid’ in winning and election. Basic superstition. So these Baye Fall wander about cloaked in pristine white robes, wearing massive pictures of marabouts as necklaces, dreadlocks piled neatly atop their heads. Fascinating. Now I’m even more in the dark about Rasta. Throughout the world my name has proven difficult. Either people remember it or they don’t. Rarely do I not have to repeat it. Here, in West Africa, it seems Thia is a common name and everyone 1)Remembers it and 2)Can spell it! Even when I say it in French (dropping the ‘h’). There even a drink named ThiaKry, which is sweetened cold milk with couscous. Never tried it but hey, that’s cool. Teresa, Christina and I came across a wedding one day in Dakar and stopped to admire the bride and the wedding party. The photographer caught sight of us and took pictures of us gathered outside the gate. Thought it was amusing for all involved. We finally left Dakar for the Petit Cote, to a village called Joal-Fadiout. We were down to just D, myself and Christina as David and Teresa were headed down to Guinea. Fadiout is found out on a small island attached to Joal by a wooden bridge. It’s a great little community where Muslims and Christians live happily side by side, with a church standing beside a mosque, sharing land and even cemeteries. The island is composed entirely of shells that have accumulated over the centuries. Funny thing happened one night. I was wandering to the shower and stopped to talk to the manager. All of a sudden a bat ran smack into my leg, then fell to the ground. It sat there for a minute, stunned, then flew off. How bizarre. We went to The Gambia after Joal. This is the smallest country to be found on the continent, measuring 35 km across and being completely surrounded by Senegal except for 80 km of coastline. It’s famous for it’s beaches and friendly people, and we were happy to get a vacation from the French language. The official language is English. The ride to the border was long and very hot, and comprised of multiple transport including one ferry, but we finally made it to Banjul, the capital, by around 9pm. We wanted to get to Bakau, a beach resort not far. We were excited by the information the Lonely Planet offered up about the Coast Resorts in The Gambia. Mainly that it was cheap. Senegal is not cheap and we were looking forward to spending less, making up for some expensive days. And we wanted to chill on a beach, drinking cheap beer. We took a taxi to Bakau and went to a hotel recommended by the LP only to find a massive price increase. This was discouraging. We went down the road in search of a cheaper alternative only to find the cheapest place comparable in price to Senegal. Sigh. It was late though and we had had a very long, very indescribably hot day sitting in sweat boxes so we stayed, thinking we could check out the other places in the LP the next morning. Turns out the LP needs a little updating. All the cheap places listed were much more expensive now, so we stayed put. Our Gambia Experience consisted of beach boys trying hard to be our guides, cause obviously we couldn’t do anything on our own (we quickly learned most visitors tend to fly in from Europe and had no idea about anything in Africa, thus the need for ’guides’), fruit and vegetable vendors overcharging by a ridiculous amount and not coming down in price at all, and all dreams of affordability going straight down the drain. We were toubabs (west Africa’s mzungu, white person), and we would pay through the nose for it. It wasn’t all bad though. We met a local football team on the beach one day and they invited us to join them for lunch. They were friendly guys and didn’t harass us in any way. One guy’s family was from Malawi and I got to teach an African his local language. We saw some excellent live music with The Gambia’s best kora player (a type of stringed instrument, commonly referred to as Africa’s first instrument) performing. I got to witness male prostitution first hand with young handsome locals whoring themselves out to fat, old European women (one chick had a mullet!). It was all very entertaining. The constant bad prices got to us though and D and I decided to head back into Senegal and spend some time in the Casamance region. This is a stunning area of forests, palm groves, small islands and mangroves. This is also an area that’s been plagued with violence and rebellion. Goes back to the early 1900’s when the French installed local chiefs to control the areas. The local Casamance people, the Diola people don’t have a hierarchical society and don’t recognize leaders and so, a rebellion broke out. Long story short, peace deals and cease fires have come and gone but nothing has truly been resolved. One local explained to me how the rebels are now being seen as common thieves and bandits and the government have spread word that the rebels are the ones who sell pot, in the hopes this will discourage the use of marijuana. The rebels have stuck to their promise that they will not target tourists though. We still wanted some beach so we headed right down to Cap Skiring, near the Guinea-Bissau border. This was touted as being one of the top beaches in West Africa and, I have to say, that may be true. It was beautiful and empty of tourists as the season had ended just one week earlier. The rains were on the way and Club Med had shut it’s doors till Oct. (This is true. There’s a gorgeous expensive club Med found right down the beach from where we stayed.) Christina had left us to head for Mali so it was just the duo now. Upon arrival to Cap Skiring we were met by a number of touts, there to aide us in finding the right accommodations. Oh the fun we had playing them off one another. By this point, as well, I could understand a fair amount of French but neither of us let on I did. We took our time, with D pissing off the beach touts looking at a lodge in the ;middle of the village. I sat and waited while they told me in broken English how bad the place was and how their place was better, etc. Then they would converse in French, and I would giggle. They were so mad we were checking out our options. We weren’t in a hurry though, so it was nothing to us. Finally we agreed to head out to the beach and see one place. We went, we saw, we checked into the neighboring lodge. Those poor bastards. No commission or strong arming the owners. We ended up getting quite a good deal there and managed to get in the beach life we had wanted in The Gambia. The beauty was the season was over so no one was around to pester us. It was very chill and very nice. And the night skies were filled with lightning but with no rain. Funniest question I got from a possible husband: When told I was already taken (an innocent lie) he asked me if the significant other was Christian. He was a Muslim.

Senegal

Right. This feels like a long time ago now, which it is. Over a month at the least.

Our troupe left Nouakchott with a French girl and her senegalese boyfriend (although he loudly claimed different when D asked) in a shared Peugeot taxi. The price was right and the duo seemed nice. In fact they always remained nice. It's just the price that got worse.

We got to Rosso, which was stiffling hot and the border town and that's when things started looking sketchy. First was the police checks. She just seemed really dodgy about it; shifty, like something was wrong. sure enough she had some papers missing from a car she sold or something like that. Hey, all I want to know is if any of the money I gave to the cops for this and that went to her bribe.

We got the ferry over to Senegal and the boy said he would go and get us transport to St Louis while we sorted out our visas. When we were done with the Douanes he took us through some back streets to a private car where we loaded our luggage on top the roof. The car then drove away, with all our gear tied on top and none of us in the car! Right....Boy said it was all good. It was a blackmarket (like I knew of this ever. Money yes, but taxis?!) taxi and we had to walk through the town to meet it so the cops didn't see. I don't like my gear going away from me.

It was all good though. Our gear was intact and we piled into the car. We started driving and then were told the price. It was huge and we weren't happy so we stopped, bargained and sizzled with anger in the backseat. We really were with no choice at this point. We were far enough away from the town and really didn't know the true cost of transport in Senegal, having been there for a mere 30 minutes. Basically, what I figure is we paid for the duos transport to Dakar; and I blame her. Damn french...

St Louis proved to be an excellent town. Cool, tranquil with old colonial buildings situated on an island. We didn't do much here. Just relaxed after our Mauritanian journeys, and wandered the streets. And we ate. Some of the best food comes from Senegal. They know how to cook here!

This is also where I received my first cadeau. Some art boy gave me some gris gris, which is juju, which is voodoo...although he swears there is no voodoo in Senegal. It was voodoo. It was for protection in my travels, and I'm still waiting to see if it worked!

We then headed to Dakar. The drive was amazing! We passed through forests of Baobab trees; felt like being in the middle of a Tim Burton fantasy. All the tropical trees were there: Palm, Mango, Paw Paw....heaven.

We were back in Africa now.

Women lined the streets with huge bowls filled with mangos (the season), or cashews, or peanuts, or bananas...rushing to your window to be the one to sell their stock. We bought about 3 kgs of mangos for less then a dollar and made a mess of the bus.

The dude who ran the auberge in St Louis told us about an auberge in Dakar that was reasonably priced. We had heard Dakar was quite danergous and very expensive. Basically that the city blew. And we heard that you should never ever walk with your packs, no matter the time of day. Too much theft.

So that's exactly what we did. We headed for La Medina, armed with just an address for this auberge. Rue sept et douze. All 5 of us stomped up the main street, sweating buckets and trying not to slow down. Then a drunken cop called us over, asking where we were from. He was very happy to hear I was from Canada cause he wanted to move there and become a fireman. How can he do this and can I help? Sure, no worries. After all, I should know having been born in the country. I told him I would find him later to try to aid him. Never happened. I think he was too drunk to remember me.

We finally found Rue 7 and wandered down; hit 12 and stopped. There was not one sign to be seen advertising an auberge. Nothing. All it looked like was a residential; kids playing soccer in the streets, tailors sewing on the sidewalks. Not even stores elling tourist crap. So we stood, confused and hot and tired. Christina, the one who can speak the most french, went and asked at a store. We suspected the auberge could be in one building that was nicely painted and just sorta stook out. The shopkeeper took her to this building and she disappeared behind the gate for what seemed an eternity. Meanwhile we became surrounded by kids who were very playful and curious. AND not one asked for money or bon bons or a pen or nothing. It was fantastic.

Christina finally emerged. It was the auberge, this is the prica and it's preet nice in there. Sold. Get this fucking monster off my bag and give me some cold water!

Auberge La Medina is not found in any guide books. It's only through word of mouth. And Pap, the owner, only wants a certain type of person staying there. Someone who wants to experience and understand life in Senegal, specifically in La Medina, a very special neighbourhood in Dakar. This place is an oasis in the midst of chaos. Pap and his wife and kids invite you into their home and treat you as family the whole time you're there. We were invited to eat lunch with them everyday, free of charge, because that's how it's done in Africa. And you can only imagine how good the food was, homemade and all. Lots of spice and veg and delicious fresh fish. Unbeleivable.

We had meant to rush through Dakar. Instead we fell in love with it and stayed.

By no means is Dakar dangerous. Yes, I'm sure there are pickpockets and possibly muggers there, but name one city where there aren't? La Medina was where the africans lived when the french took over Dakar. They even needed id to get into the city center. Now it's an old, lively neighbourhood with no or minimal tourism enabling the inhabitants to maintain a normal life. People quickly got to know you and would greet you in a friendly open manner. The Senegalese seemed much more open then the Mauritanians although still slightly reserved. Great for conversation and information; everyone seems very well educated.

We had the luck to be in town to see a music festival, which was at the stadium just down the road.
Gotta go...will update soon...

And you thought transport in the desert was just camels...

Just to fill you in a bit, the Western Sahara is not actually Morocco. It used to be a Spanish colony, but in 1975 the Moroccans crossed the border in an attempt at obtaining the oil rich land for Morocco. The Spanish and Mauritanians withdrew in time but some were left that just wouldn’t go. This, of course, resulted in a war that lasted until 1991 when the UN got a cease fire going, with the understanding that the people of the Western Sahara would decide between independence and joining Morocco. Apparently this hasn’t happened yet. Attitude in Morocco is ‘It’s ours.’ Seems Dave, the Californian, saw a map of Maroc in Casa with a big black line drawn through the Western Sahara name with Morocco written overtop. You really want to root for the underdog, don’t you. Like living in the desert isn’t hard enough.

This would explain all the mine fields though.

As I had stated in my last blog, we found transport fairly easily. This was for 250 dirham (about 38 CAD) to get from Dakhla to Nouadhibou on the border of Mauritania (in Mauritania). The distance was a whopping 367 km but all through the desert and then along a dirt piste across the border that is heavily mined.

We were picked up at our hotel at 9am by a taxi, one of those sort of covered, can fit people sitting upright but still a small pickup truck kind of taxis, and taken back out to the police post just outside Dakhla. Lots of checkpoints in this area, to the point where you just don’t bother putting away your passport. It was here that we met up with our van. It looked decent enough, had windows, could see the desert. But then all the bags went in, including this mama’s huge crates of potatoes and enormous bags of potato chips (my guess was resell). All our packs were precariously perched atop these crates and we spent a bit, ok, most of the ride making sure they didn’t topple over atop us. We were then all crammed in along the floor of the van. I think there were 9 of us trying to fit in the back of the van that was mostly taken over by luggage. Now this looked so darn comfy that the policeman who checked our passports kicked up a fuss over it. We had no idea what was going on at first. He just seemed all pissed off and you could imagine the thoughts going through my head. He called us into his office, lit a smoke (cause that’s really where one smokes, in a cop shop), then started ‘interrogating’ (seemed to me) the Spanish girl, Christina. The rest of us were shuffled out into the hall where we strained to hear, and decipher what was going on. Luckily, everyone but me speaks Spanish. Basically he wanted to know if we were ok being crammed into the back of the van ‘like sardines, like animals’. Ok, two questions: are we paying too much for this transport and what else can we do? Turned out the price was very good, he was quite impressed with us getting that price, and well, we could just wait and see what else we got. Whatever. We rearranged a bit; got Theresa, Dave’s mom, into the front seat (2 in the front with the driver, but more comfy and you get to see outside) and the rest of us piled into the back again. This time though Dave got seated beside the Muslim mama and she was just not happy about that. Can’t sit beside a strange man. So she just kept pulling away into her corner, which was fine really because that created more room. She had been a real space hog before when I was beside her.

This was all good actually, crammed into the back with everyone. Until the portable gas stove got whipped out. No…they weren’t really going to light a stove in the back of a moving van that was chokers with people sitting atop a carpet, that was definitely flammable. But it was tea time and they were serious about getting some. Dave immediately squished in closer to me, trying his damndest to get as much space between him and this flame. We all moved as far away from that stove as we could. And then they lit it. Completely oblivious to the dangers of doing such a thing. Just really needed some tea. And they even poured it with the Moroccan flair; pouring 2 or 3 small glasses first before offering up a glass for consumption, twirling 2 glasses between the fingers while doing it. And it didn’t even taste that great. I mean, if I’m gonna blow up while drinking tea, I would like to at least enjoy it.

As we were ‘enjoying’ our glasses of tea, we heard a loud bang. That’s right, we had a flat. In the middle of frikin nowhere, we had a flat. Luckily we had a spare, unluckily we had no tools. Try to picture this, we are in the middle of the inhospitable windy no-shade Sahara, that is actually quite cold because of the wind. Yes, we had tea, but we stupidly had no food…although we did have the crisps…And you couldn’t wander off to far, for entertainment purposes or to pee, cause of land mines. Turned out to be rush hour along this road and a car came along which miraculously had tools. Got it all fixed in a jiffy, paid the driver of the car (can you believe they had to pay some bloke to use his tools in the middle of the desert? Not so giving, huh?) and off we went. All of this actually produced a bit of camaraderie amongst us and Dave’s guitar was pulled out and we had a bit of a sing along (Dave and I softly chortled various words out to various songs, and then this Moroccan dude serenaded Christina with some Spanish songs). My decks of cards came out and a rousing game of gin rummy, Moroccan rules occurred (only pick up the last discard, and you put your discard in front of the next player, which at first just looks like a mess but is a pretty cool idea). I find it amazing that all these card games make their way around the world.

By now Dave and I were dying for food, and loudly discussing the big bags of crisps when baguettes and cheese immerged and we ate like bulimics. Thank god for that bread too, cause we would have faded away to nothing without it. Love Moroccans.

Finally got the border of Morocco. Made some nice chit chat with the officer there, was offered some bread in fact, which is just not something you expect to happen when you’re at a border, let alone a border in the middle of the desert his and off we went into no mans land. You should have seen us. We had all been sleepy and groggy from driving so long. Certainly became bright eyed once we entered that mine field! We all stood, well, stooped, and tried to see as best we could outside the window. This is when you are happy to have a driver who really really knows the route. Of what route we saw! Honestly there were tracks going off in all directions; I mean, you know the ones that end at blown up vehicles is probably not the right way, but what if they flew through the air? And most of those cars belonged to germans, by the way. Don’t know why, but bad things tend to happen to german people.

We made it to the Mauritanian border without a hitch, or blam or boom, and were welcomed by touts offering accommodations in Ndibou (too tough to spell each time). There we were, blowing away in the wind, surrounded by mine fields, not even stamped into the country and the touts managed to smell us out. Amazing ability, sniffing us out like that. Oddly our van mates became quite protective of us and basically planned on sticking with us till we were safe and sound at our place of choice and would not let these touts annoy us any further.

What a boring place to work though. These border guards must have been plenty disappointed when they learned of their post. It’s not like you could even take a stroll when you got bored or annoyed with your workmates. Land mines!

Got stamped in and managed to avoid giving a cadeau to the officers, meaning bribe, which they like to do in these parts. Got away with it because the first person they asked was Theresa and she honestly didn’t know what or how much they wanted and wanted to ask our fellow passengers how much. At one point an officer overheard her complain of having a headache (probably dehydration) but he must have though it was the bribe that made her ill and he interrupted an officer just as he was about to ask D for one. Brilliant move on T’s side, deliberate or not.

While we were filling out our currency declaration forms, you know, to declare all the gold bullion you lug around with you, one gentleman officer who spoke some English was asking various questions. When asked where we were staying we answered Auberge Abba (chosen because of it’s name) he became very excited. “Tents”, he exclaimed and made a peaked shape with his fingers just above his forehead. “You stay in Mauritania house which is a tent! Tent!”

We arrived in Nbidou without any trouble, just nearing sunset. Have to say the highlight of entering that town was seeing a camel riding in the back of a very small pickup that was driving into a gas station.

Checked ourselves into Abba, got some money changed thanks to our local Moroccan friend (Tina’s serenading friend) and made our way into the very exciting town for some fairly expensive grub. Kinda crazy how pricey Mauritania is, but then there’s not a whole heck of a lot of farm land or anything.

Our plan was to leave the next day on the night ’bus’ for Noaukchott, to get D’s visa for Senegal (US and Canada are free) and basically mission it through Mauritania for Senegal.

Woke the next day and had a lovely breakfast thanks to the kitchen we could use (we’re dying for Theresa to make some tortillas though; she’s from New Mexico) and headed out to sightsee. Basically Ndibou consists of a port, one side of the town is a no go area filled with land mines, and then there’s the train station that’s actually just a small square building on one side of the land mines. The iron ore train that stops here is the longest in the world, approx. 2.3 km long, and we got the pleasure of seeing it. It seemed to go forever. Unfortunately we didn’t get to see the mad rush of the passengers that attempt to board.

We had unwittingly hired a taxi/guide. Had no intention of doing such a thing but it came about by us trying to explain to the driver that we wanted to see the shipwrecks on the beach just near the train depot. Basically I asked for hi to take us to ’the plage avec mort bateau’. No? Good, I thought, but then my French bites the big one. I quickly looked up the word for ship in my not so handy phrase book and repeated mort (insert French word for ship). David came up with an excellent pantomime, a la Houses are Tents, and placed his hands vertical against his face, and tilted his head to one side. “Mort bateau, oui?“ Finally he got it, but not until he took us way too far. Whatever. Now we had to find out if it was safe to walk along the beach to see the boats. This was actually quite easy. Just a simple fingers walking, Boom sufficed. It was ok, sorta. Off we went, along possibly the windiest, shell strewn beach ever. These little shell bits almost cut our skin in this breeze. But there was certainly a number of dead boats to see. Good, cause it was a highlight for Dave.

We got to the gare routiere around 4 to catch our bus, which was a rather large van set up with 2 long benches running the length of the van. We were told the bus would leave in 10 minutes and too hurry it up. The bus left at around 7. D and I managed to get seated close to the front, away for the square barred window that would definitely be cold throughout the night. Unfortunately Teresa and Christina were by that, with David across the aisle, sandwiched between 2 Mauritanians, who provided great warmth for him throughout the journey. There was about 20 people seated, with the front taken over by a family; mama seated on top 2 tires, with the young mom and her baby on the bench across us, and the youngest daughter and dad.
Passes the best billboard on our way out of town. It was a painting of a child walking towards a land mine. Then a painting of that small boy blowing up, followed by a picture of the child with one leg. Horrible, I know, but it was very amusing at the same time. You just had to see the painting.

It was a stunning night for a trek through the desert. First the red sunset. We had to stop during this for the passengers to get out and pray along the side of the desert. This was indescribably beautiful; the men’s blue robes flowing in the wind. Then, as we began the drive again, the full moon rose over the chilly expanse of the desert.
We had heard that a road had been built to Nouakchott, which was partially true. It ended quit often and we drove bumpily across sand pistes in the light of the moon often; again thankful for the knowledge of the driver.

The ride was as comfortable as you could imagine, seating on a bench squashed between people with no backrest, but during one stop the mama on the tires rearranged her arrangement and set out the 2 tires along the aisle, placing a blanket atop and thus creating her own bed, completely stealing our leg room. There was really no where to put my feet so I put on my ipod to save myself from certain insanity. I was actually inspired by David who had already put his on, and was sharing his tunes with the dude beside him. After awhile of personal music enjoyment I decided to do the same with the boy on my side. He really enjoyed drums and as we listened I would tell him where each artist was from. He, as everyone who’s heard him, really enjoyed K-Os out of TO. Then Talvin Singh came on and he exclaimed ’Singh! Ma musique!’ Thanks Kirk, for providing entertainment for people all over the world (he had sent me music for my journey the day I flew out of Toronto).

At around 2 am we arrived at the restaurant that we would be sleeping at for the night. This was actually a small wooden hut beside a huge tent (house?). It was absolutely freezing and we all headed into the tent and tried to stretch out while enjoying each others body heat. We were awoken 2 hours later and told we were leaving, but found the van wouldn’t start. So there was a lot of pushing the van up a slight slope and pushing it as quickly as possible for it to wake up. Finally it revved and off we went again, smooshed into the van one more time.

We finally reached Nouakchott at about 7:30am, with D winning the lotto. We had created an eta game for eta sleep and eta arrival time as well as eta for leaving sleep. Found our way to Auberge Sahara, which is an excellent little oasis of a lodge in Nchott, and D went to get his Senegal visa. Have to say I didn’t do much in Nchott. The place was so comfy and we had a kitchen once more so…

We stayed for a couple days. The place was crawling with French gypsy types and I was quit glad to leave the moochers (Do you have tea I can have? Any sugar? How bout garlic? How bout you go to the store across the street.) We left for the frontier of Senegal, Rosso with a Senegalese bloke and his French girlfriend. This is a whole other blog though and I’m tired so until then….

By the way, this was written on a laptop in the comfort of my auberge in Senegal thanks to Teresa and David. Love it. And it explains the sheer length, doesn’t it?

Love and misses,thi

Dakhla

I really did lie about Laayoune it seems. The whole town was blowing up when I left the internet cafe last night. The main mosque was spewing out hoards of people, all dressed in their finest and any and every loud speaker was blaring the same tunes. It was incredible; to go from a ghost town to a party town. Fantastic.

The bus journey down to Dakhla was brilliant. Mostly rocky desert for as far as the eye can see, with the odd group of wild camels milling about by the road or just off in the distance. We turned past one large dune and a mini sand storm quickly developed, creating a soft white film over the horizon line, then it stopped as quickly as it started. Every once in a while the Atalntic would come into view, just a light blue colouring against the white sands. And, of course, police checks every 100 km or so, in the middle of nowhere. Really, officer, I'm a student. Merci bien.

The desert is truely a remarkable place.

D and I met a Californian mom(Teresa) and son(David) on the bus who are doing pretty much the same route as us, so we now had the power of 4 to aid us in finding transport to Mauritania. Then, upon arrival to our hotel, Hotel Sahara-how original- we met a lovely Spanish woman(Christina) doing the same. Ahhh, now the power of 5! Didn't take long actually. We've found a truck for a fairly good price (250 dirhams; 25 Euros, and the reception guy seems a little annoyed by it. Guess his commision was cut a bit). Had an excellent camel sandwich with fresh olives and now we're heading back to our hotel to watch the Simpsons, in English, on Dave's laptop.

Really looking forward to seeing what nothing looks like, which is the desciption Moroccans have given us of Mauritania. Pretty, they say, but there's no food and the people are poor. Guess i won't be eating any camel meat there, which, honestly, is very tasty.

Tomorrow, 9 am. Slowly I get back to Africa.

Marrakesh to the Western Sahara

Here I sit, in Laayoune, fairly bored. It's the Prophet's Mohammed's birthday today and this desert town is deserted. There's not even tumbleweeds, just the odd sand drift across the lonely roads.

I lie. It's not that bad. There are people here in this internet cafe, chatting away on MSN webcam. All you can hear is them replying in that mix of moroccan french and arabic. And there are sounds of activity coming from outside. I'm guessing the family activity portion of this holiday is over, and the boys can go play soccer or sit in the cafes smoking, watching the world stroll by. The world being the girls, who walk so bloody slow and gossip so very much...or so it seems. This birthday has been likened to our Christmas, and from the descriptions I've gotten from some locals, it ain't so different. Anyway, Morocco never seems to wake up till evening so today isn't so different from any other day. That's what I like about Morocco. Well, one of the things.

Where am I, you ask? Laayoune, the deep south of Morocco, the Western Sahara. It's a 'big' town located about 20 kms from the ocean, smack dab in the desert. It really did feel lonely out there today, save for the huge amounts of UN trucks (convention maybe?) and all the lads who spoke to me in Spanish. This area used to be Spanish and still does that whole siesta thing, which is kinda annoying, but I don't have to live here.

D and I are on a mission to get in and out of Mauritania by the end of the month (inshallah) so we're booting it down to Dakhla to find some transport to Nouakchott, the capital of Mauritania. Mauritania is basically a country of desert , no roads, and no public transport (buses) so we have to get a bush taxi to take us through the desert. We figure one of two things could happen when we get to Dakhla: We arrive and love it in Dakhla, only to be offered a ride immediately. Or two: We wait for like two weeks; and who cares how cool it is in Dakhla?
However, D has come down with some bug that i caught a week or so ago, and our mission is stunted for the next day.

Since I last wrote I haven't made a huge amount of headway, but I'm really enjoying this country so...Mara was the last place, I believe. Fantastic city really. Especially good for arrival to this country (in case anyone is thinking of flying in: Mara better than Casa). It's not a massive city by any rights, but it's fun to wander through the medina checking out all the great architecture, and markets etc. The main square, Place Djemma el Fna is where alot of the action is. By day there's a bunch of snakecharmers, storytellers (storytelling is big in this country. I would love to tell you what some are about but my arabic is a little rusty), juicers, and acrobats. At night a huge mass of food stalls are added, selling anything from an egg, potato sandwich (they love their carbs here. Atkins diets be warned, and smarten up dammit. It's a dumb diet.) to goats head. Ummm mmm, delish. There's also a bunch of musicians, boxing matches - although I've never seen them actually start- and your basic chilling out, hanging out crowd. We spent a week in Mara, waiting for D's friend Emily to arrive with her boyfriend Simon from the UK; they were coming for a holiday.

Once they arrived we all headed out to Imlil, located in the High Atlas mountians to do some easy trekking. Honestly, I don't know what this country has done to me. I actually enjoy kicking it through these mountians. Sick I tell ya. This is berber country, as is most of Moroc really, which means you'll meet some of the nicest, kindest people in the area. Remember Cascade D'Ouzoud? Berber.
Stunningly beautiful, this area. Springtime so all the apple and cherry trees are in blossom. And these amazing berber villages cut into the mountains. We saw Sir Richard Branson's 'Kasbah'. Pretty wicked, but not a kasbah, just a very very fancy hotel. There was a kasbah you could stay at, perched high above Imlil. It was only 40 Euros to stay in a dorm bed. Fuck dat! We did visit it though and it was quite nice, but definately overpriced.

The hike was awesome. We started out at 10 am and didn't get back till 7. Hiked to the top of this mountain, then went down to see a berber village. The villagers wouldn't let us go through the village so we had to walk back via the river! Thank god for tevas! Then we had to hike back up the mountain and down the other side. Very tiring but oddly rewarding. Rewarding in all the crap you eat after! No really, it was cool trekking through these rocking mountains. Really amazed at how much is lived in in this country. Total rocky land that they converted into a farm. Crazy.

Went to Essaouira on the coast after Imlil. This is a beautiful little town/resort town on the coast. The houses are all white washed and blue shuttered, and the beach is long and clean. It's also really windy so a bit of a Kite and Wind surfers paradise. You hear all kinds of good things about Essaouira, rightly so, but I think the short term travellers really like it for the classy little restaurants smattered all over the place. Don't get me wrong; I too would enjoy all that if I was on vacation for a week or two. But I'm not.
I may be a little sore in my mouth about Essaouira because I got some stomach bug there and was all pukey and shit for a couple days there, and it was so windy and annoying and everything seemed so annoying. You know how it is when your sick. The staff at my hotel was sweet though, as Moroccans tend to be. They came in to check on me, brought me cumin to eat with water, which they swore by. Like I'm gonna scarf back a wacky amount of cumin when I haven't eaten a bloody thing and have been vomiting for hours. Yeah. Good idea.
So what I did with it; I had bought a packet of Hirira soup (moroccan soup) to make in my room (we have a cooker) but I didn't realize I was supposed to use a flavour cube with it, so it was all mushy chick peas and no flavour (obviously) so I plopped in some cumin, which was fine initially. Initially. Word of advice, don't do as I do.

On to Agadir from there, which is this bizarre all in inclusive resorts town on one 'side of the tracks' (really was a big hill), then a normalish town on the other. And it's chock o' block with germans. Really nice beach though. And we met some local dude that had a ground squirrel as a pet. Kinda like having a ferret I suppose, but cute none the less. The squirrel just loved him too; followed him everywhere.
There was also a little fast food francise called Le BBQ. They have a burger called the Cock Supreme. It's a bunch of little hotdogs. We thought it was funny.

Parted ways with Em and Simon at this point and D and I headed to more mountains. Tafraoute in the Anti-Atlas. In the 80s some loopy Belgium artist went and, with the help of the local fire department, painted a mess of massive rocks blue. When I first heard this, I thought, right, don't have to see that. But it looks amazing! Most of the paint has chipped away at this point but there's a few left, showing how powerful his canvas was. And he used other colours as well. Kinda like Christo and his drapes, except rocks. Really fantastic. Don't know if I have any of D's digitals but you can google the town name and I'm sure you'll come up with something.

We were heading back to Tiznit from Tafraoute when we met some Peace Corps (Tiznit-doesn't it sound like a diss? You're such a tiznit...) . We were all headed to the same direction, Sidi Ifni, so we managed to fill a whole vehicle ourselves (vite vite!). And we got to meet Kevin, the Peace Corp volunteer in Sidi Ifni! He had satelite tv! We watched a lot of tv! American tv! Was sooo good. We also maneged to get an apartment for the short while we were there. It was fantastic, kitchen and all. Fresh fish and grilled cheese sandwiches! Salads! Blender too, so lots of fresh fruit beverages.

Had dinner one night at Kevin's along with the other visiting PC. Man, they can cook. We had been hanging on the beach with them all day at a place called Gzira (has all kinds of natural bridges). Anywho, we decided to make a rice feast with camel meat. Man, it was tasty! Honestly, nice and tender. 'Manger on Jamel', to be sung in the tune of Jamming by Bob Marley.

Learned much in the south. Learned Peace Corp live under a very watchful eye here. The cops love to tattle on them. They only get 2 days off a month. There can't be more then 5 plus the host in one city (so only 6 at a time in Mara!). It's very strict here, especially compared to Uganda, where they seem to run amuck.
Also found that the people in the south click more with their tongue when they agree or whatever. And they eat 4 times a day, 10 pm being dinnertime. Ummm, goats like to climb Argane trees (similar to olive). The times are changing here and all the young lads I'm meeting want to only marry one woman, that one forever (multiple wives are allowed and encouraged here. Show of wealth). They also want to live in Morocco, no where else. I also heard a rumour that the King is actually gay(!). That is so not allowed here even though it's rampant. Lots of icky europeans come here and get a bunch of little boyfriends. Married local men have boyufriends here too. Lots and lots of gay guys.
But the king. He's a bit of a dude though. His wife is very liberal and they just recently passed a law that enables the wife in a partnership to half of the belongings. Moving forward and the youth love it.
Just a few days ago the big party was for the king's son getting snip snipped. People all over the country had their boys done the same day. I loved asking the locals to tell me what was going on. I mean, my french isn't that good! Think of the hand gestures...then the inevitable blushing and embarrased laughter.

Hung out one night on my front steps with a bunch of local dudes in Sidi Ifni. They really like to tell each other jokes, and they would attempt to tell me as well. Usually they were juvenile so not so funny; or lost in translation. They asked me if we like to tell jokes in Canada. For sure, I say. Now, because they speak english so well I don't think very clearly. I start to tell Mushroom walks into a bar. What's a mushroom. I forget my french immediately. Um err. Ok, we find that out not long after. But the problem is the punch line: I'm a fun guy. Really. Why oh why didn't I tell a simpler joke. So if anyone has any suggetions, please email me. I'm sure this situation will arise again.

Yet another thing I forgot to tell that happened in Cascades: Chilling watching the falls one day when we looked up and saw some sheep on the side of a cliff. Not out of the ordinary but the barbery apes clinging to the outsides of the cliffs was. These apes were sneaking up on the sheep and jumping out and scaring them. No lie! It was the funniest thing! The sheppard finally saw it happening and he just ran around in circles, screaming and throwing rocks at the apes.
African tv.

Donkey=Berber 4x4
Tea=Berber whiskey
Inshallah=God willing- to be used for virtually anything. Inshallah that bus will move in the next hour. That kinda thing.

Right, so now I'm here, in the desert. It's nighttime, so, dark, but I can see and walk on anything now cause I ate a camel. And I now have a Berber power neckless (the symbol; silver is really good here too) along with the hand of Fatima (the evil eye, to protect you from those who covet) so I'm save. That and I'm in a muslim country and the worst that'll happen is someone will try to practice their english with you. Horrible, isn't it?

Sorta sad I'm leaving Morocco. It really is amazing here. The country has everything a country could offer, stunning scenery, untouched beaches (there's one Plage Blanc that's 45km long with nothing on it), awesome food, remarkable people. You could spend forever exploring it. I however have to get into Africa. Enough of this easy stuff!
And I want some papaya.

love and misses,
thi
PS Spellcheck didn't work so don't hate me for errors.
PSS And I need beer too. The problem with muslim countries is the lack of alcohol, and then the high cost of it when you find it. Africa doens't want their people to be without beer.

My Link to Damien's Digital

http://community.webshots.com/user/thiabateman

The things I forget...

There are a couple of things I seemed to have forgotten to mention. Shocking really, when my last post was a small novel. But it's like a can of beans opened up, and some are still spilling out. I've been on sensory overload for a month and didn't even know it. Now I'm slowly remembering all the little things and need to put them in writing before I forget.

Kiff. How could I forget kiff? This is yet another thing that men smoke. Have been for centuries, and it wasn't until the french showed up that it became illegal. No one could understand why, and it still goes on fairly blatantly, but mostly amongst the older men. We're not sure exactly what kiff is. It looks like finely chopped herbs with a dash of tobacco. Some say it's not cannabis. Others say it's the male plant of cannabis, the female being the popular choice in the west. Or vice versa. It's smoked in these long thin pipes, but not really in the cafes. Usually while they work. And usually it's the folks who work in crafts, like woodworking etc.

Back in Cascades D'Ouzoud: One night Aziz, a guide, came and told us stories by the van. He told us how Rachid's family was amongst the first berbers in Morocco, and therefore quite powerful, with this old blood within their veins. He told how his mom took him as a baby to see Rachid's mom, so that he could suckle from her nipple. So he could drink from an oroiginal berber. Then a small patch of hair was shaven one his head and a mark was scrapped onto his scalp. This was all told in a mixture of spanish, french and a smattering of english. I'm not really sure if this is the story he meant to tell. I do know that Moroccans tend to be quite supersticious, even though they are muslim.

I learned something new last night. I read there's a belief amongst muslims that Allah will appear in the form of a stranger, a traveller. Meaning one should treat strangers as well as they would treat Allah. Explains alot.
It's interesting the difference between Allah and 'God'. Allah seems like s/he'd chill with you over a tea. God does not.

C'est ca. Finis.
Short one. I'll try to keep it like this.
love thi

London to Marakesh- the first of many

Remember when you were a kid and you read all those fairy tales about flying carpets and magic lanterns that, if rubbed, a genie appeared? I always thought those stories were based on the Middle East. Turns out, it was Morocco.
And the carpets fly because there is so much hashish here, it's crazy.

My time spent in London was excellent; got to see many people I had met in Africa, spent some wonderful time with Phil, who I had spent most of my time in Africa with and who was kind enough to put me up and put up with me, and, sadly, played a whole lot of The Sims. Thank god I don't have a laptop or all I would be doing is playing that bloody game.

Then it was off to the races for Damien and I. D picked me up at Phil's at 3:45 am for our 7 am flight to Malaga, Spain. We assumed as well that the weather would be nice in Spain after freezing in London (Why, oh why can't they heat their homes there?). We arrived in Malaga and stepped out in a torrential rainstorm that actually managed to get worse! By the time we got to the ferry depot in Algeciras, we were soaked to the bone, shivering uncontrollably, and I had even managed to wipe out when my brand spankin' new pumas slipped on some marble steps. So my ass really hurt. But we remained in good spirits with the thought that we were going to make it to Morocco before nightfall. Tangier is known as Dangiers so we weren't keen on hauling our packs through the port late at night. Unfortunately the weather was so crap that the ferry was 5 hours late and we didn't reach the port until 10 :30 pm, beyond cold (keep in mind both D and I though we were going to warm/hot Africa so we obviously didn't pack for cold) and absolutely starving. The last time we ate had been just before our flight.
All the pedestrians lined up in front of the cars, waiting to disembark and trying to not inhale the fumes of the cars that had already started their engines. So now, we were kinda stoned on fumes, fantastic. No, really.

Anyway, we made it off without a hitch, got money from an atm, and walked to a cheapie hotel with only one person 'hassling' us. Dangiers?! Whatever. But we did end up getting possibly the best and biggest omelette of my life, which turned out to be just the beginning of the wickedly good food here in Morocco.

We spent a night in Tangiers, then hopped on a bus for the Riff Mountains and Chefchaouen (pronounced shef-sha-when; took me 2 weeks after being there to pronounce it). Chaouen is a stunning village high up in the mountains where all the houses are washed in shades of blue and it has a great vibe, very calm. Sadly it was still frikin freezing and constantly raining. We actually went to bed our first night at 7 :30 because it was too cold to stay up!

Because of the perpetual rain D and I ended up spending a fair amount of time in the local cafe, which was filled with men only, all swathed in Djellabas, a thick woolen hooded cloak that seemed very warm, and played movies on the small tv. This was our first experience with locals and we quickly learned that Moroccans are possibly the nicest, kindest, gentlest people we've ever met. So welcome and opening-we actually were sure it was regional until our travels took us further and further away and still, the people rocked.

It was in this cafe that we also discovered the popularity of hash in Morocco. Now, they don't smoke it in the sheeshas (elaborate water pipes) like many people think. Those are strictly for flavoured tobacco. Only Westerners put drugs in sheeshas. Moroccans roll joints. So we sat amongst these men, drinking our fabulous cafes or mint teas to stay warm, while they puffed away on splifs, occasionally offering us a drag. We would refuse ; had no idea what the law was like and had no intention of ended up in a Moroccan jail. One day, two cops wandered into the cafe, saw us there and gestured to the men to hide their joints. Not put them out . Hide them. We've also learned that we, as foreigners can pretty much get away with anything with the law. We are very very protected here. But more on that later.

We spent a few days in Chefchaoun. I went for a hammam, which is a turkish style steam bath where you get all scrubbed and massaged for next to nothing. I went to get warm. It really was that cold. And, of course there was no heating indoors. We would seek out the few places that had fires going and just stand in front of them, pretending to choose from a menu we couldn't afford.

We also ate really well. At first I thought the food and pastries were so good cause everyone was so baked, but turns out it's just Moroccan cuisine. And I'm not just talking couscous, which is actually meant to only be eaten on Fridays, the holy day. There's this dish called Tajine that D and I are madly in love with. It's name actually refers to the name of the dish and lid it's cooked in which is a conical earthenware that's placed atop coals and the dish is cooked slowly. Ususally we get chicken that's cooked with carrots, tomatoes, peas, olives and lemons. There's also crepes to choose from, kebabs, yogurts, and the list goes on. Have to say, Dr. Atkins would have fit here with all the carbs. They put rice and potatoes in sandwiches! And it's delish.
And the sweets: mille feulles abound! Cakes and coissants and pain au chocolate; all for pennies. Keep saying to myself 'Well, West Africa won't have these so'. Whatever.

D and I finally had enough of the cold and decided to continue on to Fes. We really liked Fes. We got very lost in the medina (means 'city'- the original arab part of any city. Ville nouvelle is the french addition) but managed to find our way out after a mere 7 and a half hours.

Went to our first bar in Fes. These are few and far between in this muslim country, but it certainly wasn't empty! Not cheap either but get this: they give you food with your beer! Plates of olives and bread, chicken, potatoes, all until you say no more. So here we thought we were gonna have to go without dinner and Poof! We eat! As you can imagine, there were no women in this bar but no one was creepy. Everyone treated me with respect. The waiters even opened a separate toilet for me and stood guard while I was inside. Very cool.
Spent about a week in Fes, just getting used to things, trying out my french. Moroccans have a keen ear for languages and thend to speak many. But they are very patient with me and my little amount of french. They keep it simple for me, and slow. So it makes me feel as though I can actually speak the damn language. The frustrating thing is I can sorta understand but I can't reply. Very hard when you're tryin to converse!

Made some nice friends in Fes as well. All the guys who ran the hotel were fabulous, and gave us lessons in french, as well as Moroccan Arabic. I had learned a little classic arabic in Egypt years ago and they retrained me in thier dialect. We also met a gentleman by the name of Ali. He told us about all kinds of lovely places to see in Moroc. One being Cascades D'Ouzoud. Best tip ever!

From Fes, we went to Rabat for a few days, then Casblanca to get our Mauritanian visa. Rabat is a very nice city on the coast, with a pretty enthusiastic surf culture. Very chill, especially for a capital city. Met a guy who had a sheep named Dolly (ha ha) for a pet. As you could imagine, the ladies loved it ! Good food there too...
Casa, well, it's not like the movies. There seemed to be a lot of crackheads there; really the first time we didn't feel safe in Moroc was in Casa. But then, we always are because we're constantly being watched.

I almost forgot our protection. Seems years ago (like years), the King announced that anyone who came to see Moroc had to be treated the same as royalty, or pay the price. This stands true today, except to nightmarish degrees. We're not sure who is allowed to speak to us and who are not, but apparently a local can go to jail for merely speaking to a foreigner.
One night in Fes, D and I were walking home from the medina. We were unsure of the way and were consulting our map, something we both hate doing in public. A young man stopped and asked us if he could help. He found we spoke english and was happy to try his out. We were just chatting about directions when 2 undercovers approached us. They chased away the boy then told us to get in a petit taxi to get home. It was dangerous. Total crap, so not dangerous, and we told them so. They slowly agreed to let(!) us walk back to the ville nouvelle, but only if we kept to certain streets. On route we came across this boy who apologized profusely while he walked ahead of us by 5 metres. We couldn't understand what the hell was going on. Then, again a cop came along, out of nowhere, and he had a bit of a discussion in aravic with him. Then, as the cop came up to our poor confused selves, he said to us quickly how sorry he was but he had to go or face prison time. Honestly, my radar is pretty good for bad people, especially at night. This dude was nothing more than a fashion teen who wanted to test his english. Especially with a canadian since almost everyone here has a relative in Quebec some way or another (studying, or marriage). However, we faced no problems hanging out with Ali. My only guess is Ali works in the tourist industy (he has a shop selling curios. Not once did he try to sell us anything either).

Right, so Casa kinda sucked. Big city etc etc. By this time D and I were very ready to get to a small village and chill. My knee was all swollen from walking up and down the sometimes steep souk (marketplace) sloops, and I wanted to not sightsee for a while. That's when we remembered Ali telling us about Cascades D'Ouzoud and that he would be there around this time.

We left Casa as soon as we got our visa and made it to Azilal, the town closest to Cascades. Spent the night in this tiny town watching Speed 2 with some locals in the cafe below our room . Then we headed down for Cascades. It was a stunning drive, as was the drive from Casa, through sloops of Olive and Almond trees (didn't know they grew on trees, but they do!) to the small village. Met our first 'beach boys /guides/carvers' upon arrival. (For more info, see the previous trip blog entitled The Art Of Fishing). We did our best to not take their advice but ended up going right back to the first dude, Rachid, who turned out to be sorta the Godfather there. His family seems to own the entire land. We stayed at this aunties hotel for 2 weeks. We had only meant to be there for a bit but we met some Austians who absolutely rocked and lost all track of time.

To help you picture this place : Cascades D'Ouzoud is a series of waterfalls that originate just at the village, with various sizes of cataracts plunging water over the edges. It's also located in the Atlas mountains so quite high up, and there are spectacular walks all around, of varying degrees of difficulty. After we dumped our bags (each had our own room for like 5CAD) D and I went out to explore the tiny village. Instead we were met by Jalaal and Aziz, local guides who were heading up to the mexican village -so called because it looks mexican, and there once was a mexican who lived there- and asked if we wanted to come, for free, no charge. Coolio. Turned out to be this crazy hilly hike past mountain goats. It rocked! So stunning this scenery. Very happy to be out of the cities. And bloody Jalaal-this guy managed to walk over anything, just like a mountian goat, maybe more sure footed.

A few days later we met Barbara and Conrad, aka The Austrians. It was love at first sight. We quickly became friends and their van became our second home. The first night B made us austrian pancakes that so reminded me of my mom's cooking I didn't think I'd ever leave her. This became a bit of a ritual, cooking together and I think some of the guides got worried about us foreigners banding together. Hard to explain, all I know is it must be hard for these guys who befriend so many, those people inevitably leave with promises of returns, but rarely does that happen.

One dude, Mo Mo helped us get in a donkey trek. It was fun, as fun as having to direct a very stupid animal in arabic is (Irah to go-rolling the rrrrs; Shhh to stop. Seems easy enough.). And D's donkey seemed to be in heat, and the rest of us were on girl donkeys. B and I witnessed a very disturbing site not befit of a children's story.

We had been under the impression this was gratuis, since all the guys did stuff with us just for friendship. Jalaal constantly took us for treks for no money and would never accept gifts, unless they were smokes. And he had pretty much said for friends . But Mo Mo charged us. A lot. I was not happy and told him so. Later that night he found the Austrians and apologized by giving some special tea. A nice gesture. I decided to not hold a grudge, a stupid boring thing to do anyway, so the next night I offered him a smoke, a peace offering if you may. He didn't know what to do. That night he came to the van with a bottle of whiskey he had recieved in payment for a trek (very good since there are no bottle shops for hours). He shared this with us then bought us huge meals for dinner. It was the nicest thing. He apologized. That had been enough, but he went above and beyond. Alcohol is very hard to get in the Cascades, save for Berber Schnapps, made from figs, a fairly vile gasoline flavoured liquor that they get from the berbers in the mountains.
Just another example of the kindness of Moroccans.

We celebrated easter with the Austrians by painting eggs. Even blew 8 of them to hang on a tree, austrian style. And we painted them pretty with watercolours that B had. Then Conrad made chicken snitzel for din. Yumm! Then we manged to get not one but two bottles of wine, and a bottle of vodka, and then...berber shnapps courtesy of Rachid! It was quite the night...
I decided that a dance party should be held in either my room or the roof of the hotel that night. Now this is an old fashioned place. Permission must be asked for anything, and Auntie was not so happy when we showed up a little wobbly, ipod and speakers in hand, somewhat blaring music at 2 am. It wasn't even that though. It was the boys. No good. So a little chase occcured, to my amusement, with Auntie throwing rocks at Rachid and Jalaal, both close relatives, while they tried to hide. Then she shook her finger at me and marched up to my room. It was hysterical, but turns out I did manage to get the boys in some trouble. Me too, since I seemed to have been adopted by the mamas in town. Would take me 20 min to get to the van, a 2 min walk away. I loved it.
The next morning I hung my head in shame for auntie and I think managed to clear things up with her and the boys. Don't know. Don't speak berber. I do know she finally stopped smacking Jalaal in the head and hugged me. And he was allowed to help me pack. Seemed ok...

I loved it in the Cascades. The view from my window was of olive trees on the sides of mountains. I had baby goats in the stable next door, that at first gave me nightmares from their human-like cries. I could hear the roar of the falls. Could see the whole world from the roof. Conrad watched the slaughter of a goat while just metres away, a baby goat was born.

The feeling of being included with the people, the joy of being cared for by absolute strangers. It was so sad leaving. My adoptive mother told Rachid she had just been getting used to seeing her new daughter everyday. Then I leave. Makes you wonder if it's good at all getting so close. It was different there from the other places I have called temporary home. There seems to be an honesty about the people, an openess I've never experienced. I believe them when they say they care.

Not this this would happen, but I had a few marriage offers in this village (as I tend to, carrying a canuck passport). I honestly believe one would have a good life living there. I would have my olive trees (the trees and painted with certain small patterns to show ownership and this became a bit of a joke amongst our group: My olive tree etc), a good family, equality to my husband, and a beautiful home with a berber hammam. You'd be taken care of, just for being wed to a berber.
Not really in my cards though. However, I have Rachid's number and know a bunch of really cute guys if anyone is interested. But they want to stay here in Morocco...

Right, so this was long !

I'm currently in Marakesh, staying just off Djemma el Fna, the main square of the medina that, by day, is filled with snake charmers, juice stands and fortune tellers, as well as henna artists. By night it turns into a variety of numbered food stalls, with meals ranging from goats heads to bean soup.
I'll save Mara for the next one.
Latah,
Love thi