5 minutes in the medina

Last October I spent 17 days in Morocco.  Five of those were spent in the medina of Marrakesh.  The above photos were taken over a span of five minutes while sitting at a cafe waiting for lunch.  The teeming humanity of the medina and souks is hard to explain or illustrate.  

bread-wool sacks
logs-iron rebar
satellite dish
safety vests
pastries
cinder blocks
donkeys/scooters/handcarts/mopeds/bicycles (100s)
misc. bundles
rolled bundles
juice
coffee kettle with attached stove
boxes of cupcakes
van w/bikes
sacks of dates
TOURISTS
humanity in general

This list comes directly out of my travel journal recording the contents of five minutes of traffic. While we sat, stationary, at the entrance of the souks the amount and variety of traffic was fascinating.  We had been weaving our way in and out of the teeming masses for a few days, had more than a few close encounters with speeding motorcycles or scooters in the narrow passages and pressed into the wall to avoid passing donkey carts.  But sitting here, just watching, the mass movement washed over me.  

I haven't been able to find the words to describe the majority of that trip.  I wrote a lot during the trip, but I can't bring myself to turn those scribblings into anything as of yet.  What I have been able to do is create some photo stories.  These five stories speak to themes I experienced in those 17 days.  

Thresholds for the slow realization of my transition.  
Red for the heat, and sometimes frustration, of the country.
Earth and Sky for the deep contrasts in colour and the inescapable basic elements.
Green for the lush valleys and ever-present sickness (of our own).
Crowds for the, well, ever-present crowds.  

At the time of leaving Morocco, I had no thoughts of going back.  Our organized tour was close to disastrous, although the moments spent on our own exploring were exceptional.  After almost a year, the memories of frustration and sleeplessness and illness have faded, a bit, and my opinion has changed.  
The magic and mystery of Marrakesh is worth another look and the sea breeze of Essaouira so refreshing.

Thresholds

This past weekend I dug out my flip flops.  They were still covered in Morocco.  That last night in country when we walked back from dinner at the vegan cafe (because we just couldn't handle anymore tagines) through the pouring rain.  Weaving our way through the medina's alleys and passages now familiar after three days of exploration.  Our legs and feet slowly caked in rain and red mud and whatever else ran through those streets where horses, donkeys, feral cats and motor scooters shuffle the teaming crowds of humanity, even at that late hour.  


Those last three days in Marrakesh transformed our experience of Morocco but also transformed our vision of ourselves.  We had returned to Africa with the same mindset in which we left six years prior, rough and ready and willing to experience some hardship in the pursuit of the travel experience.  Then came two weeks of driving in a stuffy hot car for hours on end every day, hot hotel rooms above pumping night clubs, waves of sickness, fear of water and the inability to wash.  When we arrived in Marrakesh at the end of our tour, all we wanted was a shower and a plane home.  I wasn't interested in exploring any more, I couldn't look at another carpet or leather bag or handcrafted shoe.  




That was when I knew something had changed.  I had no desire to ogle shoes and handbags.  Something was definitely wrong and it had nothing to do with the searing cramps in my abdomen.  




In the most 'backpacker' moment I have experienced thus far in my life, we loaded up, (front and back) and hiked through the crowded alleys of the medina to a quiet corner, deep in the rabbit warren.  The directions indicating turns at the 'corner carpet shop,' 'fountain,' 'mosque' completely useless as they apply to every corner within the Old City.  Behind the big wooden door in a dark underpass was a beautiful and calm space we willingly fell into, covered in grime and sweat, bowels churning.  


In those last three days in Marrakesh, when we had access to working showers and quiet rooms and the freedom to roam as we pleased, we got comfortable with the fact that we had changed.  We weren't the twenty-somethings that ran away to Africa for adventure six years before.  We were thirty-somethings with obligations and responsibilities that had replaced 'exotic' adventure and we really were just too tired to try and replicate those magical weeks/months we experienced six years ago.  


This realisation, that I am no longer who I was, is a difficult double-edged sword for me to swallow.  One edge is 'thank goodness that time of insecurity and arrogance and ignorance is over' the other edge 'what fresh hell is this 'grown-up' thing of responsibility and obligation and constant effort?'


It's the constant effort that is catching me up lately.  There is no resting.  And while this is a lesson best directed at somewhat intangible goals, it is one that has come home in a very tangible way in the form of my physical body.


Three months ago I signed up for a half-marathon.  




I'll give you some time to let that sink in.  


A half-marathon. 


Me.  


At the time of signing up I had never run farther than 6K (about 3.75 miles).  A half-marathon is 21.1 K (13.1 miles).  I'm not sure what I was thinking.  


Three weekends ago I ran 10K.  


I got very cocky about it.  I tweeted and facebook-ed status-ed about High School gym stinking-that-in-its-pipe-and-smoking-it. 




I have yet to do it again.  After that I stopped running three times a week and have only gone for runs on the weekend and have yet to reach 10K again.  This is not how you train for a half-marathon.  


There is no real reason for this sudden apathy.  The weather hasn't been great, but it never is and I still managed to run three times a week throughout the entire winter.  The same thing with my weight loss/gain.  This past winter I reached my goal weight and then slid back into unhealthy eating patterns.  Coupled with less running, I have put back on about 10 pounds.


No.  There is something else going on with me.  For eight months I have been crossing a threshold without really being aware of the process.  It started with that realisation in Marrakesh.  I am moving toward a different version of me.  A grown-up version.  But every time I get close to embracing this next transition, I stop.  Almost afraid to continue through the door and leave the previous me behind.    


Two steps forward, one step back.  Reach a goal with 'grown up' responsibility and accountability, and then expect to reap the benefits without effort with 'childish' arrogance and entitlement. 


Intellectually, I know this is how life works and I think I am excited about the possibility of new-ish Ariel.  How horrible to stay the 'same' your whole life.  

But, damn.  It would have been nice to figured that out before we booked the 'rough and ready' Morocco tour.  Working showers and night club-free hotels would have made a world of difference. 




Photos: Tomb of Moulay Ismail/Meknes, flip flop full of Morocco/Sahara Desert

Morocco Motoring: Baggage

It's four months since we came back from Morocco and the only bits I shared with you are a few instagram photos and a story about a shower.

It's inexcusable, so today I bring you the packing strategy. This may be the one thing that stresses me out more than any other travel experience. You don't want to be hauling around tons of baggage, but you also want to be prepared. The Girl Scout in me is always worried about not having that one key thing. (I know, 'Always Prepared' is the Boy Scout motto, but I always preferred their handbook to ours. I mean outdoor survival is much more interesting than cutlery position.)

The main issue for us in packing revolved around weight. Not because we were carrying our baggage on our backs but because we planned to shop. A lot. This trip was about exploring Morocco, but we also planned to finish the Christmas shopping. Whether our families liked it or not, they were getting Moroccan textiles under the tree.

Two weeks, one backpack. Shouldn't be an issue but there are always circumstances to consider. We would probably be sweating. A lot. The days would be hot, the nights cold. Also, as a woman travelling in a Muslim country, there was a very good possibility I would have to be covered the majority of the time. I did. Additionally, we were spending one night camping in the Sahara which meant dragging a sleeping bag along (taking up valuable space). We compromised here. Pete took a sleeping bag in his bigger backpack and I packed two thin wool Masai blankets (from our last trip to Africa) in my smaller backpack. I find it unfair that based on my height I have a smaller bag but such is the math of hiking backpacks.

When packing, I start with a list, pare the list down, then add things at the last minute, usually in a panic and they never get used. I resisted that temptation this time, a little, but it meant I forgot to pack tissues, headphones and wetwipes. These things may not seem critical, but I was operating under the assumption that toilet facilities would be less than hygienic and there was a good possibility we would get some kind of belly bug. (They were. We did. Twice each.) I had the meds for 'traveller's sickness' but I forgot the materials.

I did, however, remember to pack four packages of ginger snap cookies. These ended up being the most important item in my bag. These and my two sarongs.

Luckily, style wasn't a huge concern for this particular trip which made packing easier. However, I also knew we would be taking a lot of photos and, vainly, I didn't want to look too haphazard in the photographic evidence.

Here is what I eventually packed after a week of adding and editing:

linen trousers

zip-off trousers

lightweight hiking trousers

yoga/running pants

shorts

lightweight knee-length skirt

3 light tanktops

3 linen shirts

2 t-shirts

2 icebreaker tanks

long-sleeve shirt

icebreaker sweater

2 lightweight cotton sarongs**

bathing suit

2 pairs socks

winter hat

flip-flops

Keens

trainers*

yoga mits*

3 bras

7 knickers

pajamas

notebook and pens

2 books

camera (cord/charger/adapter)

small backpack

day bag

sunnies

headtube

ginger snaps

basic toiletries (no matter how basic, it still seems a ton)

travel towel

laundry soap

clothesline

* I never used the trainers. I never used the yoga mits. Of course I didn't. In all the times I have packed them, I have only used them once. The two icebreaker tanks were a bit fancier and so let me dress up but I could have done without them.

** The sarongs may be the most important and useful things I packed (after the ginger snaps). They serve as excellent head and shoulder covering but also work as a scarf, towel, sling, tissue, smell-blocker, window shade, belt, sleeping mask, bag, skirt, shirt, etc.

On the way home I added:

3 pairs of shoes
1 pair of boots
3 carpets (another 3 in Pete's bag)
4 necklaces
4 sets of mini tagines

　

And still came in under airline weight restrictions. Nice.

Showered in Gratitude

29.  a functioning shower*

It’s not much to ask for, is it?  It’s a very privileged thing to be thankful for, I guess.  Especially considering that many people of this world consider safe drinking water a luxury. 

But it was a rainfall showerhead with 5 trickles of rain that prompted me to turn toward Pete and say the following words.

“I think I might be an adult.”

Shocking, I know. 

This was at the end of 15 days of Moroccan Motoring.  We had returned to the cockroach hosting riad from which we began the journey 14 days prior.  At the time, 14 days earlier, it seemed exciting and exotic and the pitiful excuse for a shower just one of those quaint aspects of travelling that seem unimportant in comparison to the experience that lies ahead.  14 days later, I was recovering from my second round of ‘Moroccan malaise’ and arriving to yet another room of questionable cleanliness was heartbreaking. 

As I predicted in my final post in the Guest Series, Pete did wander the streets of Marrakech alone for the day.  But I wasn’t stressing about packing and to-do lists.  I was watching second-rate rom-coms, family-friendly comedies and a documentary about a basketball player on a TV Pete rigged to get the only English-speaking channel.  When the heat and stillness of the room got to me, I crawled to the bathroom and looked in dismay at the shower.  (I was crawling, not because I was that ill, but because the TV rigging required the room to be criss-crossed with cables that were precariously connected to various outlets and antenna.)  Surprisingly, this shower had a lukewarm setting and five streams of rain, so an improvement, all in all. 

In the course of the 15 day tour, I can remember about 3 passable showers.  Passable here had two requirements 1) luke-warm water 2) pressure greater than spit.  One of these three showers did not pass muster for Pete, as it apparently only had enough warm water for one shower that morning.  So that takes it down to two. 

I must take time out to tell you about one of these passable showers in particular.  It was in Ait BenHaddou.  For those movie buffs out there, this is the small market town on the edge of the Sahara that historically served as a stopping point for desert caravans to pay tax on their wares on their way to the bigger cities to the north.  Now it serves as a movie set.  First, for Lawrence of Arabia, in more recent productions, Gladiator and Kingdom of Heaven.  Back to the shower.

When we arrived, Pete was suffering from his second round of ‘Moroccan malaise.’  On first viewing the shower attached to our room, I was not hopeful.  The showerhead was held together with grey tape.  As I was viewing this repair from the toilet I had to use side-saddle because the room was too narrow to sit properly without my knees pressing painfully into the opposite wall, or smacking my head on the way as I got up, I did not hold out much hope for this shower to bring any relief to Pete.

Turns out, the grey tape was to keep the shower head down, not up.  The pressure was so powerful that within 30 seconds of beginning my shower, the showerhead migrated upward so that the water was basically shooting out horizontally from the wall.  I had to stand about three feet away from the shower to catch the water as it arched back downward. 

Fabulous!!!!!!  I won’t mention that each shower threatened to flood the little closet that was our bathroom.  Oops!

So back to that last shower in Marrakech which prompted me to wonder at my arrival at adulthood on the eve of my 33^rd birthday.  It was a rude awakening, really.  On our first wedding anniversary, Pete and I made a list of things we would like to accomplish by our 5^th wedding anniversary.  One of those items was completing another expedition like the one on which we met. 

That day in Marrakech, we looked at each other and came to the realization that we may not be able to complete that list item in the way we hoped.  We were at the end of a 15 day tour which had many more luxuries than our previous African adventure, but we were much more exhausted mentally and physically than we ever remembered being 6 years ago. 

We have become accustomed to our home comforts.  We like our pillows and mattress just so, and we like our showers hot and pressurized.  It’s true that the drug of new love and adventure may be softening our memories of that first adventure to a cheery rose-hue, and we don’t wish to seem like spoiled city folk that can’t take a little grime in the pursuit of adventure, but after 15 days in a cramped car and two rounds of sickness each, we just wanted a proper shower. 

Today, as I prepared for another day in our home sweet home, the hot water suddenly gave out and I was immediately reminded of the beauty of the ‘developed’ world. 

Today, I am thankful for functioning showers and the revelations that sometimes come with the ability to bathe.  Or not. 

*I realize now that this must be very  important to me, because I was thankful for it last year as well.  I also realize that I am not alone in my desire for a functioning shower and as Lyn so very funnily relates, functionality doesn’t have to be flashy. 

Return and Return, again

You thought I dropped off the map. 

In a way I did. 

Bizarrely, we were better ‘connected’ during this trip than any of our other adventures and at the same time more disconnected from the experience than any of our other adventures. 

The disconnection didn’t come from the WI-FI searches at each hotel but from an attempt to re-live a magical time in our past that can’t be repeated. 

Our return to the African continent is at peril of being erased by our immediate return to the life we created since we last stepped foot on the red soil of Africa.  The only clue we returned and returned again are the mounds of laundry surrounding me and the two sleeping bags waiting to be stowed until the next adventure. 

As with most adventures, we learned a bit about ourselves in the process.  Some lessons were a welcome surprise others just unexpected and still rolling around in our heads. 

But, in case you sense a disappointment in our Moroccan Motoring, we are very happy that we finally saw Morocco and can strike that item on our ‘Place to See’ list.  We have rugs to keep our feet warm and shoes to keep them stylish. 

As I try to get a handle on the detritus that covers our living room floor and the dust that is settling over our memories, I will leave you with a few photos I posted to Twitter along the way. 

Over the next few weeks I will share moments and stories from the roads of Morocco.  Stay tuned for a return to the routine peppered with reflections of our recent return.