1. Homecoming

    The return flight from hell: I boarded the plane from Casablanca to Frankfurt at 1 a.m. on Monday. I had a 4 hour layover before boarding a direct plane allllll the way to San Francisco. Nearly 17 hours later, I arrived at SFO, where I was meant to wait over 11 hours in the airport before my 1+ hour flight to Portland. At that point I had already been traveling for 20+ hours; the idea of spending another half-day in an airport was just insufferable.

    I went to United Airways and sweet-talked (okay, begged) the customer service rep, who put me on the standby list without having the pay the $75 fee. I gladly accepted his pity. I waited for two earlier planes home; no luck, they were packed full. The final plane was at 4 p.m. - if I didn’t get on, I would have been stuck until my original flight at 11:20 p.m.! By every grace, I got the one open spot on the flight and at 6:30, I gleefully touched down in my beloved overcast city of Portland.

    Nayland, the greatest friend ever, picked me up at PDX. I scheduled my sleep on the plane carefully and felt perfectly adjusted to the time zone difference when I landed so he, Kate, Brennan and I went out for dinner (after I took a quick shower to wash the full day of travel off of me) at Por Que No. It was a great homecoming; I missed my friends very much.

    Mom, it looks like I survived another trip - you can exhale now.

    Until next time —

    Britt 

    2. 2 months ago  Notes (5)

  2. Day 11 & 12: Casablanca

    I never met a city I didn’t like - until Casablanca, that is. This is a statement not used lightly, as I pride myself on being able to appreciate things that are often considered unlikeable.

    But there was nothing to like about Casa, a grimy, sprawling industrial city of discontent. It seemed the local government has given up on it, allowing it to slowly disintegrate and crumble block by block. Casa is precisely how I envision a post-zombie apocalyptic world. There are full city blocks and buildings left half-demolished; residents walk around sidewalks obstructed by chunks of cement and shattered glass. Even the city’s best assets - boulevards of 1930s Art Deco buildings - are now derelict and dilapidated from decades if neglect.

    I tried my best to like it; rather than stay holed up in my slanted hotel room, as I was tempted to do after arriving in the pouring rain, I visited the Hassan II Mosque (which admittedly was pretty grand - though it cost $700 million dollars to build, money I would argue could have been spent investing in the city), I sought out the best examples of Masquarade Art Deco buildings (only to find most were lost to a wrecking ball), and I walked around the vacant boulevards until I grew so tired of being solicited for sex (seriously) that I retired to my hotel room to watch the Manchester United game in bed, disenchanted and so ready for my flight the next morning.

    Perhaps ending my trip in Casa was for the best; otherwise it would’ve been too hard to part Morocco. I found the silver lining afterall.

    3. 2 months ago  Notes (5)

  3. Day 10

    I woke up on my 27th birthday in the beautiful Chefchaouen. I spent the day doing absolutely nothing of obligation: I ate a delicious breakfast of fresh fruit, thick yogurt and tea prepared for me by Ann. I read (and finished) “Love in the Time of Cholera” in the sun. I picked up some spices from a shopkeeper who welcomed me into his home for mint tea and to meet his two adorable sons. I went to a hammam (Turkish bath house) and soaked in the hot water. Finally, I joined Jim and Flo for another round of dinner and storytelling at Assaada’s.

    Surely it was not my most raucous of birthdays (there’s not much of a nightlife in an Islamic country…) but it was the most satisfying. I like to think I was just resting up for the party when I return to Portland…

    Thanks all for the lovely birthday emails and messages! You made the day very special, even from the other side of the world.

    4. 2 months ago  Notes (2)
  4. Casablanca’s Hassan II Mosque, blanketed in sea mist. The mosque is the third largest religious structure in the world; the Notre Dame can fit in its prayer hall.

    Casablanca’s Hassan II Mosque, blanketed in sea mist. The mosque is the third largest religious structure in the world; the Notre Dame can fit in its prayer hall.

    5. 2 months ago  Notes (6)
  5. Day 9: Chefchaouen If ever there were an example to illustrate my willfulness, going to Chefchaouen would be it. Chefchaouen a small village in the north of Morocco, an impractical 16 hours by bus from the other cities and places I planned to visit on this trip. But the moment I saw a picture of its blue whitewashed medina walls, my stubborn mind was made up: I had to go. And so for this beguiling village, I endured the long bus ride from Fes along the tipsy topsy turvy winding road to the isolated mountain town. I arrived around 3 p.m. and checked into a beautifully styled riad (a Moroccan townhouse with the rooms facing the interior and patio garden) where I was warmly greeted by a peppery British expat called Ann. I normally stay in cheap hostels sharing rooms with 8-12 other travelers but for my birthday weekend I thought I would allow myself a bit of relative luxury. I felt guilty about it at first (I feel there’s some kind of unspoken understanding amongst backpackers that the cheaper and more squalid your accommodations, the more “legit” traveler you are) but when Ann took me to the rooftop terrace with a panoramic view of the medina and Rif Mountains, I forgot all about feeling bad. I spent the late afternoon walking around the medina and plaza, which is really all there is to do in this laid back town. Chefchaouen, like most of northern Morocco, was occupied by Spain until its independence in the 1950s and as such retains a distinct Spanish cultural ambiance; I could’ve sworn I was in Andalucia. I enjoyed walking the hilly medina, stumbling upon strikingly blue and picturesque alleyways and doors. I then took a 30 minute hike up the ridge of the southeast mountain to an old abandoned mosque where I was treated to the view in the picture above at sunset. From the peak I watched goat herders take their flock back over the mountain and women wash their clothes in the river below. A group of local boys soon ambled up the peak, too, and we shared a bag of crisps and we tried to converse in Spanish, though I apparently have retained little if none of it from high school. The blue walls of Chefchaouen were bewitchingly luminescent at twilight and worthy of another hour of picture taking after my descent from the mountain. I then returned to the riad to grab a sweater before venturing out for dinner. During this brief errand I met two other guests of the riad, jim and Flo (hi!), a convivial married retired couple and we decided to continue our conversation over dinner together. We ate at the unassuming but delicious Restaurant Assaada, where over a meal of lamb and carrot tanjine I learned about their impressive litany of travels. Together they have completed over 75 international trips. I don’t know if there is better dinner company than people who begin stories with “Once, when being chased by a white rhino in Namibia…” It was a befitting conversation to have on the eve of my 27th birthday, for their life is the sort of life I most desire, a quixotic life of embraced entropy, pursuit and not least of all, fun.

    Day 9: Chefchaouen

    If ever there were an example to illustrate my willfulness, going to Chefchaouen would be it. Chefchaouen a small village in the north of Morocco, an impractical 16 hours by bus from the other cities and places I planned to visit on this trip. But the moment I saw a picture of its blue whitewashed medina walls, my stubborn mind was made up: I had to go.

    And so for this beguiling village, I endured the long bus ride from Fes along the tipsy topsy turvy winding road to the isolated mountain town. I arrived around 3 p.m. and checked into a beautifully styled riad (a Moroccan townhouse with the rooms facing the interior and patio garden) where I was warmly greeted by a peppery British expat called Ann. I normally stay in cheap hostels sharing rooms with 8-12 other travelers but for my birthday weekend I thought I would allow myself a bit of relative luxury. I felt guilty about it at first (I feel there’s some kind of unspoken understanding amongst backpackers that the cheaper and more squalid your accommodations, the more “legit” traveler you are) but when Ann took me to the rooftop terrace with a panoramic view of the medina and Rif Mountains, I forgot all about feeling bad.

    I spent the late afternoon walking around the medina and plaza, which is really all there is to do in this laid back town. Chefchaouen, like most of northern Morocco, was occupied by Spain until its independence in the 1950s and as such retains a distinct Spanish cultural ambiance; I could’ve sworn I was in Andalucia. I enjoyed walking the hilly medina, stumbling upon strikingly blue and picturesque alleyways and doors.

    I then took a 30 minute hike up the ridge of the southeast mountain to an old abandoned mosque where I was treated to the view in the picture above at sunset. From the peak I watched goat herders take their flock back over the mountain and women wash their clothes in the river below. A group of local boys soon ambled up the peak, too, and we shared a bag of crisps and we tried to converse in Spanish, though I apparently have retained little if none of it from high school.

    The blue walls of Chefchaouen were bewitchingly luminescent at twilight and worthy of another hour of picture taking after my descent from the mountain. I then returned to the riad to grab a sweater before venturing out for dinner. During this brief errand I met two other guests of the riad, jim and Flo (hi!), a convivial married retired couple and we decided to continue our conversation over dinner together.

    We ate at the unassuming but delicious Restaurant Assaada, where over a meal of lamb and carrot tanjine I learned about their impressive litany of travels. Together they have completed over 75 international trips. I don’t know if there is better dinner company than people who begin stories with “Once, when being chased by a white rhino in Namibia…” It was a befitting conversation to have on the eve of my 27th birthday, for their life is the sort of life I most desire, a quixotic life of embraced entropy, pursuit and not least of all, fun.

    6. 2 months ago  Notes (6)
  6. Today I celebrate my 27th birthday on my 5th continent!

    Today I celebrate my 27th birthday on my 5th continent!

    7. 2 months ago  Notes (8)
  7. Henna

    Henna

    8. 2 months ago  Notes (3)

  8. Day 7 & 8

    On the seventh day I sure all hell didn’t rest. Instead, I returned from the High Atlas mountains to Marrakech whereupon I promptly bought a ticket for the overnight bus to Fes (see previous post about the luggage mix up).

    I pulled into Fes at 8 a.m. and took a bus out of Ville Nouvea to the medina Fes El Babi. I found a hostel recommended to me by a traveler in Marrakech; luckily they had one bed open in a 10-person mixed room (the other 9 spaces being occupied by a boisterous pack of Brazilian men).

    After taking a quick shower, I headed out to see what all the fuss about Fes was about.

    I never quite figured that out, though. Fes is, at least compared to Marrakech and in my subjective opinion, underwhelming. I felt the souks were tame (unlike in Marrakech, there are directional signs and people trying to help you - it takes away all the fun of getting lost, really!), the lauded Medersa was nothing as glorious as Ben Youssef, and it just wasn’t as rich in details and color.

    But Fes redeemed itself at lunch when I found an amazing cafe in the most unexpected of places. It was at the end of a dark and sketchy alleyway, the kind of alleyway common sense tells you to steer clear of. Luckily, I ignore those instincts on a daily basis and went ahead down it before coming to the cafe’s entrance, where I walked into a sunny cozy dar-styled room three stories high. The waiter asked if I wanted to eat on the terrace and four flights of stairs later, I was overlooking the rooftops of Fes in a bright rooftop garden. I had an almond and date milkshake, camel burger (their specialty; I had to try it) and a citrus salad - fantastic, all of it. The cafe is apparently popular with both the city’s university students and expats and I was joined by a few of each at the end of the meal (hi Darren, Jess and Zach!).

    There wasn’t much else I wanted to see in Fes by way of attractions and so after lunch I decided to take a walk around the city walls. In the far distance I saw a fairly steep hill to the south of Fes that would provide an amazing vista; in true Britt fashion I thought “I must climb it.”

    So I did - but despite going uphill, things went downhill for me from there. (Mom, you might want to skip this next part…)

    The hill isn’t well-traveresed; to access it you need to cross a very busy 6-lane freeway and there’s no real pathway up. I expect it to be deserted but 10 minutes into my ascent I hear “Bonjour! Bonjour!” from some nearby bushes. I see two teenage boys in Adidas track jackets sitting on the side of the hill and I already know what our interaction will be like. I return a brief greeting and continue on my way, hoping they pick up on my indifference. No such luck; they get up and begin to follow me. I pretend they are not and I keep walking up towards the borj (fort) atop the hill. When I get there I can no longer see them. I start taking pictures of the beautiful view of the city and mountains behind it amongst the blue near cloudless sky.

    Suddenly I sense two people behind me; the two boys have reappeared and they are standing literally 6 inches from me. I turn and tell them in polite French that I wish to be alone. They don’t move. I say the same in Arabic; they don’t move. I continue to take pictures to show them I’m not nervous. I move a few times for different angles and they follow me, again standing behind me so close I can feel their breath against my neck.

    I calmly start walking down the hill. Then one of the boys jumps in front of me, blocking my path; I sternly say “Ishmee” (“Go away” in Arabic) and step to the left. He lunges at my bag and camera and the other forcefully grabs my shoulder and arm. I shout “Shooma!” (“Shame on you!”) and without pause throw back my elbow and I lightly make contact with his chest; he let’s go more out of surprise than pain I think and I take off, skidding down the hill on the loose gravel terrain. I reach the bottom, cross the freeway again and jog the mile back to my hostel without looking back.

    Obviously, I am fine; I wasn’t hurt or all that shook up. I mostly felt frustrated; frustrated that a nice afternoon was ruined, frustrated that in re-telling this story it may give people cause to think this country is dangerous and unsafe when it is far from either, frustrated that this probably would not have happened to a solo male traveller, and frustrated because I don’t know if I should be pissed at the two kids or pissed at their poverty. It doesn’t excuse their aggression but it also helps me better to understand it. I have traveled to a few impoverished areas but I still can’t rightly articulate my feelings about it, nor describe the palpable guilt I feel being a white American tourist with a fancy camera traveling in a country where they earn on average the equivalent of $3.15 a day. I am still constructing a perspective on it.

    After the “hill incident”, I went back to the hostel, met a few travelers from England and Germany in the lounge (hi Dan and Aaron!) and we went to dinner near Bab Boujloud. Afterwards we returned to the lounge and spent the night drinking mint tea and talking about everything from Germany’s population problem (apparently they have a surplus of homes and jobs; can we borrow some?) to which Bob Dylan album is best. The pleasure of being with friends helped fade the frustrations of the afternoon until they disappeared completely behind the mountains, just like setting sun.

    9. 2 months ago  Notes (3)
  9. Days 5 & 6 ** I am a bit behind on my narrative recaps; in real time I am on Day 9. After a few fun days in the hustle and bustle of Marrakech, I headed east to the kasbah Ait Benhaddou. I took a bus along the unfathomably scenic Tiza n´Tichka road; every twist and turn (and there were many; it is not a route for the weak-stomached) provided another jaw-droppng sight of the High Atlas Mountains. Getting to Ait Benhaddou takes a little finesse and spirit of adventure. There are no direct buses to the ksar (fortified Berber tribal villages); the closest town serviced by public transportation, Ouarzazate, is 27km away. When I got on the bus, I asked the driver if he could drop me off by the dirt road turn off for Ait Benhaddou. He made some kind of grunt which I took to mean ¨Yes¨ and I took my seat. Four hours later, he pulled of the side of the road and pointed at me, indicitating this was my stop. I grabbed my backpack and stood on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, as the bus took off and left me in its dust. But I did not panic for if there is one thing I have learned in my time here it is that you can count on a Moroccan to be anywhere there is a tourist with money. I do not say this disparaginly; ad-hoc tourism is how many Moroccans support themselves. Sure enough, after 11 minutes of waiting alone in the desert, a taxi came barreling down the dusty highway and screeched to a stop beside me. Well, it wasn´t so much a taxi as it was a beat-up truck with a few Moroccan men and an elderly Moroccan woman in the back (I later learned she was the driver´s mother). I jumped into the back with the others after agreeing to a very reasonable price of 10dh. We skidded out down the desolate road for 15 minutes until I saw my final destination in the distance. Ait Benhaddou is something altogether spectacular: It´s red clay pise walls stand out on the hill it sits upon, overlooking a lush green oasis and meager river stream. During the winter months, the river swells so high you need a donkey to get across to the kasbah, but in the spring it is easily accessible by jumping over some sandbags. I spent the next few hours wandering through the maze of the fortified city, taking pictures and starring out at the rocky sands that stretched for miles and miles. I stayed until sunset and then walked to the town built around it to find a place to sleep that night. I found a great hostel nearly vacant and thus was able to negotiate a very good price for a bed, dinner and breakfast. Over dinner a few Berber musicians came into the cafe and played a few songs for me and the small group of peple staying for the night. I woke up the next morning to walk out to the kasbah at sunrise; I was the only person there and I reveled in having solitude with something so beautiful. I then jumped into another pick-up truck to Ouarzazate and caught a bus back west to Marrakech, ending one of my most perfect days in Morocco yet.
    Days 5 & 6

    ** I am a bit behind on my narrative recaps; in real time I am on Day 9.

    After a few fun days in the hustle and bustle of Marrakech, I headed east to the kasbah Ait Benhaddou. I took a bus along the unfathomably scenic Tiza n´Tichka road; every twist and turn (and there were many; it is not a route for the weak-stomached) provided another jaw-droppng sight of the High Atlas Mountains.

    Getting to Ait Benhaddou takes a little finesse and spirit of adventure. There are no direct buses to the ksar (fortified Berber tribal villages); the closest town serviced by public transportation, Ouarzazate, is 27km away. When I got on the bus, I asked the driver if he could drop me off by the dirt road turn off for Ait Benhaddou. He made some kind of grunt which I took to mean ¨Yes¨ and I took my seat. Four hours later, he pulled of the side of the road and pointed at me, indicitating this was my stop. I grabbed my backpack and stood on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, as the bus took off and left me in its dust.

    But I did not panic for if there is one thing I have learned in my time here it is that you can count on a Moroccan to be anywhere there is a tourist with money. I do not say this disparaginly; ad-hoc tourism is how many Moroccans support themselves. Sure enough, after 11 minutes of waiting alone in the desert, a taxi came barreling down the dusty highway and screeched to a stop beside me.

    Well, it wasn´t so much a taxi as it was a beat-up truck with a few Moroccan men and an elderly Moroccan woman in the back (I later learned she was the driver´s mother). I jumped into the back with the others after agreeing to a very reasonable price of 10dh. We skidded out down the desolate road for 15 minutes until I saw my final destination in the distance.

    Ait Benhaddou is something altogether spectacular: It´s red clay pise walls stand out on the hill it sits upon, overlooking a lush green oasis and meager river stream. During the winter months, the river swells so high you need a donkey to get across to the kasbah, but in the spring it is easily accessible by jumping over some sandbags. I spent the next few hours wandering through the maze of the fortified city, taking pictures and starring out at the rocky sands that stretched for miles and miles. I stayed until sunset and then walked to the town built around it to find a place to sleep that night. I found a great hostel nearly vacant and thus was able to negotiate a very good price for a bed, dinner and breakfast. Over dinner a few Berber musicians came into the cafe and played a few songs for me and the small group of peple staying for the night.

    I woke up the next morning to walk out to the kasbah at sunrise; I was the only person there and I reveled in having solitude with something so beautiful. I then jumped into another pick-up truck to Ouarzazate and caught a bus back west to Marrakech, ending one of my most perfect days in Morocco yet.

    10. 2 months ago  Notes (10)
  10. I am now in Chefchauoen, “The Blue City” in northern Morocco. The whole medina kinda looks like this; it’s a photographer’s dream.

    I am now in Chefchauoen, “The Blue City” in northern Morocco. The whole medina kinda looks like this; it’s a photographer’s dream.

    11. 2 months ago  Notes (4)