My Independence Day

I know it sounds impossible to feel nostalgic about something that only ended ten hours ago and lasted less than three days, but looking through the photos I just uploaded to my computer, that’s approximately how I feel about my Morocco trip. I haven’t yet checked to see if my souvenirs survived the journey back, there’s probably still sand from the beach of Tanger stuck to my feet, and it might even be too early to say for sure that I didn’t get sick from the trip, but I am so eager to write about it that I couldn’t wait. I could easily write pages and pages about the weekend, but so as not to bore my readers, I will attempt to at least keep this post organized, if not concise.

Not-so-Great Expectations

First, it is important to put this trip into context, contexts being the price we paid and our expectations. Most American students who visit Morocco from Spain go through one of two companies which charge something like 200 euros for an all-inclusive 3 days/2 nights package deal. My friend Laura, an expert Googler, found a company called Amarruecos that offered a round-trip ferry between Tarifa and Tanger and 2 nights in a hotel in Tanger for only 60 euros. At that price, I was expecting to be shipped over in crates and housed in a dingy cell without beds or hot water in a shady part of town at best. At worst, there was always the possibility that Amarruecos didn’t exist and the whole thing was a scam. It didn't include guided tours, but that was fine since we weren't keen on riding camels or going to nice restaurants anyway. We wanted to explore the city ourselves, for whatever it was worth.

About a week ago, while researching in preparation for the trip, I stumbled upon this website, which pretty much had me convinced that I would not make it out without being pickpocketed, molested, or talked into buying an outrageously priced rug. On top of that, a friend told me her brother had been assaulted while visiting Morocco. All of a sudden, the idea of two girls alone in Tanger for two days seemed incredibly stupid. In general, I expected Morocco to be very similar to India, probably because it’s the only third-world country I was familiar with, but my parents don't even trust me to go to India alone, and at least there I speak the language and fit in somewhat. And here I was headed to Morocco.

Anyway, Amarruecos had been paid, bus tickets had been purchased, and there was nothing to do but take precautions to stay as safe as possible. Based on what I had read and heard, I had decided to abide by the following rules:

1. Never trust anything or anyone (not even children or old ladies)
   
2. Dress extra conservatively
3. Eat only hot food and drink only bottled water
4. Don't take pictures of any Moroccans
5. Don't accept any services from anyone, even if they seem to be free
   
6. Wear my personal safety alarm at all times
7. Keep all important documents and money in Laura's money belt
   

The only reassuring advice I received before the trip was that Spanish would get us by in Tanger, so we nixed our original plan of learning a few phrases in French and Arabic and set off, hoping for the best but expecting the worst.

I’m on a Boat

I’ve never been on a luxury cruise ship, but that’s what the boat felt like to me. There were bars where you could buy all kinds of food and drinks, a staircase that was like a modern, mini version of the one in Titanic (hey, I’m allowed to imagine!), and far more large comfy seats than people on board. Of course, the seats didn’t matter because Laura and I spent most of the 35 minute ride on the deck, where I felt less seasick and enjoyed a lovely view of the ocean. And of course, since it was my first time on a ship in the ocean, I had to do the Titanic pose. The last picture below is our first glimpse of Tanger, and coincidentally, Africa!

Adventure to the Hotel

As our boat pulled into the port of Tanger, Laura warned me to prepare myself for throngs of people peddling their services to us. I conjured up an image of the arrivals gate at the Hyderabad airport and braced myself. Instead, we were confronted by exactly one robed man who tried to convince us that we needed a guide to show us around town. When we ignored him and kept walking, much to our surprise, he didn’t follow us! As we continued through the port, we only encountered a handful of such people, none of whom pestered us to the point where we were forced to buy their services to end the annoyance.

Once we got out of the port and into the city, we pulled out our maps, which, since we’re cheap, were a couple pages printed from Google Maps and Google Images. We immediately knew we were in trouble because a) there were no street signs to be seen anywhere, and b) the majority of the people we tried asking for help did not speak English or Spanish. Everyone we asked for help along the way told us to take a taxi because it was far away, but we knew better than to trust Moroccans who just wanted our money. So for two hours we wandered around central Tanger, counting streets that branched off from plazas and asking people for help in Spanish or English and often getting responses in French or Arabic. Finally, we got to where our Google Maps print-out indicated that Hotel Tarik should have been. And in its place, we found a small restaurant. I almost cried. Laura was hungry. My back killed from the stuffed backpack I was lugging around. After a few more minutes of frustration and confusion, wondering if it was possible for us to be at the wrong place (Had we taken a wrong turn? But there couldn’t be another plaza in Tanger with a Shell, a CMH, and a Gare… could there?) and one more try asking a group of trustworthy-looking women for help, we finally gave up our valiant quest and took the advice we had been receiving all along to take a taxi. For a terrifying moment while we tried to flag down a taxi, Laura asked me what our backup plan was if Hotel Tarik didn’t exist. I had a vision of the whole trip going down the drain and never traveling again, assuming I managed to make it out of Morocco alive. When a taxi pulled up and the driver recognized the name and street of the hotel, I almost cried tears of joy. In fifteen minutes, we were at a grand-looking hotel quite a distance from the part of town we had spent two hours wandering around. Hotel Tarik existed, but nowhere near where Google Maps had indicated. When we opened the door to our room, not only did we breathe a sign of relief, but our jaws dropped at how nice the room was. Arabic-style tiles? Check. Namaz mats? Check. View of the ocean? Check.

Moral of the story: Moroccans are more trustworthy than Google Maps. Sometimes advice meant to help you can hurt you, and sometimes advice can be 100% wrong.

The Unexpected

Because Laura and I did not want to be out after dark, we slept early and woke up early to take advantage of the daylight hours. We were told that breakfast in the hotel began at 7 AM, so when we went down for breakfast around 7:30 AM on Saturday, we were surprised that not only were we the only ones there, but the waiters were still in the process of setting up food. But we were hungry and eager to start our day, so we simply rolled our eyes at non-Americans’ laziness (a generalization based on Spain and Morocco, I should qualify), sat down and chowed down.

Then we set off for the day with our handful of maps with tourist destinations marked. We thought the Museum de la Kasbah was supposed to open at 9, but when we found it, the sign on the door said it opens at 10. So we wandered around the area, onto cliffs that overlooked the ocean, through steeply inclined alleys and what looked like slums. We marveled at how few people were out and about although it was mid-morning.While we wandered, a few children hassled us to go a different way or buy something, but we followed advice Laura had learned through her excellent Googling skills: to pretend you don't understand them and fire away at them (and carry on conversations with each other) in Gibberish. Initially I started talking to them in Telugu, but Laura was having so much fun with a very Chinese-sounding dialect of Gibberish that I quickly converted. We found children to be our most persistent hasslers (and impressively, many spoke several languages), but the Gibberish tactic turned our experiences with them into lots of fun.

When we returned to the museum around 10, the door was still closed and pounding on the door produced no response, so we wandered even more, this time towards the wealthier part of town, where we saw the French consulate, several mosques, St. Andrews church, a couple palaces, and a Muslim cemetery. Around 11 we returned to the museum and knocked again. A man opened the door, but when we tried to enter, he informed us that the museum was closed because it was a holiday- the birth of the prophet. What ensued was a morning spent finding and taking photos outside of museums that we would have gone to if they weren’t closed, going to hospitals that we assumed were tourist attractions because they were marked on our tourist maps but not being allowed to enter, and trying to ask French-speaking guards stationed outside of palaces if we were allowed to enter but being laughed at. All in all, it was a great time, and I realized that I don’t need museums or tourist attractions to entertain me in a new city- after all, everything there was new and exciting to me, and I got to explore the ordinary sites central to the lives of ordinary citizens of Tanger.

We spent the bulk of the afternoon in the medina (market), falling in love with jewelry and teapots and knock-off Louis Vuitton goods and being repulsed by meat markets and fruit stalls swarming with bees.

Then we walked to the beach, where we were the only females in sight. We watched dozens of soccer (fútbol) games being played. We collected shells. We dipped our feet in the Mediterranean, careful not to roll up our pant legs too high and show too much skin. I had the simple realization that beaches everywhere are essentially the same- the way the waves roll up and recede, the way the sand feels when you dig your toes in, the way the buildings along the shoreline look.

On Sunday morning, we showed up for breakfast around 7:50 AM, and again found that the waiters were still setting up the food. Except this time, we were told to wait ten minutes, that breakfast would open at 7:00. We tried to explain with some gestures and shoddy Spanish that it was already 7:50 but started getting suspicious. We wandered to the reception desk to check the time and confirm that we weren’t going crazy, only to find that we were- it was 6:50! Apparently there is a one-hour time difference between Spain and Morocco which we were not aware of. Suddenly, the late set-up at breakfast, the late emergence of people on the streets, and the late sunrise and sunset made sense!

Lesson learned: Look up important things like local holidays and time changes, not just testimonials about how scary a country is, before traveling.

Haggling in the Medina

I had seen my aunts do it in India and always looked on in awe, but I never thought I could do it or would be doing it at such a young age. To make a long story short, by the end of the day, my achievements included getting a 70 dirham teapot down to 55 dirhams, an 80 dirham scarf down to 50 dirhams, and a 180 dirham necklace down to 90 dirhams. I got things for half as much as they would have cost in the US and a third as much as they would have cost in Spain. I made friends with some shop owners and enemies with others all in the name of business. It was glorious.

Food

A few days before our trip, Laura and I bought jars of peanut butter and jelly and a loaf of bread because a) we’re cheap and didn’t want to eat out all the time, b) we didn’t trust the food in Morocco to not make us sick, and c) we were really craving PB&J after almost two months without it. So our first meal in Morocco, after the two-hour adventure finding out hotel, was good old PB&J sandwiches. In spite of the peanut butter being sub-par (considering the label was almost entirely in Chinese, it shouldn’t have been a surprise), it was a gourmet dinner to us.

Breakfast at the hotel was very carbalicious- a bunch of bread and croissant-like things, plus orange juice and coffee. Fortunately, we walked for approximately 17 hours total during the trip (no exaggeration), so I didn’t feel too guilty eating all those carbs.

On Saturday night, Laura and I went out for dinner. We were worried we wouldn’t be able to afford much because we were down to 88 dirhams between the two of us, which is around 8 euros. In fact, we were able to share a sizable portion of vegetable couscous and soup at a decent restaurant for 50 dH. Afterwards, we concluded that tapas are the biggest rip-off ever.

With our leftover money, we were able to enjoy some more typical Moroccan food on Sunday: mint tea, harira soup, and “crepes,” which were certainly not crepes considering they looked and tasted like parathas coated with honey and butter, but they were 6 dirhams and delicious, so we weren’t complaining.

All in all, it was a very satisfying trip that far exceeded my expectations in terms of safety, comfort, the city's charm, and the people's friendliness. Yes, it was my first time in a Muslim country or in Africa. But it was also a chance for me to prove many things to myself and to my family, some of which I wasn't even fully convinced of until I put them to the test: that I am brave enough to step outside my comfort zone, responsible enough to plan a trip, low-maintenance enough to pack all my necessities for a weekend into one backpack, and smart enough to travel safely. Standing on the deck of the ship as it sailed away from Morocco, I realized that I am the same girl who was not allowed to go to a mall without adult supervision four years ago and who hadn't been on a plane without her parents two months ago. This weekend, I set foot on a new continent, thoroughly familiarized myself with part of a new city, bargained with taxi drivers who don't speak a language I know, and fended off pestering Moroccan children in Gibberish, all with an awesome travel buddy by my side. They say the repressed kids are the ones who go crazy in college; well, maybe traveling is my own form of rebellion.