"Don't worry they're friendly"

It was day 5 for Derek and I and we had just sat down for breakfast. The Germans who had come along for the trip from Marrakesh to Taghazout ( a small surf and fishing village), stayed back at the shady apartment we rented. Over a juice de orange, and a fresh loaf of bread we discussed what we thought of Morroco. Overall, we agreed that Morac was interesting, beautiful, and friendly, but our trip was missing something. That something was answered later that afternoon when went to check a surf spot called Devils rock. Pulling up to the spot, it was hard to see the surf, through the distractions of a "hash salesmen" who was without a shirt, in swishy gym teacher pants, and had on a weird baseball cap which read along the lines of # 1 Uncle. However, once we got out of the car our mood quickly changed because the surf was pumpin. 4 to 6ft, 6 guys in the water, and only 2 who could actually surf. That is where Imad came in. Imad was skinny Morocan man, with an extremly energetic voice, a white tank top (scattered with fishblood) and board shorts. Before we could say anything, he pointed to his tank top, then to the two fish hanging from the celing, smiled, and said dinner mate. A British accent on a Morrocan man? Can't be. Actually it can be, Imad learned his PERFECT english from working for a british surf camp years before. Immediatly we were fast freinds, and he treated us like we had know each other for years. He rented us his own private boards for cheap, and we arranged a full-day surf tour with him for the next day. Imad owned a small surf shack on the right hand side of the beach, right next to devils rock, where we could hang when we weren't in the water. The surf was perfect and the next day on our tour was just as good. Out in the water Imad, who also surfed great, would encourage us to surf well and tell us about the three meter hammerhead sharks that live right around where we were surfing. "Dont worry" Imad said, "they're friendly." Great waves, good friends, and no one in the water. Sounds straight out of the Endless Summer film, but it was just that good. Later that day we said good bye to Imad and the Germans, spent one more night in Agadir and headed off to Cairo. On the plane Derek and I offically decided Morocco "rocced". ( we are such losers)

"No Reservations" try Marrakesh

Anthony Bordane would most certainly tip his hat to us. Shortly after 6, just as the sun was setting, but before the Moroccan people could break fast (Ramadan)  it seemed as if hell was breaking loose in the Marrakesh Medina.  The beginning of the day was by no means was quiet, however we could not believe what was happening before our eyes, more importantly in a span of about 15 minutes.  Marrakesh’s Djemaa el-Fna (roughly the size of five football fields) which mainly housed Moroccan snake charmers, tourists, and a few local groups of Moroccan kids playing foot ball by day, was being infiltrated. We had heard that there were no rules in the medina but never expected what was going on in front of us. Carts driven by donkeys, 1987 Mercedes, motor bikes with far to many people on them, and rusty Isuzu trucks, came from all angles. This was followed by a lot of smoke, yelling, car horns, and banging, but when the smog cleared, tent after tent , row upon rows remained, and as our Lonely Planet explains it, this is “one of the world greatest spectacles.”  Surrounding this labyrinth of tents offering food from traditional lamb skewers to goat tagine, were sideshows, storytellers and guys dressed ridiculously who asked you to take a picture of them for some money.

            As we approached this manifestation of craziness, men in white coats, which was a step up from white boxer briefs, began approaching us and trying to convince us to eat at their stand.  Eventually after we shopped around and sat at who we though was the best salesman, (mainly because of his Obama pin, “random”) we began our first real Moroccan feast. In actuality there was no reason for them to even bring us menus because no matter what you order they bring you what they want. For example Derek doesn’t eat salad nor did I want salad that evening, so when we did not order it, we were surprised to receive not only salad but olives and some strange dipping sauce. We thought, this must be a language mistake, but when the same thing continued with the rest of our meal, repeating itself the next night, we learned, this was the way it was. Your crazy waiter sizes you up and picks what you will eat. This would have been a big deal, but since it only cost about 5 to 7 dollars each, it was all good. From salad, to soup, to fish, to meat, to chicken to mint tea we feasted trying some and not touching others. No body left hungry.

             After two days in Marrakesh and zero surfing thus far, we decided to head back down the coast and hope for some better waves. The German’s obviously came with. 

Com'on take a Hammam

Similar to Americans, Moroccans too, enjoy a good day at the spa. Being that Derek and I are sporting gentlemen, who will at all costs do our best to immerse our selves into the native culture, felt it necessary to test out a traditional Turkish Bath, otherwise known as a Hamman. According to our guide books a Hamman was the Moroccan version of a full body treatment that rejuvenates, exfoliates and cleanses your skin. Since we were becoming such good friends with the Germans, we thought it would be fun to all go together. After deciding that the cleanliness factor of the local Hamman was a bit below our standards, we decided to upgrade to one of the nicer “touristic” Hammans in Essaouira.             

            At the end of a long skinny cobblestone alleyway stood a small illuminated green wooden door. Beside the door was one of the biggest Morrocans I had seen yet, waiting  to greet us and escort us to the locker room. Everything was going great. Having to be the first, as usual, I stripped down to my board shorts and ran into the gigantic tile sauna, soon followed by Michael, and Stefan. Derek, also sticking to his normal qualities spent a little more time carefully folding his clothes and locking them up meeting us in the sauna a few minutes later. However, the expression on his face, followed by his first words will forever remain in my mind. “Hey guys remember that huge guy who greeted us….well he’s stripping down….I think he might also be coming in. WRONG! He was the guy administering the treatment. The pretty Moroccan women in a crisp white dress I had envisioned had immediately been ripped from my imagination and replaced with a 6 foot 4, 300 pound, Moroccan man in nothing but white boxer briefs! His resemblance to the character of Big Black from Rob and Big was overwhelming, and the fact that he had a tiny assistant (also in boxer briefs) made the whole situation even more ironic. Lucky for Derek and I we got the tiny assistant. The Germans on the other hand….. However to this day (three days later) they still claim the big guy was more authentic and passionate at administering the Hamman

            Essentially the actual process of the Hamman  requires you to sweat for a while, then get lathered up by a special black soap, followed by a  scrubbing preformed by a special glove, that leaves your skin nearly bleeding. This, of coarse is all preformed by another man, preferably 6ft 4 in nothing but white boxer briefs. Because the whole process takes place in the sauna, we got to watch and laugh at each other. We looked at it as a “team building experience,” that may have been responsible for the Michael and Stefan deciding to join us on the rest of our Moroccan journey.   The next day, feeling clean and violated, we all got in our “ford fiesta” and headed to Marrakesh,  Stefan did the driving.  

When I get older and my kids ask me where I learned to drive stick, the answer will be one word, Morocco.

 After an extremely long day of traveling where it seemed almost planned that Derek would have the best seat on the plane, and mine the worst we finally made it to Agadir, which was nothing to right home about. Although, we were warned that Agadir was bland, we did not expect what we saw, and vouched that despite our "smart room" (or so it was advertised) pool, (that was empty), and busy surroundings, (that were deserted) we decided we needed to get out of Agadir, fast. That simple  decision led us to  "Omar" our strictly french speaking car rental man. After a quick conversation, in which Derek and I understood nothing, we were brought to our proposed car.  We quickly learned that the option was to figure out how to drive a stick, or, take the bus which resembles a supersized version of a rust covered 1984 Buick Lesaber with men of patchy facial hair hanging out from all angles. Although, Derek wanted to take the rusty old bus, over my stick driving skills, I convinced him otherwise and we were off (sort of). But, after a strange version of a grilled cheese for lunch, the same CD (Carlon) 4 times, and 200 kilometers, we had made it to Essaouira. Essaouira is a walled in city, in the middle of the Moroccan coast. The streets are narrow, and no cars are allowed, so we had to park our car outside the walls.  When I say park our car, I do not mean a parking lot or any organized form of parking. In reality it is a narrow street in which men in crazy outfits tell you to stop and park in there "parking area." There was no way I was going to attempt this parking experience, so I got out of the car and had Igiziel do it for us.  The second we stepped out of the car and paid our 40 Durhum ($4.50) we were taken by the hand and had no choice but to go with him on a  "hotel shopping" adventure in which he would take us to various hotels, show us the room and then have the choice to stay or go. We finally found an amazing place for about 300 Durhum ($30) a day, where we met Mike and Stephon, from Germay. We plan on going "adventuring" with them tomorrow but for now we are just hanging out Moroccan style on some pillows on the rooftop terrace of our hotel in Essaouira. Pictures will come soon we promise.