Marruecos

                 6 am, Friday morning: time to take advantage of our three day weekend! We got ready, and made our way to the bus stop (ensuring that we got there with several minutes to spare, this time…European travel waits for no one). Luckily, everyone made it to the stop on time, and after a relatively uneventful bus ride, we arrived in Tarifa around 9:00. Although we were prepared for a Lisboa repeat, we could actually ask for direction in this language, which was quite an improvement. As it turned out, all we had to do was follow the beach around until we saw the ferry stop.

                It was quite the scenic route…the beach was gorgeous in the early morning sun, and the group was in much higher spirits. After walking a while, we stumbled upon sort of an outdoor workout area, complete with human powered machines. A better comparison would probably be that it was like an adult playground. So, of course, everyone had to test out every machine. After we had gotten our exercise in for the day, we continued our trek across the beach. In a surprisingly short time, we had located the ferry, with an hour and a half to spare. We ate breakfast (crepes and amazing fresh squeezed orange juice) across from the marina, and then checked in and boarded the ferry.

                45 minutes later, we arrived on my fourth continent: Africa! After several long customs lines, we finally stepped out of the ferry, and into Tánger, Morocco. Africa did not look all that much different from Spain: buildings crowded the hillside, streets hustled and bustled, and the cement expanse of the ferry landing stretched quite a ways. We soon embarked upon our tour bus, and continued our adventure. Our tour guide switched rapidly and without warning between three or four languages, of which I only understood the English and Spanish portions of the tour, so I can’t tell you all that much about Morocco. After driving for a while, and listening to the hodgepodge of languages, the bus soon pulled to a stop up in the hills. We were greeted by several camels, gazing at the bus full of tourists quite nonchalantly. My friend Anna and I bolted out of the bus (we joked that we only wanted to go to Africa to ride a camel) and were first in line to jump on one of the three or so saggy and bored-looking camels. We didn’t go very far, but it was still pretty exciting. When the camel stopped and knelt down, I was almost catapulted over its head as it folded its front legs first. I clung to it for dear life, until I realized it had been kneeling for a few moments. Ride a camel in Africa: check.

                We continued on our journey, driving through the city and the mountains, until we finally came to a stop and were met by a guide. No sooner had we stepped off the bus, we were descended upon by innumerous people thrusting their goods in our faces and telling us to, “Look, just look at it! How much you pay?” That should have been warning enough for how the rest of the day would proceed. The guide dragged us through the streets of Tánger, through a tiny crevice amidst all of the peddlers. He finally ducked inside a door, where we hoped to find a reprieve, but were greeted by walls full of rugs. We went upstairs, where we watched a man present dozens of rugs to us. I had to wonder whether he actually expected anyone out of an American group of students to buy an enormously heavy, and unbearably expensive, handmade rug, but we sat it out anyways, to be polite. Anxious to get out of the expensive place, we headed toward the door: a wall of people stood there, and hands clutching small wooden camels, various stones, drums, and jewelry protruded forth from it. The guide plowed on through. Back out into the crowded streets, heads bent against the attacking salespeople and store owners, we soon made it to our next stop: some kind of herb store. Another presentation of just about every herb and spice in the store ensued, and again we waited patiently. Same story: the lack of purchases since we had to go through customs, the wall of people, the march through the streets, and the arrival at the next place: a restaurant.

                We shuffled through the door, and were seated at our tables, the accompanying chairs of which were low couches. The restaurant was ornately decorated, and a Moroccan band serenaded us as we ate. For the first course, we had some kind of noodle soup topped with cinnamon, which had an exotic effect since the cinnamon could only be smelled and not tasted. Next, we were served skewers of what I believe were like sheep kabobs. Thinking this was the main course, had just sat back to rub our full bellies, when the waiter returned with plates of roasted chicken and couscous. With a little less ease, we shoveled down a tiny bit more food before desert was brought out: some kind of sweet pastry that seemed very similar to baklava, accompanied by mint tea. Needless to say, we essentially had to roll out of that restaurant. We fought through the increasingly rude and adamant hawkers, and soon made it to our hotel.

                The hotel had a beautiful view overlooking the Mediterranean, and was settled just behind where the ferries came into port. It had a big patio, and several sitting rooms filled with long couches. No sooner had we checked in and deposited our luggage, we discovered an old man waiting for us downstairs. He wore a long, white garb, and traditional yellow Moroccan shoes, which resembled bedroom slippers. He peered over his glasses, and introduced himself as Mo, saying that he would be our own personal guide for the evening (after much of our group had opted for the single day excursion and returned to the ferry already). Exhausted though we were, we braved the streets once more.

                Whether it was because Mo was apparently a respected figure, or because it was no longer prime tourist hours, it was much less painful this time around. We watched a man just finishing a mosaic as he put in the very last piece, went to a park where several children ran around and parents sat nearby, and walked through much calmer streets. Mo soon announced that he had someplace very special to take us. Five minutes later, we found ourselves in another rug shop.

                This time, however, we got to hear the usual presentation in Spanish. It was amazing at how much easier Moroccan-accented Spanish was to understand than the rattling that we were used to. Eager to show us their “Moroccan hospitality”, the rug shop owner and some employees promptly brought out some more of their delicious mint tea. After the presentation, we talked with some of the employees. Their fluency was astounding, and I was shocked to find that he knew nearly eight languages. To be aware that someone who knows eight languages is working in a rug shop on the other side of the world is extremely discouraging, and seems to make my Spanish efforts seem rather futile. It is a strange thing to realize how isolated America actually is. In Morocco, the children take Arabic and French all through their younger grades, and then have the option to choose to continue with one of several other languages. The schooling must be very thorough, because nearly everyone there seemed to be multilingual.

                The second rug shop was definitely a better experience than the previous one that morning, and we definitely got a better taste of the culture. I was growing optimistic about our afternoon tour as Mo announced that he had another place we just had to see. Moments later, we were back at the herb place. Apparently, all tours in Tánger consist of parading tourists through the streets to a rug shop, herb store, and restaurant. It was a rather disappointing spectacle to see, in my opinion. It seemed like the people were only concerned with selling tourists useless things, rather than painting them a picture of the real Morocco. Children would skip school to hinder tour groups, while men shoved them aside to present their own wares, which were usually the exact same. It was sad to see this kind of lifestyle, but even more so to see what a shame it was that the exotic culture seemed to have been lost in this little port town.

                We returned to the hotel that night, ate dinner, and sat on the patio for a while. Around this time, I started feeling dizzy, and soon developed a fever. After going to bed wrapped up in something that resembled a massively thick rug made of animal fur, the rest of the trip is a very vague blur to me. I lay in the hotel the next morning on my death bed, and waited for the ferry back to Tarifa. It was a painful journey back home to Cádiz, and I slept for most of it. As we got off the bus in Cádiz around 10 pm on Saturday night, however, everyone was much more aware of how wonderfully clean the air smelled, and the lack of aggressive merchants. Home Sweet Spain!

                I am still not feeling so great, so please excuse all the errors that I am sure riddle this entry. Unfortunately, I had to waste an entire day in Spain lying in bed, barely able to get any studying done, while the rest of our group is probably on the beach. But I am learning all kinds of words in Spanish to describe all of these lovely symptoms, my personal being el caca liquido, the translation of which I will spare. I find it ironic that I am supposed to be presenting this week on the Spanish Healthcare System, because if this keeps up, I may be experiencing it firsthand instead.