Photos

Check out my photos of Spain and Morocco at your leisure. You may want to take some time with these--there are a lot of them!

Hasta luego! Over and out!

Djemaa el Fna

"The beating heart of Marrakech" is a square in the old medina full of sights and sounds--drummers, snake charmers, henna painters by day; storytellers and musicians by night. Everyone is out to make a buck (welcome to Morocco), and here it is the most obvious of anywhere. Sitting in the shade of their big umbrellas, snake charmers wait for tourists to walk past before blowing a whining note on their horns to see if they will take the bite and look. If they do, they rush over to loop the snakes round their necks, demanding money for a photo. Troupes of dancing men in colorful robes and hats with tassels stamp and sway in time to drum beats, running after passing tourists who so much as glance in their direction, holding out their hat for tips. Women henna painters, heads swathed in colorful scarves and faces masked so that only their eyes show, call, "Madame! Madame!" from beneath their circle of shade. La shokran, or no thank you, is a good phrase to know here. I have learned to ward off would-be tip collectors by keeping up a purposeful pace and eyes straight forward. Otherwise I'd be hounded every ten paces.

Like many tourists, I've discovered that the rooftop terraces of the surrounding restaurants and cafes are the best spot to view the spectacle below without the constant harrasment. From there I can watch the dancers and drummers hounding the tourists, hear the drums and the horns, and watch the troupes of men that every so often start up a whole-hearted dance, and not just a five-second ploy to trap a tourist. Gowned in blue with tassled red hats, they step in time to the drums, spinning, kneeling, and popping back up. Watermen, come down from the mountains with leather skins of snowmelt, peddle glasses of cold water to the locals and photos to the tourists. They wear conical hats in bright red and green, with metal cups hung about their necks.

At the sides of the square are stalls selling fresh squeezed orange juice, only 3 dirhams for a tall glass, and others selling dried figs, dates, and nuts. The men call out to passing tourists and ladies.

The ground is full of milling people. Tourists--some women stripped down to tank tops, men in shorts--and locals. Both men and women in jellabas, the long, shapeless, dress-like garment with pointed hood. They come in all different fabrics and colors. The women's range from solid-color to fancy, brightly-colored patterns; the men's come in drab tones in light cotton or warm wool, even in suit material for the particularly dapper gentleman. Most women cover their heads with scarves. A few of those even cover their faces, revealing only their eyes, while some older ladies tie the scarves just below a pointy nose! And some of the young women are westernized, wearing tight jeans, boots to their knees, and bareheaded. It's quite the mix. And amongst all of these weave cars, bikes, horse-drawn carriages (caleches), and mopeds, each tooting a squeaky horn.

At sunset, these sounds combine with the haunting call to prayer from the high towers, or minarets, of each of the mosques. This is the sound I will miss the most of Morocco. It comes five times a day, first at dawn, when they add the admonishment, "prayer is better than sleep" to the usual call, twice during the day, then at sunset, and finally an hour after sunset. Few here seem to answer the call; many more go about their business, but passing the open doors of mosques you can still see men kneeling and bowing in prayer, their shoes abandoned in piles around the door.

By night, the square is full of men, gathered in circles around storytellers and musicians. I wish I could understand the Arabic and Berber stories, but it seems a men-only event, and I understood why after one particular guy followed me to three different circles, pressing casually against me in a way that one might at first take for an accident in a crowd. (And I wasn't even alone, but was there with another guy!)

There is a spot on the square for open-air restaurants that they set up and take down everyday. There, local Moroccans and tourists gather at tables and order food that is almost in front of them. Lamb and steak kebabs, fries, and the ubiquitous Moroccan salads of spiced cooked vegetables, served cold and oh so delicious!

Djemaa el Fna is a bit full-on, as the Aussies would say, but Marrakesh wouldn't have nearly as much magic without it. This is Morocco, in some ways at its worst, certainly at its most touristy, but also at its richest and most magical. Marrakech without its square would be like Morocco without mint tea...certainly not Morocco!

Local Hammam, A Real Moroccan Experience

Yesterday, I was scrubbed like a pot.

Seriously, I think that hand mitt scrubber was originally designed for removing caked-on grease better than Palmolive! It certainly removed my skin in rolls like little bits of rice stuck to the bottom of a pan.

A hammam is a public bath. In the days before running water, they were necessities for hygiene. Today, they are still important social places, especially for women, who spend most of their time at home. But I got the impression that, running water or no, these women still come to the hammam for their weekly bath.

Women may cover themselves in public, but among other women, they have no Western squeamishness. The four other girls and I were taken to a room where we stripped to our undies--no bras allowed!--then walked into a steamy room. It was filled with Moroccan women, some completely nude, scrubbing themselves while sitting on small stools, most just wearing underwear. There was so much flesh! More than I have ever seen, even on the beach in San Sebastian where some European women sunbathed topless.

A buxom women (I truly have never seen such a large chest!), who clearly had spent most of her time in the hammam and without the support of a bra, came and motioned for us to sit down in a corner of the room. She spoke no English, and only one of our group spoke French, but mostly we managed with gestures. She brought a large bucket of warm water, and splashed us down. Then we lathered up with some black olive soup we had been given when we entered. After steaming for about fifteen minutes, opening up the pores, we were taken to another room, told to lie on plastic mats. That's when the scrubbing began, or what they rather optimistically call a "massage."

They scrubbed everywhere: chest, arms, face, back, legs, pushing and pulling underwear--you almost wondered why they didn't just make you take that off, too! Afterwards, my skin was glowing and soft as a baby's bum.

Next they tied us in knots. Arms across chest, and PULL! Legs pressed to chest and PUSH! I didn't feel any bones cracking. I didn't feel more loosened, either. I was just glad to be in one piece at the end.

The ladies got quite a kick out of us. Our squeamishness, refusing to remove bras, grimaces of pain at the scrubbing. The lady certainly had no problem with full-body contact, bracing my hand between her breast and armpit as she scrubbed.

The other local women looked at us with interest, but they were all intent on their own ablutions. Washing hair, brushing teeth. Little girls walked around hand-in-hand, completely nude, or sat on benches as their mothers ran combs through their hair.

When we went back out to change into our clothes, the air was cold! Quickly into dry clothes and out into the cold air with wet hair. Too bad I wasn't covering my head with a scarf!

There are expensive tourist hammams with saunas, western-style massages, and quite a bit less flesh, but this local experience was something I wouldn't have missed for the world. Still, I was glad to have a group girls to share it with--and laugh about it afterward.

Tarifa to Tanger?...or maybe not

Tarifa is known for two things: kitesurfing and a fast ferry (35 minutes) to Morocco. I went to Tarifa thinking I was going for Morocco, but almost as soon as I got there, I decided I was leaving.

Tarifa is the most southerly town in Spain. It has a promontory, on one side of which is the Mediterranean Sea, with the Atlantic Ocean on the other. You can see the coast of Africa from the beach, mountainous and only 14 km away. It is crazy windy--good for kitesurfing.

I chickened out on the crossing. Tanger, Morocco, is supposed to be a shifty place. A port town, it doesn´t have a whole lot to offer in the way of sights, and it is full of touts and pickpockets. My plan was to cross in the morning, then catch the next train to Fes to stay with a Moroccan lady, a member of a women´s travel hospitality group. I´d stay there for a couple of days, then take a train to Casablanca to join the Intrepid Travel tour that starts Sunday.

It probably would have been fine. An experience. Probably good, for the most part. But, isn´t there a saying, discretion is the better part of valor? At the moment I feel just as happy to experience the sights and smells and ...well, experiences...of Morocco from the relative safety of a tour group.

I´m really looking forward to it, too. Not having to make all the decisions, do all the planning, ask for directions when I´m lost ´cause there´s no one else to fall back on. Just to relax and go along with the group, going where someone else tells me to go. Ha! Sounds like a vacation! Not that I haven´t loved traveling independently. I´m already planning my next, longer, European adventure (which I hope will include Egypt and Turkey, as well). Staying in hostels, talking with people from all over Europe and the world, has been unlike anything else. A little like college--a bit cut off from real life in the same way that college is, but likewise a great way to learn lots about the world and myself.

I don´t expect to be writing much from Morocco, so here´s a brief itinerary: Casablanca, Meknes, Fes and Volubilis, Midelt, the Sahara, Tondra Gorge, Dades Gorge, Ait Benhaddou, Marrakech. Fourteen days, starting November 2. I´m taking Easy Jet from Madrid to Casablanca on Sunday, then taking a train to the city center and a taxi to the hotel that is our meeting point.

It is strange to be backtracking to go to Morocco. I was so close this morning--just 14 km!--but now I am back in Sevilla for two nights, then Madrid for another two. Honestly, I´m anxious to get moving, but I have some things to do to get ready. Four more days, and I´ll be in a new country! After a month and a half in one country (which is quite some time for a backpacker!), I´m both nervous and excited at the prospect. I´ve seen quite a bit of Spain.

Hippies and Gypsies in the Sacromonte

What is in Granada? The Alhambra, of course! It is, indeed, a beautiful, enchanting place. Full of courtyards and fountains, columns and arches, orange trees and blooming flowers. There are ceilings of magnificent inlaid wood, or plaster moldings. It is quite the romantic palace where one can imagine eastern princes gathered, smoking from a hookah, and the women hidden away in the harem.

It is definitely a place you should see. But you can hear about it from anywhere. I´d like to tell you about the Sacromonte.

Granada is in the Sierra Nevada (of Spain, of course, not of California...). The Albaicín, or old moorish part of the city, is built on the foothills of one small peak, while the Alhambra crowns an adjacent hill. The modern part of the city spreads out beyond with its highrises and office buildings to the foothills of another nearby peak.

The Sacromonte barrio is higher up the hill beyond the old Albaicín. If I understand correctly, this is the area that once housed the gypsy population (perhaps still does, to an extent), but which now is largely overtaken by the hippie crowd.

This morning I walked up the hill to the top of an old wall that runs along the hillside. What a great view of the city! There were some other tourists up there with their cameras; some locals, perhaps, with a picnic lunch; and a hippie with his dog, who had stopped to read for a bit on the wall. I stopped, as well, to take in the view and to write in my journal. When I continued on, I discovered, that behind the wall were some paths through the hills. Some were horizontal, zigzagging along the hillside, while others climbed upward. I wandered along a few, through some short pine trees, reveling in the whisper of the wind in the pines (probably my favorite sound) and enjoying a pine-tree-spicy, dusty smell that I don´t think I´ve smelled since the Sandia mountains of Albuquerque. Indeed, the landscape, as in many parts of Spain, reminded me of New Mexico. I saw many patches of prickly pear cactus, as well as clumps of plants with wide, thin, pointy leaves, that look like something related to yucca.

My wanderings back down to the city took me through a part of the Sacromonte known as the "caves." This is the part where the hippies, and before them, the gypsies, live. I had´t seen them up close before. They are a little like caves, but more like huts built into the side of the mountain. Some have brick walls, some just earth. They seem to be in varying states of disrepair. Some have trash or rusting metal chairs in the front. Some have tattered fabric screens blocking the front. As I walked along the dusty path in from of these dwellings, I passed by groups of people gathered in front of the doorways, sitting, drinking, talking--all in good Spanish fashion.

These people certainly look like hippies, with their dreadlocks, and their clothes--here very Moroccan-inspired with colorful baggy pants gathered around the ankle with elastic, clashing shirts, scarves, one or two dogs at their side. The guy at the hostel tells me that these people aren´t the hippies of the 60s; they have a different philosophy. They don´t do anything productive, nor do they live off the land, he says. It´s hard to say. Many are buskers in town, and I passed by one place today with a sign that said "productos orgánicos," organic products. Certainly, they have an alternative lifestyle.

At any rate, it is something I have not encountered before. The dirt-floor caves in the mountainside overlooking the city have a certain mysterious appeal, though. What is it like to live there, I wonder? Are there still traditional gypsy hold-outs among the dreadlocked new arrivals? At night, when I have been warned one should think twice about venturing up there, are there still traditional flamenco gatherings, where the wailing songs and the strummed guitar strings meet the stomping heels and graceful swaying hips of the dancers?

I´m idealizing of course, but haven´t you ever dreamed of running of with a band of gypsies?

Rainy Andalucian Days and Nights

Today it was gray--all day. Rainy off and on. This evening around 8 the heavens opened and it rained for forty days and forty nights. I was happy to be safe and dry in the hostel common room. Reading.

Since there's no beach to lie on here, I can't say that I mind a quiet, rainy day or two. Not when I'm armed with some delightful light reading and cups of tea. I've been in need of some quiet days, anyway. And at the hostel I found a lovely "art history mystery"--Death and Restoration, by Iain Pears. If you want an easy read, check him out. His characters are delightful. And the whole idea of crime novels surrounding works of art is a wonderful development of the murder mystery industry that the British have been perfecting since Sherlock Holmes. So, for the past three days, I've been spending delightful, quiet evenings, in a quiet hostel (off-season, you know) assiduously reading.

Finished tonight. Just in time for my departure tomorrow. I didn't want to carry yet another book, since I've got a couple with me already--The Kite Runner (fabulous book), which I'm saving for the bus ride to Granada tomorrow, and another book, The Queen of the South, which I'm considering ditching since my newly-acquired sleeping bag has made my pack a little overstuffed.

The sleeping bag story is this: another thing I've done during my five days in Sevilla is arrange a last-minute tour in Morocco with the company Intrepid Travel. It is 14 days, beginning in Casablanca and traveling through Meknes, Chefchaouen, Fes, Midelt, traveling to the Saharan desert and some Gorges, finally finishing in Marrakech. Doesn't it sound wonderfully romantic and exotic? And since it is an organized group tour, I will have the luxury of sitting back and enjoying it, letting someone else figure out the details. I'm quite looking forward to it. And since Morocco isn't known for its advanced views in regard to independent young women, my belonging to a group will put some parties concerned with my whereabouts a little more at ease--including myself.

So I called up and got myself booked for this trip that leaves November 2 and finishes the 15. One of the things they recommend bringing for this trip, if taken during the winter months--defined as November through April--is a good sleeping bag. I wasn't quite sure where I would manage to find one until one guy at the hostel suggested El Corte Ingles. Of course, El Corte Ingles--the wonderful Spanish department store, purveyors of everything imaginable, from kitchen spatulas to bike helmets!

They seem to have one in every city of any size, each one several stories, and the one in Sevilla is comprised of four buildings, all within a couple of blocks of each other. It took a little while to find the right one. The first one I found had kitchen wears on the ground floor and small appliances on the first floor (note the European floor numbering system). Across the street was the furniture store. A third building was the bookstore. It took a while to find the fourth, but I came across it after some wandering down a couple of commercial streets filled with stores like Sfera, Zara, Footlocker, and the Body Shop (and, strangely, a group of World Wildlife Fund canvasers, one dressed in a panda suit and the others sporting black grease paint animal noses and whiskers. They picked me out right away to talk to--must have been that Indian style woven shoulder bag, skirt, and sports sandal combination, not particularly Spanish-style high fashion, though I'm lacking the dreads of the local hippie population. (Sorry I can't contribute! I'm a penny-pinching traveler at the moment!)).

The fourth store was fashion, "la moda," which also included, on the floor with the kid's clothing, the sporting goods section--los deportes. And, indeed, they had sleeping bags! Not as great a selection as I would find at an REI or EMS in the States, but sometimes limitations can be blessings. I was looking for a small bag (not too much extra space in my small pack) that I could afford. It wasn't cheap at 69€ (small bags always cost more), but I had been prepared for worse, and I was willing to pay for convenience.

I've managed now to squeeze the bag into my pack with my clothes wrapped around it, and I'm still considering if I can get rid of something. Thus, the thoughts of donating my book to the hostel bookshelf.

In spite of the rain we've gotten here everyday, I have also managed to see the Sevillan sights during the sunny bits. The cathedral is the largest Gothic church in Europe, my guidebook tells me, and it certainly seems quite large. And the Alcazar is larger and more beautiful than the one in Cordoba. Walls of colorful tile and moorish-inspired, lobed arches. The gardens are huge--courtyard upon courtyard of orange and palm-trees, fountains, pools, flowers blooming in October. All quite magnificent and fully satisfying every image I have of southern Spain.

The Sevillan streets are quite lively, too--full of tourists and street performers, quite talented ones, at that. There's a puppet master who makes a small woman play a small cello, so well-timed that you almost think that the music is coming from the cello instead of from the hidden speakers. And there's the Belgian with his homemade kangaroo costume, complete with ingenious bouncy stilts made to look like kangaroo legs, who juggled and breathed fire, even swallowed it!

And there are gypsies, begging forlornly on the ground, or seeking alms from tourists eating ice cream cones. Some try to give tourists small sprigs of rosemary, somehow expecting to get money from the transaction. There are street vendors who turn out bracelets by the dozens as the sit behind their wears spread out on towels spread out on the sidewalks. It's a happening place, and also seems to be full of American students. I've heard more American accents here than in the university town of Salamanca.

Tomorrow I'm off to Granada, my third Andalucian town, and home of the famed Alhambra. Will it live up to the hype? Some have warned me of disappointment. I hardly expect that, but I do hope it won't rain.

Flamenco!

"Explosive!" -Andalucian Times "Fiery!" -Seville Enquirer "All the passion of hot Spanish nights!" -Flamenco magazine

Since flamenco is one of the main tourist draws for southern Spain, I really wanted to find an authentic flamenco place. We saw some dancing on the street--a young group: a guitar player, a singer, and a dancer, all in their late 20s--dancing for practice and publicity and whatever tips they could get (which, with many appreciative tourists, is probably a fair amount). They were quite something, each one giving it her all, but the performances were short. Five minutes at a time, then requests for tips, which most were happy to give.

The most authentic performance you can probably get is one of the local flamenco bars where local musicians and dancers might show up sometime after midnight. I may check one of those out in my remaining days in Sevilla, but to be ensured a show (and in a pleasantly smoke-free environment), my new Aussie friend Clara and I got in on a show last night at a flamenco theater recommended by the hostel staff.

Wow. What a show! It started off with just the guitar player and the singer. The intricate finger-work of the guitarist was amazing, and combined with the woman's resonant voice in a wailing, tremulous song of lost love, I guessed, it was just beautiful. Next, a man walked on, sat down, and joined his clapping to the voice of the singer and the rhythms of the guitar. A woman walked on, dressed in a long, black flamenco dress that she could wrap up around her legs and hips to show off her feet when she started up tapping and stamping. She started slowly and quietly. It was hard to discern exactly when she added her tapping to the rhythms the others had started. It grew imperceptibly, and then she exploded! Stomping and stepping, quick swishes with her feet. The group rose together to a crescendo of strumming, stamping, clapping, and wailing, then-- crashing to a halt, with just the soft tip-tapping of the dancer's heels. Then she was a graceful swan, hands and arms twirling as she swished and spun across the platform, until she took up the staccato rhythm once again, and the musicians joined in, following her lead.

Then a break with just the guitar player--beautiful--before the rest rejoined, this time to accompany the dancing of the man. If the woman was a swan, this guy was a peacock--but don't get me wrong, this guy was one sexy peacock. He stood with chest thrown out, one hand lightly covering a hip and the other on his chest. And meanwhile his legs just flew! Tapping, stamping, and twisting, faster and faster, until his legs truly were a blur under his still upper frame. He commanded the stage. After some enthusiastic applause, he silenced it by softly but firmly beginning the tapping again, and the musicians were quick to join him. He strutted on the stage, then finished with a bang, at the peak of the rhythm, stamping with a flourish off the stage--returning some moments later, of course, to acknowledge the applause.

During the last five minutes they allowed photos, and the man and woman did what appeared to me to be a choreographed sequence of moves, but not lacking in passion and interplay. It is supposed to be a spontaneous dance, the dancers responding to the musicians, and the musicians, it seems, also responding to the dancers. Except for the ending, it did seem to be spontaneous, the musicians carefully watching and responding to the movements of the dancers, and the dancers once in awhile directing their stamping and strutting to the musicians. Never mind that it was an organized company, with shows in theater every night. I really seemed to be witnessing a bit of magic.