Wandering I

In standard fashion, breakfast this morning consisted of tea, bread, butter, and jam. The tea, I find, tends to be too sweet, but Moroccans seems to prefer it that way. After breakfast I sat around and worked on my journal for a while. I watched Sarah work with a small, stainless steel, hand-operated machine to make long spaghetti strands. These she would use to make pastries, she informed me. It was a nifty little machine. One side had a roller which flattened the dough paper-thin, and the other side produced the spaghetti strands. I’m also impressed by Sarah’s work ethic. She’s always helping with household chores even without being told.

All this while Anas lay on the couch talking to his girlfriend, Marium, on the phone. He has a habit of spending hours on his cell phone with her. Suddenly he stuck the phone out towards me and told me to speak to Marium. I declined, but he insisted. She speaks very good English, he beseeched me. Reluctantly, I took the phone.

Marium had a very nice voice, and she did speak English quite well. Then she asked me to sing the DDLJ song. My reputation had preceded me. I demurred. I still felt self-conscious, even though I had sang the song several times already. I asked Marium to sing to me first, thinking that this was a sure-fire way of getting out of singing to her. However, after some initial hesitation, she complied. She sang an Arabic song. She had a beautiful singing voice. I was impressed. Anta mahdood, I told Anas. Then it was my turn. I sang with an open heart, dispelling the self-consciousness. What did it matter how badly I sang? These people appreciated my singing. They didn’t laugh or point out mistakes.

Marium seemed to have enjoyed the short bit. Faical’s mother heard my singing and stopped by. She sang part of an Arabic song. Theirs is a musical culture, I realize. They sing spontaneously without hesitation or reserve. Others join in, and a solo becomes a duet or a chorus. It doesn’t matter whether you sing well or not. It only matters that you sing.

Moreover, I’m impressed by how extraordinarily social and trusting Moroccans are. They share taxis with random strangers regularly. They start conversations with these strangers as if they are distant relatives - people they don’t often see, but when they do, there are no formalities or awkwardness. Maybe this is why I feel so much at home here.

We rattled down the mountain later in the evening in the back of a vegetable delivery truck. The sides of the truck were very high, and I could only see the sky and the mountains above us. The black silhouette of the receding mountain against the navy blue sky soon started to sparkle with lights from lone houses and shacks. The air was cool and pleasant.

The boys had struck up a conversation with two sisters, Nizha and Latifa, who were also in the truck with us. Upon their request I sang the lines from DDLJ for them. I sang a few lines from some other Indian songs as well. The girls asked me to sing an Arabic or Moroccan song, but I didn’t know any.

As we neared Marrakesh, Redouane suddenly started saying to me: “You’re a very lucky man!” I didn’t get it. What’s going on? I asked the guys. They just snickered. Soon Anas picked up the chant, too. How do you say it in Arabic? I asked finally. Anta mahdood, they told me. Tired of them not including me in what now appeared to be an inside joke, I retorted: Ana mahdood! “I’m lucky!” They found my response funny.

Finally I began to understand what they meant. The girls appeared to have expressed interest in me, and according to the guys, this was due to the fact that I’m from America. Maybe this superficial reason for liking me should have been a blow to my ego, but it didn’t affect me. The girls seemed nice and were even fairly attractive, but they barely spoke English. How was I supposed to talk to them? Besides, the girls seemed conservative (they both wore headscarves), and I couldn’t be sure that they were really interested in me. Maybe the boys were just toying with me. Nonetheless, ana mahdood and anta mahdood become recurring chants, directed against each other as we saw fit.

I ignored the girls for the most part. However, by the time we reached our destination, they had become friendly with me. The older sister, Nizha, even asked me which of the two of them I liked. I began to see why the boys had deemed me a lucky man.

As I joked around with my Moroccan friends, it struck me that I really am very lucky. I have always wanted to travel, and here I am, a free spirit making new friends and memories. Not everyone has this luxury. I am grateful for it. Truly, ana mahdood.

Khalid II, Mohsin, and another one of Faical’s friends, Redouane, met us at the apartment this afternoon to go to a nearby mountain river called Ourika, which turns out to be Moroccan for Eureka.  Faical, his brother Anas, and I took a bus with them to a taxi depot near Jama al-Fna. The area teemed with old diesel Mercedes-Benz taxis, which loaded and off-loaded passengers in a constant stream. I learned that these taxis are known as “Grand Taxis” because they are allowed to transport up to six passengers versus the limit of three for regular taxis. Depending on the color of the taxis, they travel specific distances. Most of the ones at the depot were green, which stay within the city limits, while the white ones - the ones we were looking for - travel further out of the city. After standing around in the searing heat for several minutes with no white Grand Taxis in sight, we walked to another location where we hopped into a green one. The boys explained that our best bet was to take a green taxi to the city limits where we would be able to find a white one.

At the city limits we came across another depot where we found a white Grand Taxi. The boys tried negotiating a reasonable fare. The first driver they spoke to wouldn’t budge, so they approached another driver. When it looked like they were on the verge of making a deal, the first driver hollered from behind that he would accept the boys’ offer. Another man who appeared to be the second driver’s friend started arguing with the first driver. I gathered that he didn’t appreciate someone undercutting his friend. They yelled at each other for several minutes. Finally another man restrained the friend, and we hopped into the taxi. The friend, however, continued shouting and at one point spat in our direction. This set our driver off again, and he jumped out of the car ready to battle. The boys tried to calm him and pulled him back into the car. We eventually started on our way.

It was a long drive. Two hours I think. I judged that we were close to our destination when the road started climbing, and we became surrounded by high hills. Yesterday Faical and I had discussed the possibility of renting a car for the trip. However, Faical had warned that it would be extremely difficult to drive in this area, and I had dropped the idea. I realized now what he meant. Drivers sped around blind curves on roads right on the edge of the mountains. Cars and trucks squeezed past on what would normally be single-vehicle roads. Tempers flared when traffic stopped or if the driver didn’t give way to a faster car. At one point our trigger-happy driver came to a dead stop in the middle of the road. He threw the door open and marched to the car behind us. The car had been tailgating us but only because our driver had tailgated it first for driving too slow. Yes, definitely a good thing we opted out of renting a car.

Ourika turned out to be a (nearly) dry river bed. Where there once was a wide, deep river, only a narrow stream now runs through a vast area littered with large rocks and stones. After eating lunch at one of the shacks that dot the side of the river bed, we headed up the mountain. It was late in the afternoon by now, and the temperature had dropped significantly. The climb started out fairly easy but soon became steep and treacherous. We hopped from rock to rock, edged past each other on narrow ledges, and climbed up haphazardly assembled stone steps. At one junction, I even swung off a ledge and dangled in the air for a bit before dropping onto the narrow path below. I felt like a regular billy goat, and I absolutely loved it.

Near the top we arrived at a waterfall. It tumbles into a picturesque pool guarded on three sides by towering black cliffs. From here the water continues to flow down the mountain, all along which the resourceful shopkeepers and restauraters on the mountain have laid long hoses to bring the water to their locations. They’ve set up ingenious little devices to run this cold water over bottles of soda, water, and other beverages in order to keep them cool.

I decided to take a dip in the pool knowing full well that it would be cold. Ever since my swim in Lake Geneva, I find that cold water no longer phases me. I changed into my swim trunks and waded in. It was freezing! I thrased about in the water and stepped under the waterfall. It beat down on me with surprising force.

On the way back down, the sun had begun its descent.  The mountains looked amazing, awash in the warm, orange glow of the setting sun.

It seems strange as I write about it that I am here in Morocco at the urging of a guy I barely know. We met on a train in France and spoke for no more than thirty minutes (see Next Stop: Basel). Now I am staying with his family and hanging out with him in a foreign land. As weird as the facts make it appear, it all feels completely, unusually natural, as if Faical and I have known each other for years. I feel surprisingly at home.

On the way to the famous Marrakesh square, Faical explained to me what I was about to see. It’s huge, he said to me in the taxi. Even bigger than Times Square, he claimed. I was skeptical, and I told him as much. Not even London’s Picadilly Circus compares to Times Square in my opinion. We got out of the taxi at our stop and made our way through a crowd of people. Then I saw in the distance a strange sight.

Dark figures packed the square, bustling and jostling about. Above them glowed a layer of orange light cast by a sea of bare bulbs, and above the light billowed great white plumes of smoke. It looked as if the entire square before us were on fire. I could hear an eerie, rhythmic beating of drums coming from somewhere. As we shuffled closer, the haunting rhythm grew louder. I was transfixed.

If we were to compare the number of people concentrated in this area with those in Times Square, I am convinced that Faical would be right: Jama Al-Fna is bigger. The sheer number of people is overwhelming. Interspersed amongst the crowd and around the square are numerous, traditional musicians, games, women offering to draw hennah patterns on you, and much more. It’s like a carnival with its multitude of acts and activities. I spotted a gentleman even selling the opportunity to lift a barbell to people. It wasn’t a competition or anything. You simply showed the gathered circle of people how many times you could lift the barbell and paid the gentleman for giving you the opportunity. In one area a crowd stood with long fishing poles in their hands around a sea of 2-Liter soda bottles. The object of this game was to land the small rubber ring attached to the end of the fishing pole around the neck of a bottle. The prize? The bottle you “catch,” of course.

Faical and I waited for two of his friends to join us. Their names are Khalid (whom we established would be Khalid II because I’m a few months older) and Mohsin. They’re all friends from school. The two of them also speak English quite well, though Mohsin appears to have a better grasp of the language than Khalid II. The four of us weaved aimlessly through the packed square for a bit, and I mentioned to Faical that I wanted to eat something. I had not eaten anything substantial since I left Madrid. We made our way to the outdoor eateries that line one side of the square. These stands, I noticed, are the cause of all the smoke. The chefs have large vats of meat, vegetables, and various other foods from which they take out an item and cook right there. Several boys tried to stop us to eat at their employers’ stands, but Faical said he knew one of the guys where he ate regularly. So we settled on one of the long wooden benches that surrounded the stand and ordered bread and various local dishes. The food was quite delicious. It consisted of small pieces of lamb meat, which was cooked in a curry.

I found Mohsin and Khalid II very affable. As we were eating, the two of them suddenly burst into song. It took me a few seconds to grasp that they were singing a Hindi song, one from the famous movie, Dilwale Dulhanya Lay Jayengay a.k.a DDLJ. The song, Tujhe Dekha To Ye Jaana Sanam, is one of the best known songs of the movie, which is almost a decade old. How do you know this song? I asked in surprise. They explained that Bollywood movies are very popular in Morocco, and they listed the names of several Indian actors and actresses. They asked me if I knew the song they were singing and whether I could sing it. There was a time when I watched Bollywood movies almost religiously. I’ve seen DDLJ, of course, and I decided to oblige them. I sang the first four lines that I know:

Tujhe dekha to ye jaana sanam
Piyar hota hai deewana sanam
Ab yahan say kahan jaye hum
Teri bahon mein mar jaye hum

My lack of inhibition surprised even me, and I sang those lines with all the virtuosity I could muster. The guys appreciated my effort and started beating rhythmically on the table. We hung out a while longer in Jama Al-Fna before heading home.

On the EZ Jet flight to Morocco, I understood how the low-cost carrier makes ends meet. The crew members work as a sales team, advertising and selling a mass of products to their captive audience. Every few minutes a crew member announces over the loudspeaker yet another item for sale, rousing anyone who’s managed to nod off. They even collected money for a charity! Perhaps it’s cynical of me, but I suspect that the airlines gets a cut of the charitable contributions as well.

At the airport in Marrakesh, I approached the taxi stand and showed one of the men the piece of paper on which I had jotted down Faical’s address, which Faical had emailed to me. The man escorted me to a beat up taxi and told the driver where to go. How much? I asked the first man. 150 dirhams, he stated firmly. I was about to protest because it seemed like a lot of money. However, I noticed that he was the one assigning the taxis. What would I do if I didn’t get in this one? I deposited Osprey in the trunk and slid into the front seat.

We chugged off, the taxi sputtering and the old driver coughing and wheezing. There was a likeness about them, I thought in amusement. I wondered who was older, man or machine? After some time I tried to speak to the man. In my sparse Arabic, I asked him his name. Mohammad, he replied with a cough. Why is this always the case? I wondered. This Mohammad said something else, but I didn’t understand him. They speak a local dialect of Arabic in Morocco, and for one who barely understands Arabic, Moroccan is out of the question.

As we drove through Marrakesh, I was astounded by the number of tourists I saw and by the attire people wore. Given that Morocco is a Muslim country, I was expecting the clothing to be much more conservative. To my surprise, women were on the streets in tank tops, short skirts, and tight-fitting clothes that left little to the imagination. The city itself, as befitting one in a developing nation, is generally run-down. However, unlike other such cities I’ve seen, Marrakesh is quite clean. I didn’t see much trash on the roads.

I got the sense that we were near our destination when the driver appeared to have become lost. He drove this way, then that way, and evetually asked a man on the street for directions. I looked around trying to figure out how he was navigating through the streets when there were no street names anywhere! Finally the driver stopped in front of a building and said something in Moroccan that sounded like the equivalent of “That’s it!”

After some confusion about where exactly Faical’s place was, I called him with the taxi driver’s cell phone to learn that we were indeed standing right in front of his building. Faical came downstairs while I paid the taxi driver with the Moroccan dirhams I had bought at an American Express currency exchange in Madrid. I followed Faical upstairs to his family’s apartment where I met his grandmother and his cousin, Sarah. Later, I met Faical’s mother who is a very genial woman. She couldn’t stop grinning in delight when she met me. Faical resembles her in his looks, but his demeanor is a lot more serious. I left Osprey in one of the bedrooms, washed up, changed, and headed out with Faical to Jama Al-Fna, the famous square of Marrakesh.

I set out this afternoon for one last jaunt around Valencia.  I stopped by the Central Market and had Paella at a nearby restaurant before heading to Hollywood Grill to see Naty.  Then I picked up my luggage and headed to the main train station.  There I caught a late afternoon train to Madrid.

Back in Madrid I find that the weather alone puts me in a good mood and lifts my spirits. I sat outdoors at the Raja Mahal Indo-Pak Restaurant for dinner, reveling in the warm night touched by cool breezes.  The soft murmurings of fellow diners, the tinkle of glasses, and the clink of silverware against plates soothed me somehow.  Passing cars rumbled up the brick road.  An accordion player entertained some diners down the street.  Bursts of laughter came from a nearby restaurant.  It was a lovely night.

The food was excellent.  I commended the Pakistani waiter who threw in a free chai, which was also delicious.  After dinner I attended another flamenco performance at Casa Patas.  I found this one as beautiful and compelling as the first.

The motorists in Valencia, especially those on scooters and motorcycles, are a crazy sort. They don’t stop at red lights. They squeeze between cars into the tightest of spaces. They cut across sidewalks. At first I was intimidated by their recklessness. By the end of the night, however, I became one of them. I cut through red lights with impunity. I weaved through traffic from one side of the road to the other. I honked my way across sidewalks.

After I rented a scooter, I picked up Naty from her job, and we decided to find an Indian or Pakistani restaurant to have an early dinner before she left for her shift at Hollywood Grill. She looked up some places in the local phonebook and marked them on my street map. We set out to find a place, but both of the restaurants we checked were closed. Spaniards have a habit of eating late, and many restaurants close a little past noon and open again late in the evening. Naty and I decided to check out the City of Arts and Sciences instead, which I didn’t have time to see earlier. Getting there, however, was not so easy. Valencian streets are incredibly confusing. Many are one-way, so if you drive in one direction, you may very well not be able to get back. Moreover, the city is not in a grid format, which makes it much harder to navigate. Having Naty with me helped. She kept the map in front of her and told me where to go. Even still we ended up on the wrong road at one point, headed towards Barcelona. The road was a major highway with not a single exit in sight. It was several kilometers later that we came across an exit and looped back around.

We finally arrived at the City of Arts and Sciences. I parked the scooter on a nearby sidewalk, and Naty and I walked around the city. The Ciudad de las Artes y de las Ciencias as it is known in Spanish is an inspiring assortment of buildings designed by the Valencian architect, Santiago Calatrava. There’s an opera house, which looks like two fish jumping in opposite directions from the pool below. The museum looks like a bony, underwater creature. The “greenhouse” looks like the vertebrae of a fish. It’s comprised of consecutive metal arches that have vines growing over them. Eventually the plants are expected to cover the whole ceiling, forming a cool, leafy walkway underneath. All the buildings are white, and most of them are covered with white pieces of angular tiles, which makes them shimmer. There are shallow pools at the bases of several buildings. The reflection of the buildings in these pools lends them a symmetrically “round” appearance. It is a remarkable effect. All in all, the whole complex is a dazzling architectural feat.

I moved out of the Purple Nest Hostel yesterday and am now crashing at Naty’s apartment. One of her roommates is out of town so she has a spare bedroom, which she graciously offered to me for the sake of reducing my lodging expenses. She herself is a veteran backpacker, and she understands that every little bit helps when you’re traveling on a budget.

The plan today was to rent a scooter in the morning, check out the Calatrava buildings in the City of Arts and Sciences, and then pick up Naty from work so she could take me around Valencia. I got out of bed too late though, and by the time I headed out of the apartment it was already around noon. I took the compass I picked up at a thrift store in Granada, consulted my map of Valencia, and headed southwest.

After an hour of walking, I knew for sure that I was lost. I found myself in a vast, tilled field with my access to the west blocked by a busy freeway that had no pedestrian crossings. I thought about turning back and starting over from the apartment, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’ve noticed this tendency in me before. I appear to have an almost overpowering aversion to turning back. Wherever I’m headed, it seems that I would prefer to continue moving forward and find a way there rather than turn around and start over. This attitude can get me in trouble or exacerbate a bad situation, as it did now.

I was literally walking through someone’s farmland. My feet sank into the tilled soil, and I caught sight of watermelons and squash growing in patches. A moment ago I had been in a bustling metropolis! I plowed on. A small canal now obstructed my way west, so I walked southwards in order to get around it. On and on I went. I didn’t know where I was on the map anymore. Without any landmarks to pinpoint my location, I was completely lost. Still I marched on, determined to find a way.

I finally came across a paved road. Exasperated, hungry, and tired, I stuck out my thumb to try hitchhiking. As before in Marseille, here, too, no one stopped. I plodded up the road until I came upon a little house where through the open front door I could see some people watching TV in the living room. I asked the grandmotherly señora how I could get to the Ciudad de Las Ciensas (City of Sciences). She pointed in the general direction I had been walking and drew me a little map. I thanked her and continued on. Again no luck with the hitchhiking. I finally arrived at a more commercial area and asked a man in a restaurant for directions. He confirmed that I was headed in the right direction and showed me where I was on the map. I had a long ways to go! I bought some junk food — I hadn’t eaten all morning! — and continued my now epic journey. Soon I resolved to take a taxi, and after another fifteen minutes of walking, I hailed the first one I saw.

I think everyone has an internal “panic button,” which when pressed sets us into a frenzy.  It helps us vent our angst when faced with tough situations, but on the whole, it just causes a lot of needless anxiety and stress.  After learning that my debit card was lost, I felt myself reaching for that panic button.  What was I going to do?  How was I going to get any money?  What if the card was stolen?  But I stopped myself.  I needed to keep my cool.  I counted up my cash: €0.59.  Fair enough.  I could use my credit card for the necessities.  As for the ATM card, it most likely wasn’t stolen.  I probably left it in the ATM machine in Granada.  Even still, I checked my account online and confirmed that there was no unusual activity.  I also jotted down the Citibank international customer service number.  Then early this morning I set out for the Citibank branch I had passed by last night.  Someone there could sort things out for me.

I arrived at the bank to find it closed.  I took another long look at the posted business hours: Lunes (Monday) a Viernes (Friday) 8:30am to 2:00pm.  I didn’t get it.  Why were they closed?  Time to panic?  No.  I found a phone booth and dialed the Citibank international service number.  The bank’s website had claimed I could call collect, but it’s not true.  I dialed directly from my cell phone, hoping that I wouldn’t run out of minutes during the call.  A man at an Indian call center answered the phone.  I explained my issue to him and gave him my social security number.  He put me on hold.  I could feel my cell phone minutes counting down.  The man came back.  He needed my account number.  I didn’t have it.  He couldn’t help me.  I hung up.  The frustration was creeping in.  There was only one thing to do: I had to go to Starbucks.  I had seen one on my way to the phone.  I needed to eat breakfast, and I could count on Starbucks to accept credit cards.  I would reassess my situation on a full stomach.

I ate a hearty meal at Starbucks comprised of a turkey sandwich, a chocolate chip cookie, and a frappuccino.  During breakfast I recalled that I had some account information on my USB flash drive.  My Citibank account number might be on it as well.  If so, I could take down the info and call Citibank back.  I asked the barista at the counter if there were any computer/internet places nearby.
Sure, she said, just walk down the street for two blocks and make a left.  But they’re probably closed because of the holiday.
What? Holiday?
Sure, she said, Ferriado.
Well that explained why Citibank was closed.  I scanned the coffee shop and spotted a couple hunched over a computer.  I could trek all the way back to the hostel to use a computer there or I could ask them to use theirs and save myself the trouble.  I approached the couple.

The guy’s name is Jason.  He’s an American from California.  An Army man, he’s getting his MBA right now, and he’s traveling during summer break.  The girl’s name is Natalia, Naty for short.  She lives and works in Valencia, but she’s originally from Argentina.  The two just met a few days ago and struck up a friendship.  They were grabbing some coffee before Jason headed off to Paris.  Jason let me use his computer, and though I wasn’t able to find my account number or access the internet (no WiFi), I did find the pin number for my other bank card.  I have very little money in this account, but it should be enough to tide me over until I resolve my Citibank issue.  Jason, Naty, and I ended up talking for a long time, and I walked with them to the Metro station.  Before we parted, Naty gave me her cell phone number and told me to call her if I wanted to go to the beach later.

I returned to the hostel, spread out my €0.59 on the front desk, and asked the receptionist for some internet time.  The cost is actually €1, so I was €0.41 short.  I think the woman felt sorry for me though because she returned my paltry offering and gave me 30 minutes of internet time free of charge.  I dug up the info I needed from my account online, telephoned Citibank, and several minutes later, everything was taken care of.  They would cancel my old card and send me a new one to my US address.  In the meantime, I could get an emergency card from the Valencia Citibank branch.

Then I called up my new friend, Naty, and she, her brother, and I spent the rest of the day at the Valencia beach.

A day train through Spain is alone worth the trip to Europe.  A mosaic of brown, green, red, and yellow lands sweeps past.  Trees (olive?) stand in neat rows.  The gray and brown outlines of mountains loom in the distance.  A lone house stands in the center of a vast field.  Suddenly a town appears, distinguished by a cluster of houses.  Then there are more mountains, and we’re right amongst them.  There are dips, valleys, and winding paths between the trees.  Sometimes we’re up high looking down at the countryside.  Other times we’re level with the massive rock walls, or we’re at the foot of a mountain.  Here there are trees growing on a steeply angled slope, and it seems like they could reach out and snag us as we pass by.  White specks — the homes of the mountain dwellers — dot the mountaintops.  We roar through tunnels, ears popping from the sudden change in air pressure, momentarily submerged in darkness.  Then we emerge once again into a splash of blue sky and more mountains.  These ones are covered in green cotton balls of tree tops.  We slice through a mountain, its split sides rising straight up on either side.  The green leaves and black bark of the short, stout trees and their black shadows color the yellow grass canvas of these mountains.  I glimpse amongst the trees a lonely cow or a grazing horse; a wandering road here or a small lake there.

I arrived in Valencia late in the afternoon and checked in at the Purple Nest Hostel.  It was already dark by the time I headed out to explore the town.  I spent my last €20 on dinner, and as I peered into my empty wallet, I made a mental note to withdraw some cash later.  The meal was worth it.  I finally had an authentic Paella dish, a local version called Paella Valenciana.  It’s essentially chicken and rice with a Spanish twist.  The meal also included a plate of grilled seafood and dessert.  For the first time in weeks I felt full.  It was a good feeling.  Walking back to the hostel I came across a Citibank branch.  It was very lucky because that’s my bank, and getting money there means I don’t have to pay foreign transaction fees.  I flipped open my wallet and looked for my ATM card.  It wasn’t there.  That couldn’t be.  I searched my whole wallet.  Nothing.  My ATM card was gone.