Just me some Fish n' Chips and Maria in the land where safety has apparently decided to take the day off....

Well apparently safety has decided to take the day off at the Marrakech Airport. Dodging the nearby planes taking off right beside my feet, we walk as quickly as possible towards the entrance. After a little too quick of a transition through customs I am hopeful that leaving the country will be as smooth. Entering into the aggressive taxi territory waiting to wisp us off to the city center. “No biggie” I think to myself, I am used to negotiating rates with taxi drivers in Mexico and besides, there is a big bus we can jump on so we don’t even have to worry about being ripped off. So here I am with Mark and Kendel cruising down a big bumpy street with deserted homes, open vast dirt areas, and palm trees along the road, and once again I naively compare this to Ensenada, thinking they appear quite similar. The 105 degree heat infiltrates through the glass panes of the bus, the human smells of body odor circle around me, and the air is so dry it grabs a hold of my throat making me want to jump into a pool of cool water. Ten minutes later we circle around a bend and bam, I realize this is definitely nothing like Mexico! A million motorcycles with three or four people to a bike fly within inches of the bus, donkeys being whipped with hundreds of pounds of boxes piled on carts gallop by us, pedestrians flee in all directions in the middle of the traffic, fearless that within a flash of a second they could be hit due to the chaos of no direct pathways for the cars or even any traffic lights. Most of the women have their heads tightly wrapped, arms completely covered, and some even their hands sealed off. Immediately I feel shameful that I do not have more clothes to cover my body even though I am wearing sleeves and long pants. Attempting to tuck my hair as best as possible into my baseball cap, I realize these attempts are to no avail because either way, I will still be looked at as a flashy foreigner unless I invest in a full body burkha. To my relief I see a few women wearing regular jeans and flashy tops. The vibrant pink, Goldie yellow, piercing turquoise, and lilac purple colors of the flowing burkha that the women wear are eye candy, so appetizing, like seeing hard candy mixed up in a big bucket, that I just can’t pick my favorite. And they look so comfortable that I think to myself maybe I will wear one myself in attempt to also slightly blend in. The men have a variety of fashions going on themselves, some in full white robes with brightly colored wraps on their heads, while the others are in regular jeans and fake Emporio Armani t-shirt’s with flashy gold necklaces and stunna shades.
As the bus comes to a screeching halt the crowd pours off in different directions. I look around me and by the looks of the crowds of people walking towards a central square and towering mosque at the end, I assume we are in the city center of Marrakech known as Medina but where the hek are the street signs? I attempt to communicate with the bus driver in English and just my luck, no English. Next I try in Spanish, again nope, last pathetic desperate attempt German, nope the driver only speaks French or Arabic which I can’t speak a lick of. Well I clumsily show him on a map where I need to go and but of course he just points toward the main square so, off we go. While heading towards the city center my nose begins to follow the numerous lined up food stands piled with Lamb skewing on a stick, women patting down fresh hot thin bread that looks like Indian parratas, and fresh vegetables messily displayed on the tables. My mouth begins to water when we pass by the stands that have heaps of olives glazed in savory Moroccan spices soaked in olive oil but keeping in mind that the eye on the prize is to find Riad (House) Johanna, the roaring belly having a temper tantrum must be patient. While looking at a corner street hoping to see street signs I hear Kendel screeching 'Ahhhh holy shit!' While she claws into my flesh grabbing on to me for dear life, I quickly look to my left and sure enough there it is, three slimy black cobras doing a little neck stretching dance to the snake charmer’s hypnotizing flute type instrument while lurching forward every few minutes attempting to bite their owners. Chillin in the sun next to the aggressive cobras on a brightly colored Arabic rug is a gigantic yellow boa constructor that could not be bothered with all the chaos around him. Mr. Boa is taking a nap and enjoying the rays beating down its ten foot length back. The snake charmers, being very amused with Kendel and Marks cries began laughing and pointing at us. To our frightful delight the adobe brown sun baked man, who is missing a few very necessary teeth and has a snake tightly coiled around his neck, begins walking over towards us. I see that kind toothless smile but I am no fool bearing in mind there is a devilish glint deep within those dark eyes luring us over to his venomous cobras. Being direct bulls eyes without a chance in hell to blend in, we might as well have had American flags stuck to our heads. Calling out to the tall lone white Brit first, 'Hey Fish and Chips, come come.' 'Fish and Chips' I laugh hysterically while looking over at the very disgruntled Brit, 'That’s classic!' While the snake charmers join in on the laughter my other companion, Kendel, doesn’t quite get away without being renamed Maria. Somehow in a matter of seconds while I am telling myself that I am no fool to be lured into the snake pit, Fish n' Chips and I manage to have snakes put around our necks, which then proceeded with being lightly smacked on our head with the head of the snake being told repeatedly, 'For good luck madam, good luck.' Next, pockets being emptied out for a tip, and all in all we even manage to misplace our bad little Mexican girl Maria. Come to find out while I was being smacked by a snake and Mark was rocking back and forth in a fetal position in sheer terror while sucking on his thumb, Maria was kid knapped by a henna witch lady with spiky black hairy legs and mysterious grey eyes that inked up some trippy design on unwillingly Maria’s hand, which ended up looking like a glob of permanent poo. Let me tell you Maria was not happy with the fresh poo on her hand that left traces for weeks.
All around the center of Medina the locals huddle under umbrellas for shelter from the sweltering heat. Whether it be monkeys on chains jumping around doing tricks, women painting henna on hands and feet, fortune tellers sitting on rugs with bottles of crushed up bone, full sized dried lizards, goats and bulls horns neatly laid out by them, or teenage acrobats dressed in silky blue and red Aladdin looking pants flying through the air showing off their amazing skills, you name it, the Medina circus show was in full view and in your face. No time to lurk, we had to find our Riad Johanna. Off we set in one direction hopeful to see some kind of street sign in French. But whatever appeared to be a sign was in Arabic and therefore I began asking locals on the streets and merchants in the stores. A very small elderly man runs up to me and quickly gestures for us to start following him clearly demonstrating that he was volunteering to show us where Riad Johanna is. Hesitant and unsure whether or not we were being led into a trap we figured this man is about the size of my four foot grandma and there are three of us. Not that Fish n' Chips who’s width is about the size of my arm would be helpful, but at this point what other options did we have. As we walked out of one alley, the old man grabs his rick shaw and motions for all of us along with our luggage to jump in like we we’re his little toddlers going for a ride in the shiny red cart. I start shaking my head out of fear of breaking this poor mans back with our combined weight and so he nods his head with approval and again motions us to continue close behind him. After passing one multi-colored busy souk after another, pasting our bodies on the walls like fly’s so that the roaring motorbikes zooming within inches by us won’t hit us, and with the heat scorching throughout my body making me feel dizzy, everything began to quickly start blending in together and before we knew it, we were walking through a maze of alleys that had no people in them. Since I could not remember my ass from my elbow I certainly had no recollection of exactly which way was the exit to get back to the center. I pictured we were the mice in a famous science experiment in which you put the cheese at the end of two different mazes and place the mouse on the opposite end. One of the mice has been in a confined box filled with marijuana smoke resulting in inhaling a gargantuan amount of THC and the other is completely sober. In a stoners opinion you would think that the stoned mouse would find the cheese first because it has the munchies but in actuality, it’s the sober clear headed mouse that is able to navigate its way throughout the maze to get to the cheesy orange prize. Actually I just made that up. I don’t know if there has ever been such an experiment but I really did feel stoned and confused lost in a maze like a feeble mouse. Brown Kendel, now pale white in the face and palms sweating, has totally started freaking out yelling at Mark that she will never talk to him ever again for bringing us here and Mark is now looking at me to make the decision on whether or not we continue to follow this old man down another alley or cut our losses, loose the deposit, and head back to the main square in search of a cheap hotel. I look over at the old man and I now see he is talking with another man in Arabic. It appears that he is asking him where Riad Johanna is but for all I know he is plotting with his partner to let the other men know around the corner that now is the perfect time to mug us leaving us alone in Africa with no passport and money. Mark and I both make eye contact insinuating that we will not go down one more desolate alley and will be turning around in a matter of seconds. Count down three two one, and that’s it, I motion to them both we are going the other way. The strange looking man in the alley starts saying to me, 'Where you going, number 24 Riad Johanna, there, wrong way madam.' Then the old man starts waving his hands at us to keep following him, but at this point I am scared and am on the verge of panicking when all of a sudden he knocks on an iron door at the end of the alley and out pops a sweet females head about the age of thirty. They converse in Arabic for a second and the whole time she is nodding her head motioning for us to come into her home. Great so this is when she bands together with the men and rob us, right! But then in English she says, 'Yes this is Riad Johanna and I have reservation for you, share room. I have been expecting you.' I let out a loud sigh of relief along with Mark and Kendel and we very gratefully thank the strange looking man in the alley and the old four foot tall elderly one. Tipping him graciously in euro coins he walks off distraughtly examining the shiny coins in his palm confused as to what kind of currency we just gave him.

Part 2

I awake to the high pitched squeals of the snake charmers flutes less that a mile away in Medina. The merciless sun has marked its territory in my room and has left me feeling dehydrated and dizzy which was also attributed to an ungodly amount of wine and beer while laying out on the rooftop last night with Fish n' Chips, Maria, and a few fellow backpackers from Argentina. Before allowing myself to feel sorry for my own self liver abuse and aching headache, I quickly wash up in the sink which is outside our room in the courtyard. I guess there is some ringing truth when telling naughty children not to do something forbidden that automatically the allure and temptation to disobey increases ten times more. In our case, sure enough this saying apparently had validity. Last night when we excitedly rushed to the city center with a major beer thirst needing to be quenched, we were told in the cafes that alcohol is illegal in the city center and one must venture out of Medina to drink. In addition, in order to find alcohol we would most likely have to go to a nightclub outside the center and we were warned that women are not exactly considered very welcome unless of course we were planning on pulling a Julia Roberts in “Pretty Women.” Something told me that I am probably not going to meet Richard Gear in these nightclubs so I might as well follow the locals advice and stay clear. Where’s a Yardhouse with 150 fresh beers on tap to choose from when ya need a tall one? To our rescue, but of course, our dear Riad Johanna well equipped for drunken tourists, had a fully stocked fridge waiting for us at home. Before heading back to the Riad we decided to watch the lively night festivals taking place around the roasting lamb stands and drum circles. People everywhere were clapping hands, engaging their palettes with delicious Moroccan delights of seafood, lamb, nuts, followed by piercing bright oranges. Fortune tellers were sitting on rugs on the ground with their customers, grandiosely telling them their fortunes while crushing bones into colorful powders in exquisite jars and drinking Moroccan tea with fresh mint. As alive as this atmosphere was, I realized, something was very wrong. I looked to my left, then my right and was amazed to see that every single person aside from Maria, a few French tourists, and I, were men! Where were all the women? Am I to believe that the locals who obviously have an amazing spirit for festivity do not include their women? One, considered shameful and disrespectful to not be completely covered from head to toe in the sweltering heat: to ensure that other men can not look at you. Two, to always walk in the souks “supervised” with either a male relative or your husband by your side. Three, men may hold hands, any display of public affection between opposite sexes is taboo. Apparently this is how they run here. But am I really witnessing with my own eyes that women are shunned from such a joyous event? This whole concept is obviously so outlandish to my foreign eyes that I just can’t seem to justify this as normal and accept it as something I just can’t understand but seems to work just fine for them. After all, I view women and men as equals so how could I understand completely? In their defense, quite possibly maybe the women prefer to not engage in these male activities in the darkness of the night and instead, happily congregate amongst other fellow women free of their masking durkhas and shawls within the confinements of their sealed off homes. I guess I will never know, nor can I understand.
Chillaxin and stretching my legs out on the roof terrace, to my delight, Johanna has once again fixed us a delightful breakfast with fresh squeezed orange juice and crispy bread rolls. A little grub in the belly and I am ready to set off on a new adventure. Unfortunately Fish n' Chips and Maria look like dead logs unwilling to unlatch themselves from their comfortable nooks. I allow them to hibernate from the scorching sun and decide to follow my trusty Lonely Planet’s advice and find the tanneries. After all Morocco is very famous for their master skill in producing exquisite soft leathers so why not go check out the originals myself. Heading out of the curvy maze of peach alleys and I enter into the chaotic souks. Hundreds of people are bargaining at the stands for items such as spices, leather, meat, and pottery and the women are loading their bags with fresh produce. I stay clear of the zooming motorbikes bustling crowds and donkeys dashing within inches of me. Immediately I notice the local men are a lot more comfortable with allowing their eyes to wander freely across my body. Initially, I try to ignore the stares and snide flirtatious cat calling but within only a matter of minutes, I start feeling extremely self conscious and am very aware that I am “one of them.” “One of those” Western women that allow parts of their flesh to show freely and wander the streets unsupervised without a male baby sitter. Reluctantly, I have now resorted to keeping my eyes on the ground and head down low hoping that I will just evaporate into the ground or at the very least, receive less attention. I almost feel shameful like I have done something wrong leaving the Riad without Fish n' Chips and now I must face the consequences for not covering my exposed body in a burkah. Heading east, I realize I have no idea where the tanneries are even though according to the book, they are in this direction outside of the center. While trying to be invisible and independent by navigating my way around alone, my independence comes to an end when a man in a bright yellow shirt starts making friendly conversation asking me where I am trying to go. I politely tell him I am heading to the tanneries and continue on my way. Fortunately he is kind enough to point me in the right direction with out expectations for a tip. Just when I think how nice that he was just helping me out with no strings attached, he yells after me telling me his friend Abdul works there and since he is on his way to work, will show me the way. 'Shit' I think to myself how can I tell him no when the guy is apparently walking there too and its down what appears to be one straight road, so he will be on my tail either way. Without consenting for him to join me, Abdul with a sweet hearty smile introduces himself and starts walking by my side. Remembering reading in Lonely Planet that if you need assistance finding the tannery it is easy for a local to show you around and explain how the tanneries work with just a little tip, I think to myself I am fine with leaving a small tip so why not just enjoy Abduls company and let him show me how to get to the Tanneries.
Reaching the end of the road I realize there are no Tanneries in sight and we have been walking in the mid afternoon heat over dirt roads for over fifteen minutes. Abduls non stop chattering starts making me skeptical that maybe he was trying to distract me for some reason. But why? My guts begin churning and I start feeling the paranoia rise from the depths of my spine and grab a hold of my throat. Trying to remain cool and not show that my heart is beating a million miles an hour and perspiration from anxiety is formulating along my temple, I can’t help but think the worst can happen to me right now and if so, there is not a damn thing I can do about it. 'Why did you leave the Riad alone you retard! Damn it Alicia you are so stupid sometimes! Sure, try to be all adventurous and shit and now you have put yourself in a jam that you may not get your ass out of safely.' Abdul leads me through a few winding streets that go left and then right, then left, left, wait was it right, or then left, damn its starting to blend in, crap I can’t remember. Very alert of my surroundings at this point like a deer in headlights, I make sure to make mental notes of the landmarks that we are passing by to guide me back to safety if need be. I tell myself 'Okay take a chill pill Alicia.' After all, I am walking with a man that appears to be kind and although this is out of my character to go walking around with someone I don’t know anything at all about, he is just taking me to the Tanneries and then I can venture out again on my own once there.
Twenty minutes later and I smell a musky putrid aroma infiltrating the air. It is so pungent that I have to cover my mouth for a second thinking that the smell will dissipate within seconds of not breathing. Abdul seeing me struggling smirks and tells me, 'We are reaching the tanneries soon and this is the smell of the leather. Look up on the rooftops you can see the skins drying out.' There it is looming above my head, rotting cow skin boiling in the blazing sun on the rooftops. Scattered on the ground I see pieces of what appears to be pieces of black hair that used to be a cows tail. Passing by the stores I notice that they are not selling the typical goods as in the city but instead huge bottles of brightly colored liquids and sulfuric acid. The people somehow seem to have thinned out before my eyes but we have finally arrived at the Tanneries and since I have walked all this way, I figure I might as well capture a few pictures and see how this whole leather making thing works. Standing at the outdoor entrance is a man in a long white robe holding a parcel of fresh mint. He introduces himself in scattered Spanish and hands me the mint telling me I will need this to cope with the smell while he gives me the tour. Wait this can’t be the tour that I think the book mentioned. Or did the book even mention a tour? Where are all the other tourists with their dangling cameras and videos, spoiled bratty children loudly chirping creating unwanted attention, and maps falling out of their parents overloaded bags? For once in my life I actually want to be surrounded by the safety net of a bunch of obnoxious overly excited tourists. I must be loosing it! Instead, I am by myself now surrounded by two men and am about to be surrounded by many other men in the tanneries. As we enter in the huge outside walls about the size of a football field, I am in no ways prepared for what my eyes are about to see. Men, some older then my grandpa are waist deep in pools of brightly blue, red, orange, and purple dyes and are diligently working like slaves in the blistering heat. 'Smack smack' goes the cow flesh dipping into the pools then whacked onto the ground. Sulfuric acid mixed with rotting dead flesh infiltrates my nose and quickly reaches the back of my throat causing the sensation of immediate gagging. Nevertheless, I have to get some pictures of what I am actually seeing. Nauseas or not, this was inexplicable and I had to capture the moment with my camera. The guide explains the process of how the leather is made even though in reality, it was self explanatory and in your face. Lucky me, he made sure not to leave out what kinds of different animal piles of flesh were sloppily laid out within inches of my feet. Wowzers, let me just tell you the goat pile of flesh was definitely what sent me over the Titanic and although I was trying to pretend that everything was all gravy, clearly my face was probably turning sour green, thus the men politely escorted me out. Thinking that the quick tour that seemed like an anxiety filled eternity was finally over, I figured I would tip both men with the change in my pocket, thank them graciously, and be on my way. Well, maybe if we were in the Kansas Tanneries Toto and I could merrily meander off on the yellow brick road but not in Marrakech. Before I could turn my head Abdul rushes me into the nearby store packed with brightly colored fresh leather bags dangling on the ceiling, leather pillows and Moroccan rugs covering the floors, and a bulky glistening silver tea pot on the center table. 'Hello I am A Koos koos a boo boo and welcome to my store. Please have a seat and may I serve you some Moroccan tea with fresh mint.' Okay obviously that’s not how you spell his name but that’s what it sounded like. I blabber, 'Umm ahh nooo thanks, you have a beautiful store but I am sorry, I do not have money to spend.' Apparently either I was speaking German or A koos koos a boo boo is stone deaf because he did not even raise an eyebrow after my displeasing statement. “So let me tell you about my business. I journey to the border of Marrakech to trade my beautiful leathers for raw silk.” He then proudly grabbed a handful of magnificent piles of vibrant silk. I let the silk flow through my finger tips and sure enough it is the softest silk I have ever felt. Then proceeding to have his helper, no older then a 13 year old boy, throw a few rugs on the ground, he gets down on his knees and lights a flame on the rugs demonstrating that the magical rugs could not be lit on fire. At this point I was definitely impressed but keeping in mind I did not want to spend money, I tried my best to keep a polite smile but not infer that I wanted to purchase anything. Next, an elegant writing tablet laced with gold was placed on the table and I am told, “In Morocco there is no final price and this is how we shall bargain. You write your price on the right and I on the left.” Apparently I was bargaining for some camel leather pillow that you can sit on that had cool camel designs wrapped around in a circle. I glance outside the door to see if anyone may miraculously come to my rescue and see that there are three men waiting out front blocking off the exit. To my surprise there stands that man in the bright yellow shirt that initially pointed me in the direction of the Tanneries. Clearly he too was a part of the Tanneries business and had successfully worked his charm in convincing the stupid tourist to enter the sales pit. At this point I just write down 20 euros but A koos koos a boo boo is anything but delighted and quickly pulls out a cheaper cow leather pillow that has flashy red, white, and black triangles on an aged cream base. Well, I figure I have two options. Either I continue this torture and attempt to escape without purchasing anything or, I suck up my losses, buy the tacky flashy flesh and depart unharmed. Unsure of what to do, my instinct points my hand in the direction of writing down a slightly marked up price of 25 euros and to my relief, the tablet is closed and the deal has been made. Now I realize that I only have small change in euro coins to tip the two men outside so I hope that purchasing this pillow will suffice. “Not so fast little naïve one.” I have just entered out to three men with open palms waiting for their individual tips. So I grab the coins and place it in the dominant guides hand hoping they can either split it up or argue amongst one another. A distorted scrunched up look spreads across his face and I realize he does not know what the coins represent and as I am trying to explain to him that is all I have, and that it is Euros, he begins aggressively yelling in Arabic at Abdul. Fortunately the bright yellow t-shirt man calms the guide down explaining that the coins indeed do have value like printed paper currency and so he nods his head thanking me. The coast is clear and I realize this is my chance to get the hell out of this putrid smelling rotting flesh tannery and head back to my Fish n' Chips and Maria at the Riad. Nervously smiling and saying good bye to the intimidating men who have completely scammed me, tacky flashy flesh and I quickly head out on the road far away from them. While I am trying to calm myself down I recapture layer upon layer what just happened. Was I really in danger, meaning physical harm if I had just said flat out “No” and walked out of the store? What was the worst that the men could have done? Maybe yell at me for not tipping or wasting their time that I never asked for in the first place? Or, could the consequences have been much more dreadful? Just to imagine the unimaginable made me realize that I as a woman wandering around by myself, had made the right decision. Sure I would have been braver if I had friends by my side but alone was a whole other story. Suffice to say that it is an actual true statement that when traveling alone in Islamic regions a female tourist should always have her guard up and not walk alone or the result could possibly be unpleasant such as my experience? I really don’t have the answer but I do know that many female tourists do indeed travel alone to Northern Africa and probably have not encountered a dilemma such as mine. All I do know is for myself, I was scared, my blood was boiling out of fear which is ten times worse than out of anger, and that I was never so relieved as to when I was able to successfully navigate the trek back to Riad Johanna based on the landmarks and enter back to safety.
Entering back into Riad Johanna I set my eyes on the most amazing handcrafted tiled walls and floors with beautiful lamps dangling from the ceiling and I immediately start feeling at ease. A tinge of guilt hits me for being so nervous and skeptical of the kind old man who was just trying to help us find our home and the ruthless tannery sales men. After hearing so many horror stories the thought of being stripped of my passport in Africa or physically harmed is petrifying and I think it’s a shame that as a foreigner, I naturally have my guard up out of fear. Nevertheless Fish n' Chips, Maria and I share our stories in the courtyard and all agree that we have entered a Moroccan Paradise nestled in a brilliantly colorful city and on top of that, are staying in a spectacular private Riad for just 20 dollars a night. The Riad is three levels high with open courtyards on the top two levels. Each level has comfortable wooden patio furniture with intricately designed pillows to rest on. The roof terrace in particular overlooks the center of Medina in which the beats of the drums stretch far out above the colorful rooftops of the surrounding homes that have dangling Moroccan rugs and soaring red flags with a single bright green star in the center. The beats wisp throughout the four surrounding mosques and fill the air with a surreal warm aura. While capturing the stunning view through my lens, suddenly, the drums and cheering crowds all come to a dead abrupt halt within a flash of a second followed by a muffled crackling noise coming from within the north west mosque. A man begins singing Arabic hymns over the loudspeaker and within what appears to be a drawn out minute, the surrounding three mosques loudspeakers come on and I hear three other prevailing and mystifying voices loudly singing about Allah. They are calling their people to prayer and everyone in the entire city center including me has completely stopped what they are doing like in a trance like state in which time is standing still, and all in unison, intently listen to the Korans ancient words stretching out from the four mosques. Standing on the roof top slowly soaking in all of my surroundings, I watch the sun set over one of the grand majestic mosques with piles of smoke billowing behind, forming distorted animal shapes from the hundreds of kebab barbeque stands and think to myself, I have just entered an ancient mind-blowing world and can only imagine what lies ahead.