Santiago de Compostella. That’s the big one. The famous one. The pilgrimage route largely ignored since its heights of popularity centuries ago, now becoming THE vacation route for those looking for exhaustion, blisters and a big ol’ dollop of god cream. Or perhaps spirituality cream, it’s really a diversity of taste.
What a lot of people don’t think, or perhaps care, about is that pilgrims looking to scoot and skedaddle themselves to the north-west corner of Spain need a starting point and landing elsewhere in Spain was something not available to most European peasants of the middle ages. Most.
The reality of Europe at the time was multiple pilgrimage routes, some on their way to Santiago de Compostella, others to Rome or Jerusalem. The SdC route in fact had at least three paths through France that pull together towards Spain before joining the pilgrim highway, straight to eternal salvation. One of these happens to pass through the north of Aveyron, named St. Jacques de Compostella and easily traced by the seashell carvings and paintings that mark the way. Although it inevitably passes through many important sites on its way south the most important for local flavour is undeniably Conques, a tiny village buried in the valleys of north Aveyron that found its spot on the pilgrim trail by stealing relics from another church. Classic. Steal the relics, more pilgrims, more fame, more wealthy benefactors and the land holdings grow allowing the local Church and monks to produce increasing amounts of wine, for which even most of the labour is free because apparently even viticulture kills sins.
All this is to say I didn’t walk any of that. Instead I caught a bus to Villefranche de Rouergue and started hiking back along Grande Randonée 62B to Rodez, approximately parallel to St. Jacques but a few degrees south. The GR trails being a system of routes, signed with red-and-white-stripe trail markers, that sprawl across France like some spider web intending to catch people in the outdoors and sell them products from what must be the most well-developed commercial topographical map industry in the world. They lead you through forests, along riverbanks, down country lanes, across farm right of ways, and where necessary along the edges of small roads.
To give you an idea of the distance involved in this undertaking look at google maps, or whatever, just taking directions from one city to the other. It’s a fair distance but I figured what the heck, and I stepped off at 9:20am. I walked and walked and walked, meeting many fine dogs, one of whom enjoyed placing a stick in front of me, then when I picked it up he would pounce, necessitating a brief tug of war before he released and let me throw the stick, inevitably behind me in an attempt to send him home. He persisted until I actually pointed that way and he slouched his shoulders and watched sadly from a distance, thinking this happens with every hiker that passes through. My best guess is I stopped for a grand total of just over thirty minutes for snacks and water and a few photos. I knew I had until around 7:30 light wise and was therefore moving at a steady clip. Even with these efforts I still figured I would be making my final push, two hours or so, in the dark.
So I walked and walked and thought I should have reached Belcastel by now, a pretty village with a pretty castle of all things that marks roughly the halfway point. I thought I saw it twice, once it was a tower on a hill and once it was another village entirely, things you only figure out when you’re up close.
At a certain point I had decided I was mistaken, misremembering a map I had looked at in a bookstore and Belcastel was not actually on this route. Just after 5 when I walked up to a sign saying Belcastel 2.5km that way I discovered I was wrong.
So there I stood, around 6pm in Belcastel, knowing this was approximately the halfway mark and I’d used just under 9 hours to get that far. Yes, I knew the GR would be windier and longer than the roads but this really hit home after seeing the Belcastel highway sign at 2.5 km out, then following the GR trail markers away from the road, up, up and away onto the steep slope of the river valley, before coming back down closer to town, having added both a climb and undeniable distance.
I considered getting a room as I was starting to flag, running a bit low on water, but seeing 88 euros for a single and realizing I had set a goal of Villefranche to Rodez in one day I decided to struggle on, but along the roads rather than the hiking trail. I was not in the mood, even if I was able to follow the trail all the way in the dark, add another 9 hours to the journey and arrive home at 3 in the morning. Although for that authentic pilgrim feel maybe I was letting myself down there?
My one regret is not changing my socks at this point as they were a bit damp and that one moment’s pause would have undoubtedly saved me a bit of rubbing on the tips of toes that I am still feeling today. Thankfully I’ve never had a problem with blisters that saw the bottom of my foot leave me, but baby toes in damp socks can only survive unscathed for so long.
What became an increasingly hobbled and pathetic voyage along darkened highways where I was shuffling forwards with two walking sticks, relying on them more and more as the night deepened, pulling off to the side when a car’s headlights alerted me to an impending approach, took me around 5.5 hours (615 to 1140) and was about 27km in distance depending on where they measure town to town distances from and which signs you trust.
Based on ratios and figuring a slightly better pace previous to the evening’s blistered limping, my estimation of the morning’s walk is approximately 45km. And 72km in 14 hours are numbers that both seem reasonable and I can be happy with.
Distance (as the drunken, wobbly crow flies): 72 km in just over 14 hours
Injuries: sunburn on back of calves (yes, I wore shorts and it was glorious!), tight left calf for a few days, achy feet, blister on end of right baby toe, rub wound in centre of left foot, long blister along outside of ball of right foot (almost said along outside of right ball), other small rubs on both feet, various rubbing/chafage in the usual spots but nothing drastic
Enjoyment: through the roof
Smug self-satisfaction: of course
Disappointment I couldn’t make my way along the GR path the whole distance and emerge upon Rodez out of the forest like a legitimate pilgrim or perhaps a farmer who has taken longer than expected to move the herd of goats to market and return: mild but admittedly present
Werewolves spotted or attacked by on the desolate, star swept patches of emptiness that is the D994: secrets
Monday, March 23, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
elevator
Rolling into town the other day on my pod train of Bombardier extraction I was struck by an opportunity Rodez seems to have missed. The gare, or train station as the kids are calling it these days, is at the bottom of the hill on which Rodez perches. To get to it from Toulouse, one goes around almost half the circumference of the hill.
That part of the trip is actually quite nice. If you’re on correct side of the train you get a pleasant view of the city. Of course the cathedral predominates, but there are a few other churches to see and the longer I’ve stayed and returned here, the more I have to pick out from the cityscape. The IUFM where I work, complete with its dining hall in front, Lycée Monteil where I sleep, a white monstrosity that lords over that side of the hill, threatening to devour even the near-by Sacre-Coeur, and if I’m on the other side of the train and very lucky the Géant Casino, which is actually a grocery store, where I go to buy delicious muesli to sprinkle on my weetabix and bigger jugs of milk and orange juice than I can find anywhere else.
This is all pleasant enough, but I would be willing to give it up if Rodez was willing to realize the value of its geography. What better way to take advantage of a city on a hill than to build a train station at its very core?
A train station connected to the hilltop by elevator, one that spits people out in the centre of the city. In my ideal conception the exit, which could be the entrance too but here we are only concerned about people being amazed and dazzled as they arrive, would face the cathedral from the Place d’Armes. In a perfect world the elevator doors swing open, and there in all its majesty is the cathedral. That which is on all Ruthenois postcards, that which is in the centre of town, that which contains the history and future of the city in one fell swoop.
Maybe the train station’s current location is better suited to housing the train yard or servicing the vast majority of the population who drive and don’t live in the middle of the city. And to them I say BAH! Call up Sarkozy, get the cash and start digging.
Dig Rodez, DIG! Dig for your future!
That part of the trip is actually quite nice. If you’re on correct side of the train you get a pleasant view of the city. Of course the cathedral predominates, but there are a few other churches to see and the longer I’ve stayed and returned here, the more I have to pick out from the cityscape. The IUFM where I work, complete with its dining hall in front, Lycée Monteil where I sleep, a white monstrosity that lords over that side of the hill, threatening to devour even the near-by Sacre-Coeur, and if I’m on the other side of the train and very lucky the Géant Casino, which is actually a grocery store, where I go to buy delicious muesli to sprinkle on my weetabix and bigger jugs of milk and orange juice than I can find anywhere else.
This is all pleasant enough, but I would be willing to give it up if Rodez was willing to realize the value of its geography. What better way to take advantage of a city on a hill than to build a train station at its very core?
A train station connected to the hilltop by elevator, one that spits people out in the centre of the city. In my ideal conception the exit, which could be the entrance too but here we are only concerned about people being amazed and dazzled as they arrive, would face the cathedral from the Place d’Armes. In a perfect world the elevator doors swing open, and there in all its majesty is the cathedral. That which is on all Ruthenois postcards, that which is in the centre of town, that which contains the history and future of the city in one fell swoop.
Maybe the train station’s current location is better suited to housing the train yard or servicing the vast majority of the population who drive and don’t live in the middle of the city. And to them I say BAH! Call up Sarkozy, get the cash and start digging.
Dig Rodez, DIG! Dig for your future!
Monday, March 09, 2009
sensations of the end
Having a life compartmentalized means I experience many beginnings and ends. Periods of adjustment and anticipation.
Before I left for Morocco I began to experience my first sensations of another end drawing nigh. I had decided not to renew my contract, and knew when I returned from the trip there would only be a month left in France. Immediately my brain began spinning, considering the loose ends that would need to be tied up; sorting through papers, mailing things home that were too bulky to carry, considering the process of shutting down a bank account and transferring funds.
Now that I am into the final month in Rodez, less than a month left on the continent even, the anticipation has given way to procrastination. Piles of paper sit on my floor, most of which I know will be tossed. Couldn’t tell you exactly why I kept them in the first place. Maybe some notion of saving teaching resources, ready to be used again.
Sort, box, deposit at the post office. Won’t take too long, and I really can’t do a proper job until the end of things, so they can sit for now.
Every day I consider going to the bank and figuring out just how easy or hard it will be to sort out my accounts, but there’s always too much of a line for me to bother. Then last night I realized the bank has restricted hours on Mondays, if it’s not closed entirely, meaning I may need to push back my departure by another day just to make sure I can get my last paycheque on the Friday and then make sure all loose ends are tied off before I leave.
Thus is life.
As usual the end is accompanied by a beginning, but this go round the beginning remains indeterminate. There are choices and options before me, outside influences more or less within my control that are slowly emerging from the ether. Eventually they will concretize and the choice will be left to me. Up, down, left, right, or around and around?
And the great voyage rumbles on.
Before I left for Morocco I began to experience my first sensations of another end drawing nigh. I had decided not to renew my contract, and knew when I returned from the trip there would only be a month left in France. Immediately my brain began spinning, considering the loose ends that would need to be tied up; sorting through papers, mailing things home that were too bulky to carry, considering the process of shutting down a bank account and transferring funds.
Now that I am into the final month in Rodez, less than a month left on the continent even, the anticipation has given way to procrastination. Piles of paper sit on my floor, most of which I know will be tossed. Couldn’t tell you exactly why I kept them in the first place. Maybe some notion of saving teaching resources, ready to be used again.
Sort, box, deposit at the post office. Won’t take too long, and I really can’t do a proper job until the end of things, so they can sit for now.
Every day I consider going to the bank and figuring out just how easy or hard it will be to sort out my accounts, but there’s always too much of a line for me to bother. Then last night I realized the bank has restricted hours on Mondays, if it’s not closed entirely, meaning I may need to push back my departure by another day just to make sure I can get my last paycheque on the Friday and then make sure all loose ends are tied off before I leave.
Thus is life.
As usual the end is accompanied by a beginning, but this go round the beginning remains indeterminate. There are choices and options before me, outside influences more or less within my control that are slowly emerging from the ether. Eventually they will concretize and the choice will be left to me. Up, down, left, right, or around and around?
And the great voyage rumbles on.
Greeting guests
Rodez, the centre of the universe that it is, tends to pull all sorts into its orbit.
Hmmm. Perhaps a better space analogy.
Rodez is a black hole. People that arrive here are never clear on how it happened, and generally find a blank spot in their memory when they try to recall their specific experience crossing the event horizon. Having one’s molecular being simultaneously torn apart and compressed into an infinitesimally small area can play tricks with memory.
But black holes hold such negative connotations, something about their unknown nature and how people feel about the concept of no escape.
Rodez is a lovely place a satisfactory distance from the sun. A bit out of the way geographically and under-serviced from a public transport point of view, but isn’t all of France?
In my time here I have been asked why Rodez, so I explain. I filled in my application form, putting the Toulouse region (Midi-Pyrenees by name) as my number one geographic choice. It was awarded to me, just a part of it that I had never heard of. The questioner smiles, shakes their head and apologizes for my misfortune. They tend to be under 30, the night tends to be Saturday and the atmosphere tends to be Rodez on the weekend, quiet.
Writing this I have just returned from a Sunday afternoon stroll in the countryside, satisfying both physically and sensorially. Lovely part of the world as they say. If there had been a Rodez rugby game this afternoon I would have been at the stadium. Saturdays I visit the well-stocked market and often sip a beer while watching televised rugby at my local pub. The week leaves me time for the gym, for runs, and visits to the local mediatheque for writing, reading and smiling at pretty girls. I’m content with my lot, and try to say as much to anyone who feels the need to rest a hand on my shoulder, look into my eyes and empathize.
But when others come to visit, or simply threaten to do as much, there is a peculiar embarrassment that emerges in my response, and in those expressed by the other assistants. We don’t want to stop people from coming, the more the merrier, but we are compelled to reveal the truth, to be honest about what the visitor should expect. As hosts we fear someone arriving, not knowing the nature of this ancient land, and becoming, gasp!, bored.
A Ruthenois (someone from Rodez) wall of shame emerges as we awkwardly explain.
“Ya...it’s...ummm...kind of slow here sometimes. This is pretty much it actually. Thursday’s a big night, if you’re ever here on a Thursday...” Distant wolf howl. Tumbling tumbleweed. Scene closes.
This is not a complaint of a slow life, one that has engendered a walking and book trading culture amongst the assistants, but an interested observation on human reaction to being a 21st century youth living a quiet, semi-rural life in a, shall we say, less-trafficked part of France.
Us young’ns are meant to be out caterwauling, drinking and carousing, causing mischief and avoiding pregnancy, something I am pleased to say I have avoided both absolutely and completely. Surely from time to time a hint of debauchery does insert itself into our lives, but nothing compared to the ‘assistant life’ that exists in larger urban centres. Bunch of drunks and sluts don’cha know?
Let’s just say the Ruthenois assistants have adopted a geared down way of being.
Other assistants here have the additional distractions of television and the internet and still crave a bit more action than a periodic perambulation provides, so I can’t claim a universal monkish community has sprung up. By this point, however, we are all at least familiar with life here, if not totally at peace with it.
It is this familiarity we feel the need to impart when the outlander arrives.
We’re in a really nice place, so there’s no need for pity, but you should prepare yourself. Take a deep breath and, well, keep on breathing until you find something else to do.
Hmmm. Perhaps a better space analogy.
Rodez is a black hole. People that arrive here are never clear on how it happened, and generally find a blank spot in their memory when they try to recall their specific experience crossing the event horizon. Having one’s molecular being simultaneously torn apart and compressed into an infinitesimally small area can play tricks with memory.
But black holes hold such negative connotations, something about their unknown nature and how people feel about the concept of no escape.
Rodez is a lovely place a satisfactory distance from the sun. A bit out of the way geographically and under-serviced from a public transport point of view, but isn’t all of France?
In my time here I have been asked why Rodez, so I explain. I filled in my application form, putting the Toulouse region (Midi-Pyrenees by name) as my number one geographic choice. It was awarded to me, just a part of it that I had never heard of. The questioner smiles, shakes their head and apologizes for my misfortune. They tend to be under 30, the night tends to be Saturday and the atmosphere tends to be Rodez on the weekend, quiet.
Writing this I have just returned from a Sunday afternoon stroll in the countryside, satisfying both physically and sensorially. Lovely part of the world as they say. If there had been a Rodez rugby game this afternoon I would have been at the stadium. Saturdays I visit the well-stocked market and often sip a beer while watching televised rugby at my local pub. The week leaves me time for the gym, for runs, and visits to the local mediatheque for writing, reading and smiling at pretty girls. I’m content with my lot, and try to say as much to anyone who feels the need to rest a hand on my shoulder, look into my eyes and empathize.
But when others come to visit, or simply threaten to do as much, there is a peculiar embarrassment that emerges in my response, and in those expressed by the other assistants. We don’t want to stop people from coming, the more the merrier, but we are compelled to reveal the truth, to be honest about what the visitor should expect. As hosts we fear someone arriving, not knowing the nature of this ancient land, and becoming, gasp!, bored.
A Ruthenois (someone from Rodez) wall of shame emerges as we awkwardly explain.
“Ya...it’s...ummm...kind of slow here sometimes. This is pretty much it actually. Thursday’s a big night, if you’re ever here on a Thursday...” Distant wolf howl. Tumbling tumbleweed. Scene closes.
This is not a complaint of a slow life, one that has engendered a walking and book trading culture amongst the assistants, but an interested observation on human reaction to being a 21st century youth living a quiet, semi-rural life in a, shall we say, less-trafficked part of France.
Us young’ns are meant to be out caterwauling, drinking and carousing, causing mischief and avoiding pregnancy, something I am pleased to say I have avoided both absolutely and completely. Surely from time to time a hint of debauchery does insert itself into our lives, but nothing compared to the ‘assistant life’ that exists in larger urban centres. Bunch of drunks and sluts don’cha know?
Let’s just say the Ruthenois assistants have adopted a geared down way of being.
Other assistants here have the additional distractions of television and the internet and still crave a bit more action than a periodic perambulation provides, so I can’t claim a universal monkish community has sprung up. By this point, however, we are all at least familiar with life here, if not totally at peace with it.
It is this familiarity we feel the need to impart when the outlander arrives.
We’re in a really nice place, so there’s no need for pity, but you should prepare yourself. Take a deep breath and, well, keep on breathing until you find something else to do.
Allez le R.A.F.
I also was remiss in not mentioning the most recent sporting news to emerge from Rodez.
The local football club, le R.A.F., is involved in the French equivalent of the FA Cup, the competition where all the club teams in the country are eligible to compete and where one finds lower tier teams playing against the big money with famous players.
First off, R.A.F. stands for Rodez Aveyron Football, Aveyron being the department in which I am in. Our logo is some sort of red bull's head. Very aggressive.
We had managed to get ourselves into the round of 16 in the tournament, despite sitting 12th in the third division of French football, and for an opponent had drawn Paris St. Germain, currently second in the top tier and one of last year's finalist. For anyone who knows French society it is perhaps the most centralized in Europe when one considers the history and current role of Paris in the affairs of the rest of the country, so there were all sorts of themes beyond the sport tied up in the match as well.
To make a long story short the town was into it from the time the match up was announced, so last Wednesday, March 4th everyone was either at the game or in bars watching. Paris scored early, but Rodez was playing well, we equalized in the 60th minute or so on an excellent shot, survived a few scares at the end of regulation and had some solid play from our keeper. The first 15 minutes of extra time yielded nothing, but in the second block of extra time a ripping shot from 30 yards out took a deflection off a PSG defender and in it went. We added a third right at the end and the town went crazy.
Honking and flag waving and flares and beers until the wee hours of the morn. Jolly times all round.
Allez Rodez! Next up Rennes in the quarters.
The local football club, le R.A.F., is involved in the French equivalent of the FA Cup, the competition where all the club teams in the country are eligible to compete and where one finds lower tier teams playing against the big money with famous players.
First off, R.A.F. stands for Rodez Aveyron Football, Aveyron being the department in which I am in. Our logo is some sort of red bull's head. Very aggressive.
We had managed to get ourselves into the round of 16 in the tournament, despite sitting 12th in the third division of French football, and for an opponent had drawn Paris St. Germain, currently second in the top tier and one of last year's finalist. For anyone who knows French society it is perhaps the most centralized in Europe when one considers the history and current role of Paris in the affairs of the rest of the country, so there were all sorts of themes beyond the sport tied up in the match as well.
To make a long story short the town was into it from the time the match up was announced, so last Wednesday, March 4th everyone was either at the game or in bars watching. Paris scored early, but Rodez was playing well, we equalized in the 60th minute or so on an excellent shot, survived a few scares at the end of regulation and had some solid play from our keeper. The first 15 minutes of extra time yielded nothing, but in the second block of extra time a ripping shot from 30 yards out took a deflection off a PSG defender and in it went. We added a third right at the end and the town went crazy.
Honking and flag waving and flares and beers until the wee hours of the morn. Jolly times all round.
Allez Rodez! Next up Rennes in the quarters.
Jamie Oliver
Looking through my Morocco photos I forgot to mention that Jamie Oliver (yes that one, the famous chef) appeared in Marrakech while I was eating supper. And of all the foodstalls arrayed around the square he decided to stop at mine and start cooking.
Humourous times as I explained to a Swiss couple who he was.
Apparently he is shooting some show where he drops into various cities around the world to get a feel for their food culture. Interesting to watch both him and those following him, and some of the local waiters working who refused to listen to the producers pleas. "Hey Jamie Oliver! Hey Jamie!"
I had ordered before he arrived so he didn't actually cook any of my food but I heard he did up an order of meat skewers that were subsequently sent back because they were underdone. Silly Jamie. You cook the meet right through because it's been sitting around unrefridgerated all day. They have a chunk of fat on the skewer for flavour.
Humourous times as I explained to a Swiss couple who he was.
Apparently he is shooting some show where he drops into various cities around the world to get a feel for their food culture. Interesting to watch both him and those following him, and some of the local waiters working who refused to listen to the producers pleas. "Hey Jamie Oliver! Hey Jamie!"
I had ordered before he arrived so he didn't actually cook any of my food but I heard he did up an order of meat skewers that were subsequently sent back because they were underdone. Silly Jamie. You cook the meet right through because it's been sitting around unrefridgerated all day. They have a chunk of fat on the skewer for flavour.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
clarification
Apparently there was some confusion, so I will clarify. I bought NO carpets and witnessed no hash being created. I was teasing a Moroccan man.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
and so...
I think that’s all the specific, factual reporting you’re going to get from me on this trip. Anything else you’ll see will emerge in a more creative form, as part of my unceasing and ongoing efforts to give my writing purpose.
I suppose there is no qualitative difference between out of context creative entries to a blog versus more factual travelogue type attempts, but there is a difference somewhere in my mind.
So ‘creative’ it is! And besides, all these blog entries take time away from the novel.
I suppose there is no qualitative difference between out of context creative entries to a blog versus more factual travelogue type attempts, but there is a difference somewhere in my mind.
So ‘creative’ it is! And besides, all these blog entries take time away from the novel.
touts
Everything I read on Morocco warned me against the various dangers of fake tour guides and ne’er do wells who wanted to drag me to their or a friend’s store. According to reputation they are aggressive and swarming, not giving a person a moment’s peace.
Perhaps because the mental world one builds after reading such warnings is often more vicious than the real one I was not as horribly harassed as I might have thought. Apparently there have also been recent efforts to crack down on those ruining the tourist experience too forcefully. Still, I met many fine people wanting to sell me things. The sheer volume that I could write on this is already tiring me so I’ve been quite savage in trying to keep it short and even a little subdivided and organized.
Shopkeepers who said hello were stuck to their shops and could be walked by easily, despite offers of a free look around. “Why the rush?” Sometimes if the shop were off a main thoroughfare people with limited English would just point at a sign and say ‘Berber carpets’ making the ignoring process even simpler.
When arriving in a town people would offer cheap hotels, sometimes jumping to your side three steps before your chosen door, then acting like they had some role in your arrival.
Walking around you were likely to be asked what you were looking for, or simply be told X tourist site was the other way, that gate is locked, or whatever. I liked the fellow in Tanger who started telling me a gate was locked he was the gatekeeper and I should turn around. I told him I’d risk it and he started yelling that I didn’t believe him. By that point I was already at the unlockable gate, and he had never broken his pace in an attempt to convince me so I think he was a friendly insane person more than anything else.
The most irritating aspect of these people is when you are simply wandering and a road you are about to go up suddenly becomes no go because some guy has just pointed up it and said ‘synagogue’ or ‘garden’ or whatever. To go up it then would lead to some argument over payment that I would rather just avoid. I assume someone must tip these people, or why else would they bother.
While I feel the situation is not as horrible as some books make it out to be, it can wear on you after a while. You treat a person with a bit of abruptness because you’re being harassed for the 8th time in 10 minutes and they get all huffy and angry because you’re rude. The fear of being bothered also affects how long you’re willing to stop and look at something. And talking to the locals in an honest and open manner is simply impossible when you have to assume everyone who talks to you is about to move onto something of a commercial nature.
All you can do is try to have some fun, as I did near the end of my stay in Chefchouan where they took me to be a new arrival (I’d actually just been checking the next day’s bus schedule) and began telling me how I could witness hashish manufacturing at a real Berber house. I had to explain to the poor guy before he even got started in his broken English that I’d already been to no less than 6 Berber houses, seen truckloads of hashish made and had also spent over 600 euros on carpets. Too bad he hadn’t caught me earlier in the week.
Perhaps because the mental world one builds after reading such warnings is often more vicious than the real one I was not as horribly harassed as I might have thought. Apparently there have also been recent efforts to crack down on those ruining the tourist experience too forcefully. Still, I met many fine people wanting to sell me things. The sheer volume that I could write on this is already tiring me so I’ve been quite savage in trying to keep it short and even a little subdivided and organized.
Shopkeepers who said hello were stuck to their shops and could be walked by easily, despite offers of a free look around. “Why the rush?” Sometimes if the shop were off a main thoroughfare people with limited English would just point at a sign and say ‘Berber carpets’ making the ignoring process even simpler.
When arriving in a town people would offer cheap hotels, sometimes jumping to your side three steps before your chosen door, then acting like they had some role in your arrival.
Walking around you were likely to be asked what you were looking for, or simply be told X tourist site was the other way, that gate is locked, or whatever. I liked the fellow in Tanger who started telling me a gate was locked he was the gatekeeper and I should turn around. I told him I’d risk it and he started yelling that I didn’t believe him. By that point I was already at the unlockable gate, and he had never broken his pace in an attempt to convince me so I think he was a friendly insane person more than anything else.
The most irritating aspect of these people is when you are simply wandering and a road you are about to go up suddenly becomes no go because some guy has just pointed up it and said ‘synagogue’ or ‘garden’ or whatever. To go up it then would lead to some argument over payment that I would rather just avoid. I assume someone must tip these people, or why else would they bother.
While I feel the situation is not as horrible as some books make it out to be, it can wear on you after a while. You treat a person with a bit of abruptness because you’re being harassed for the 8th time in 10 minutes and they get all huffy and angry because you’re rude. The fear of being bothered also affects how long you’re willing to stop and look at something. And talking to the locals in an honest and open manner is simply impossible when you have to assume everyone who talks to you is about to move onto something of a commercial nature.
All you can do is try to have some fun, as I did near the end of my stay in Chefchouan where they took me to be a new arrival (I’d actually just been checking the next day’s bus schedule) and began telling me how I could witness hashish manufacturing at a real Berber house. I had to explain to the poor guy before he even got started in his broken English that I’d already been to no less than 6 Berber houses, seen truckloads of hashish made and had also spent over 600 euros on carpets. Too bad he hadn’t caught me earlier in the week.
physical geography corner
Although I was in Morocco, I was there in February and this provided me with realities I might not have expected.
The weather, for instance, was generally cool. The sun made things hot during the day, but even then if you paid attention a winter chill lay beneath, heightened whenever a cloud got in the way. The Atlantic coast had sea breezes and mist making things a bit colder still while the mountains were mountains, although even up there the sun did a bang up job of warming the day when one was out of the breeze.
Nights were cool to cold no matter where I was. Buildings constructed of stone and designed to minimize heat accentuated this and encouraged a dampness to emerge in most of the rooms I slept in. Not the most pleasant but not a great disaster. Blankets were available and I had my sleeping bag as well.
The landscape I found shockingly green and verdant. Admittedly I never went south past Marrakech or east over the mountains, both routes leading to the Sahara, which I understand has a reputation for being dry and beige. But the parts I did see were in spring bloom (I was told I arrived in Marrakech after a week of rains) and it was very nice. The green was that rich new growth that springs forth suddenly and uniformly from worked fields, rather than the patchy green that struggles from beneath a previous year’s dead browns when fallow land is awakening in the spring. On the train ride north from Marrakech there were also wonderful carpets of tiny purple and orange flowers.
I had always pictured a bit more of a brown deserty place, but Morocco is actually quite fertile. Something I should have guessed giving all those ‘maroc’ marked tangerines one sees on the shelves in Canadian grocery stores, the country’s reputation for wood products, and all the olive oil the Romans managed to milk from the place.
The weather, for instance, was generally cool. The sun made things hot during the day, but even then if you paid attention a winter chill lay beneath, heightened whenever a cloud got in the way. The Atlantic coast had sea breezes and mist making things a bit colder still while the mountains were mountains, although even up there the sun did a bang up job of warming the day when one was out of the breeze.
Nights were cool to cold no matter where I was. Buildings constructed of stone and designed to minimize heat accentuated this and encouraged a dampness to emerge in most of the rooms I slept in. Not the most pleasant but not a great disaster. Blankets were available and I had my sleeping bag as well.
The landscape I found shockingly green and verdant. Admittedly I never went south past Marrakech or east over the mountains, both routes leading to the Sahara, which I understand has a reputation for being dry and beige. But the parts I did see were in spring bloom (I was told I arrived in Marrakech after a week of rains) and it was very nice. The green was that rich new growth that springs forth suddenly and uniformly from worked fields, rather than the patchy green that struggles from beneath a previous year’s dead browns when fallow land is awakening in the spring. On the train ride north from Marrakech there were also wonderful carpets of tiny purple and orange flowers.
I had always pictured a bit more of a brown deserty place, but Morocco is actually quite fertile. Something I should have guessed giving all those ‘maroc’ marked tangerines one sees on the shelves in Canadian grocery stores, the country’s reputation for wood products, and all the olive oil the Romans managed to milk from the place.
synopsis (as I saw it)...hopefully you find the same points interesting
For those interested or considering a trip to the place, Morocco is pretty alright.
It is less conservative in an Islamic sense from the countries I visited last summer. Whether this is a question of proximity to the Islamic core, history of European tourists, a Berber mindset that remains powerfully distinct and individual, or something else I do not know.
What I do know is people (women...western women?) can wear bikinis, at the beaches, and not be ridiculously harassed (it wasn’t the right season but from what I saw and understand this is the case). More tamely, more local women choose to go bare-headed and a significant number (especially in new towns) are interested in following the fashion trends one finds in Europe or North America. I’m not saying there were Playboys in every newsstand and a certain conservatism remains, especially in rural areas, but the ladies working in the post office for instance were happily shaking men’s hands, a small but HUGE difference for me.
Day-to-day life is not as structured by religion. People attend mosque and pray, but not in the numbers of countries further east. Sunday tends to be the day off in Morocco and while Friday prayer is significant, it happens without quashing the rest of life. Generally things seem to tick over 7 days out of 7.
Perhaps because of the longer history of tourism I did not have the same kindness without reserve that I experienced in Jordan and Syria. While I was in Tanger there were two fellows, within 5 minutes of each other, who seemed to be in it to help, not sell, but aside from that my interactions with Moroccans had commercial threads worked throughout. (As a side note one of those two told me I looked strong in the head and I would do just fine in life.)
I did, however, tend to stick to a main tourist route, and my English friends who did some hiking in the countryside said they found at least one village, never before visited by tourists, to be extremely kind and hospitable without thinking of asking for money
The money side of things seems to be an inevitable reality when it comes to tourism and cultural transformation.
I should specify that I met many friendly people in Morocco (hostels, restaurants, shops etc.) and while some wore on me, the vast majority were kind and understanding, happy to sell but equally happy to smile and chat when a purchase was not forthcoming.
And in conclusion, a lot of people smoke hash there. I mean the locals are lighting up in their shops when business is slow, and in Chefchouan let’s just say there were a lot of glassy eyed Moroccans who aren’t planning on doing anything but being stoned and selling a little to tourists if the opportunity presents itself. If that’s your bag, go for it.
It is less conservative in an Islamic sense from the countries I visited last summer. Whether this is a question of proximity to the Islamic core, history of European tourists, a Berber mindset that remains powerfully distinct and individual, or something else I do not know.
What I do know is people (women...western women?) can wear bikinis, at the beaches, and not be ridiculously harassed (it wasn’t the right season but from what I saw and understand this is the case). More tamely, more local women choose to go bare-headed and a significant number (especially in new towns) are interested in following the fashion trends one finds in Europe or North America. I’m not saying there were Playboys in every newsstand and a certain conservatism remains, especially in rural areas, but the ladies working in the post office for instance were happily shaking men’s hands, a small but HUGE difference for me.
Day-to-day life is not as structured by religion. People attend mosque and pray, but not in the numbers of countries further east. Sunday tends to be the day off in Morocco and while Friday prayer is significant, it happens without quashing the rest of life. Generally things seem to tick over 7 days out of 7.
Perhaps because of the longer history of tourism I did not have the same kindness without reserve that I experienced in Jordan and Syria. While I was in Tanger there were two fellows, within 5 minutes of each other, who seemed to be in it to help, not sell, but aside from that my interactions with Moroccans had commercial threads worked throughout. (As a side note one of those two told me I looked strong in the head and I would do just fine in life.)
I did, however, tend to stick to a main tourist route, and my English friends who did some hiking in the countryside said they found at least one village, never before visited by tourists, to be extremely kind and hospitable without thinking of asking for money
The money side of things seems to be an inevitable reality when it comes to tourism and cultural transformation.
I should specify that I met many friendly people in Morocco (hostels, restaurants, shops etc.) and while some wore on me, the vast majority were kind and understanding, happy to sell but equally happy to smile and chat when a purchase was not forthcoming.
And in conclusion, a lot of people smoke hash there. I mean the locals are lighting up in their shops when business is slow, and in Chefchouan let’s just say there were a lot of glassy eyed Moroccans who aren’t planning on doing anything but being stoned and selling a little to tourists if the opportunity presents itself. If that’s your bag, go for it.
Morocco
Before I even consider starting in with various bits of creative genius, methinks it behooves the kind reader to get at least something resembling a summation of my most recent ramblings.
I began my journey in Marrakech where I had accepted a ride from the airport for the first time in my life. The ride was late so I didn’t have the joy of a funny man with a sign waiting for me. I’ll just have to become extremely wealthy so I can pay people to hold signs with my name on them in the future.
Marrakech was interesting and I found the souks much more meandering and confusing than anything I encountered in Syria or Turkey. In those situations I didn’t necessarily know where I was, but the lanes tended to be in straight lines and it was never too hard to sort oneself out. In Marrakech, I walked out the door on the first morning, hung one too many lefts and was bletheringly lost in moments. Fortunately, I discovered a proclivity for using the little slivers of sun I could spy high up on certain walls to orient myself (I’m not sure if one can actually discover a proclivity but I think so).
After finding myself, I was lost again but not yet aware of it, when I stumbled upon a museum. Not realizing my situation I decided the museum couldn’t be the same one as marked on my map because that would mean I was elsewhere than I thought I was and it was therefore most likely a scam I was too clever by ten to fall for. I subsequently strolled boldly off, eventually realizing I was south of the city, south of the royal palace, and wandering in the gardens, way off course. I eventually set myself right and because I had started so early and one can cover an amazing amount of ground when walking at an unceasing and steady rate I had plenty of time to visit the new town as well. French boulevards, etc etc.
From Marrakech I also went on an excessively expensive day trip to an ‘authentic Berber house’ where I had ‘an authentic Berber breakfast’ before climbing to an ‘authentic waterfall’ and then eating an ‘authentic Moroccan meal’ of tagine and couscous. Nice day, it just cost too much. I went wading under the waterfall. Everyone thought me crazy and all were impressed.
Next up was Essaouira, a former Portuguese port, currently a fishing and tourist town. Lovely place, under a gently cool sea mist the whole time I was there. A former hangout of Bob Marley, home to an annual world music festival and a place where caveat emptor is a good rule of thumb, especially when buying things from random men on the beach. I did some walking, saw the fortifications and whatnot, but the main draw was undeniably the evenings at the hostel. I was only there for a few days, but had some very nice hang outs around the fireplace, playing cards or chatting until the wee hours.
Next to Fez; 3 hours to Marrakech on a bus, then 8 by train. Fez is the former and present heart of Moroccan education. The place of Moroccan university students and foreigners giving the local Arabic a run for its money. It is also home to many a fine tout. Everyone wants to point you to the tannery (which I found by myself and really enjoyed) or whatever other random crap is on the list. Again I spent a lot of time walking, through the city and around the city, up onto local hills to get a better view of things. There are all sorts of signs and marked paths so it’s hard to get permanently lost. Again here I spent a lot of time in the old city, but did a run down to the new one as well, just to see the place.
I also did a one day trip out to Voloubulis (an old Roman city) via Meknes and Moullay Idriss. The latter being the location of a sainted former ruler’s tomb and closed to the infidels until this century. The kind of place where if a European did find their way in they were likely to get poisoned by the locals. Good times.
After Fez, where the accommodations were spartan and sufficient but not suited to befriending other travellers, it was off to Chefchouan, where the accommodations were chilled and more than suited to make friends. Cc, like the aforementioned Mly Idriss, is a place that was shut off from non Muslims until recently but is now a popular place for all sorts of weirdos. Here I sat about for a good number of days, wondering where it all went, not really in the mood to abuse my feet and generally enjoying life and chatting. Beautiful scenery etc.
Then down to Tanger for a night, which as the main port of entry for ferries from Europe is a bit silly for touristy responses from the locals. I was only there for one night, but my wanderings were solid; the American Legation Museum was excellent, having an extensive map collection AND dioramas of historic battles recreated using hundreds of toy soldiers. Amazing.
I also managed to finally find a hole in the wall selling crap old maps and books and then subsequently paid far too much for a bunch of old highway maps when the clever bastard running the place knew a sucker when he saw one. Very valuable he told me. I know for a fact torn and stained Michelin maps of Morocco from the 1970s are not valuable at all. But by valuable I think he meant you have a strange connection to these things that I intend to milk for all it’s worth. It wasn’t too bad, I just bought in excess, and when I compare it to the cost of a heavy night’s drinking at a bar I think I did myself proud.
A brief ferry ride to Spain and bus to Gibraltar and KAPOW! The end of my trip after a day wandering about and enjoying the intricacies and oddities of British overseas possessions. Flew to London, spent the night in Gatwick, flew to Toulouse and trained to Rodez. Sleep at last.
Wooosh.
Heh, now maybe I’ll give you something with a bit more depth or I’ll save it for the book.
I began my journey in Marrakech where I had accepted a ride from the airport for the first time in my life. The ride was late so I didn’t have the joy of a funny man with a sign waiting for me. I’ll just have to become extremely wealthy so I can pay people to hold signs with my name on them in the future.
Marrakech was interesting and I found the souks much more meandering and confusing than anything I encountered in Syria or Turkey. In those situations I didn’t necessarily know where I was, but the lanes tended to be in straight lines and it was never too hard to sort oneself out. In Marrakech, I walked out the door on the first morning, hung one too many lefts and was bletheringly lost in moments. Fortunately, I discovered a proclivity for using the little slivers of sun I could spy high up on certain walls to orient myself (I’m not sure if one can actually discover a proclivity but I think so).
After finding myself, I was lost again but not yet aware of it, when I stumbled upon a museum. Not realizing my situation I decided the museum couldn’t be the same one as marked on my map because that would mean I was elsewhere than I thought I was and it was therefore most likely a scam I was too clever by ten to fall for. I subsequently strolled boldly off, eventually realizing I was south of the city, south of the royal palace, and wandering in the gardens, way off course. I eventually set myself right and because I had started so early and one can cover an amazing amount of ground when walking at an unceasing and steady rate I had plenty of time to visit the new town as well. French boulevards, etc etc.
From Marrakech I also went on an excessively expensive day trip to an ‘authentic Berber house’ where I had ‘an authentic Berber breakfast’ before climbing to an ‘authentic waterfall’ and then eating an ‘authentic Moroccan meal’ of tagine and couscous. Nice day, it just cost too much. I went wading under the waterfall. Everyone thought me crazy and all were impressed.
Next up was Essaouira, a former Portuguese port, currently a fishing and tourist town. Lovely place, under a gently cool sea mist the whole time I was there. A former hangout of Bob Marley, home to an annual world music festival and a place where caveat emptor is a good rule of thumb, especially when buying things from random men on the beach. I did some walking, saw the fortifications and whatnot, but the main draw was undeniably the evenings at the hostel. I was only there for a few days, but had some very nice hang outs around the fireplace, playing cards or chatting until the wee hours.
Next to Fez; 3 hours to Marrakech on a bus, then 8 by train. Fez is the former and present heart of Moroccan education. The place of Moroccan university students and foreigners giving the local Arabic a run for its money. It is also home to many a fine tout. Everyone wants to point you to the tannery (which I found by myself and really enjoyed) or whatever other random crap is on the list. Again I spent a lot of time walking, through the city and around the city, up onto local hills to get a better view of things. There are all sorts of signs and marked paths so it’s hard to get permanently lost. Again here I spent a lot of time in the old city, but did a run down to the new one as well, just to see the place.
I also did a one day trip out to Voloubulis (an old Roman city) via Meknes and Moullay Idriss. The latter being the location of a sainted former ruler’s tomb and closed to the infidels until this century. The kind of place where if a European did find their way in they were likely to get poisoned by the locals. Good times.
After Fez, where the accommodations were spartan and sufficient but not suited to befriending other travellers, it was off to Chefchouan, where the accommodations were chilled and more than suited to make friends. Cc, like the aforementioned Mly Idriss, is a place that was shut off from non Muslims until recently but is now a popular place for all sorts of weirdos. Here I sat about for a good number of days, wondering where it all went, not really in the mood to abuse my feet and generally enjoying life and chatting. Beautiful scenery etc.
Then down to Tanger for a night, which as the main port of entry for ferries from Europe is a bit silly for touristy responses from the locals. I was only there for one night, but my wanderings were solid; the American Legation Museum was excellent, having an extensive map collection AND dioramas of historic battles recreated using hundreds of toy soldiers. Amazing.
I also managed to finally find a hole in the wall selling crap old maps and books and then subsequently paid far too much for a bunch of old highway maps when the clever bastard running the place knew a sucker when he saw one. Very valuable he told me. I know for a fact torn and stained Michelin maps of Morocco from the 1970s are not valuable at all. But by valuable I think he meant you have a strange connection to these things that I intend to milk for all it’s worth. It wasn’t too bad, I just bought in excess, and when I compare it to the cost of a heavy night’s drinking at a bar I think I did myself proud.
A brief ferry ride to Spain and bus to Gibraltar and KAPOW! The end of my trip after a day wandering about and enjoying the intricacies and oddities of British overseas possessions. Flew to London, spent the night in Gatwick, flew to Toulouse and trained to Rodez. Sleep at last.
Wooosh.
Heh, now maybe I’ll give you something with a bit more depth or I’ll save it for the book.
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