Marrakech, Morocco: Day 2

My rose

Fruit at the market

We wake up at 9 and are greeted with a breakfast prepared by Mariam, my uncle's cook and maid. My historical conscience makes me feel uneasy around these sorts of people, and although Mariam is very nice and not much older than me, I'm a little bit awkward the whole week when talking with her. The only things I ever really found out about her are that she lives in the little village near my uncle and that she loves "Vache Qui Rit," a toothpaste-tasting cheese that's super popular in Morocco. In any case, she spoils us with Moroccan crepes for breakfast and a different but equally delicious lunch everyday.

In the morning, we go to buy provisions for the week at the market. All the vendors shake my hand, chat with Dominique, and ask about my grandmother. I leave each booth with a little present: a melon, a carton of raspberries, a banana, a sardine, a rose. This makes me very happy, and I start to get an idea for the warmth and generosity of the Moroccan people.

 <--- my room before it got messy

where we ate lunch every day ---------->

After lunch, my uncle takes a nap until 3:30 and I sample the pool and bring my book. It's so hot that you don't need a towel to dry off. We then go to the old walled city, la Medina (photos to come in later days), to visit a riad. A riad is like a mini traditional Moroccan hotel. There's a central patio, a terrass, and five or six rooms on the first and second floor. My uncle's friend Thierry shows us around and we have a coffee with him. I'll be seeing more of him later on in my trip.

COFFEE

Marrakech, Morocco: Day 1

Early in the morning we drive from L'Artaudie to the airport in Lyon, just about 2 hours away. I'm not used to the friendly coziness of a small airport, but it is refreshing. After saying goodbye to my mother at the train station, my uncle Dominique and I head through the itty-bitty security checkpoint and on towards the gate. Waiting for the plane, I read over with great amusement an idiotic advertisement for a museum exhibit. It's in pseudo-English: "There is another way of looking at things language allows us to create new thoughts to interact with others to change in every moment of our lives everywhere in the real world the human longing for freedom ..." yadeeyadee. I shake my head at the lack of punctuation.

The flight itself is uneventful and full of Radiohead.

When we touch down in Marrakech, I brace myself for the heat that I know is waiting outside the door. Sure enough, the runway is an oven, especially compared to the 8 degrees C that we had left from. But it isn't as bad as I had anticipated. The heat is very dry, so it doesn't stick to you and the air doesn't feel heavy. 

The car ride home is certainly an adventure. I had not anticipated that Marrakech would be such a city and therefore possess a correspondingly messy traffic situation. As the car driven by one of the employees from my uncle's house careens through the streets and the roundabouts, at all moments I feel that an accident was imminent. There is such a quantity of taxis, cars, scooters, and little motorcycles rushing about in a virtually lawless brawl that I'm not sure how anyone manages to be brave enough to drive. Scooters are the worst. A man with huge packages of goods piled on the back of his vehicle zig zags through traffic with as much bravado as the family of three that has all squished on to one little motorcycle for a trip to the grocery store. 

I notice how many veiled women there are. Maybe 75% of women I encounter are veiled, and of those 10% are completely veiled in black with just a small slit to be able to see. Still others wear American style clothing complete with high heels and glamorous sunglasses. But despite the heat, only the dorkily sun-burned tourists are wearing anything without sleeves or shorter than knee length. 

We finally make it (in one piece) to my uncle's neighborhood in the palm grove, La Palmeraie, and I breath a sigh of relief. It's an area with palm trees as far as the eyes can see, dotted with huge villas, resorts, and golf courses. Amidst the luxury, we pass a poor village with a football field right next to a spigot where children meet and haul water back to their hut-like houses. We would pass by this village on the way to my uncle's house every day, and it's a place I would come to think a lot about during my trip. 

My uncle's neighborhood

Morocco

I'm back from a ten day trip in Morocco, which means that I now have functioning internet again. This is both a great thing--I can write to all my hundreds of loyal blog followers about my trip--and a horrible thing--I sensed that I was making great progress fighting my facebook addiction, but I will now most certainly fall into a relapse.

As I sort through my photos and thoughts, I'm thinking that what would make most sense is to cover the trip day by day, an entry for each day with my corresponding best photos and commentary. If I do this right, I'm hoping the ten days will read succinctly and cohesively, like a story. :)

Here's a first picture. The landing in Marrakech, Morocco, with ice crystals on the outside of the window making things look grainy. The land is very dry right now because it's been hot and hasn't rained in months. At this point, I had no clue what I was getting myself into....
[to be dramatically continued]

Window

Like every night, I was at my window to catch sunset pictures. I decided to play with depth of field a  little bit as I waited for the sun to lower itself onto the horizon. This turned out to be my favorite picture of the batch (despite the horrendous over-exposure of the sky, lulz). Funny how the things I like the most usually end up being the weird half-accidents. Tomorrow: Morocco!

Mushroom Hunting

Mushroom hunting is one of my favorite activities. It's certainly more like hunting to me than gathering. You have to be extremely patient. You have to know when to move and when to stand completely still. A knife is your primary tool. Your eye needs to be sharp. The obvious difference between fungus hunting and animal hunting is that fungus don't move. But in any case, mushroom hunting is strangely thrilling in its quiet way. Unlike on some American-style hike, you go where your gut takes you. Off the trail, up the mountain, down the mountain, through the creek. The feeling of victory when you uncover a particularly vibrant colony is beautiful.

Today, I went with my mother who's the mushroom hunting expert. I prefer to go alone to heighten the wilderness-explorer-ness of it all, but oh well. I was too hopeful and my expectations were too high; every beige leaf I hallucinated into a mushroom, and we weren't very successful at all. 

A few key tips I've gleaned from my limited yet enthusiastic experience:

Look for damp areas, under tree trunks and around dead leaves. 

The locals know what's up. Learn their spots, and beat them to it.

Fold your knife before you begin to walk again so that when you trip you don't fall and stab yourself. 

Only pick mushrooms that you know. Otherwise you might eat poison and die.

Girolles. This is a picture of my most impressive session, in 2009.

On Ugliness

My grandmother is full of wisdom. Having a conversation with her is so easy. I hardly have to talk at all--just the occasional
       Really?!
                    Why?
                             How come?!
                                                  and Hmmmmm.....

and she does the rest. Facts, history, memories, adages. A jumble of wisdom. Then she says some things that I can't help but laugh about. This is today's nugget of gold.

(translated)

"I don't like ugly people. Unless you're really ugly and intelligent enough that others don't notice. I've only had two ugly friends, and they were so great and had enough of everything else that you just didn't notice. But ugliness does not support mediocrity."

Arrival

Bernard and Mary-Claude, close family friends, were kind enough to pick me up from Geneva airport. Every time I blinked on the four hour drive, I basically fell asleep.

Bernard drives like he's driving a race car down an abandoned road in the night time. Pleasantly surprised that we only got into two small accidents. It's good to be alive.

Now I'm at L'Artaudie, and it's wonderful to be home. I love it here so much. Too tired to elaborate much more than that. :)