Under African Skies

Thursday marked the beginning of the five day holiday celebrating the autonomous community of Andalucía; how did I celebrate? By leaving Andalucía of course. Leaving the country and continent in fact, and traveling all the way to Africa. It sounds much grander than it really is. We (my two American friends Joanna and Melissa and my two Spanish friends Julio and Juan) drove 6 hours to Malaga where we traded the car for a more water bound form of transportation to cross the Straight of Gibraltar to Morocco In reality, we crossed to Spain. There are still two Spanish cities in Morocco, Ceuta and Melia; therefore, setting foot onto the African continent was a bit of a let down. Seeing as we were still officially in Spain, we had to take a taxi (paying in euros) to the border where we were deposited in to a sort of mayhem. The distinction between “first” and “third” or “developed” and “developing” nations couldn’t have been more blunt. We wandered a bit dazed through the out stretched hands of women carrying literally everything they owned on their backs and and the swarm of men competing to establish themselves as our guides and or taxi drivers.
Naturally, all of us spoke Spanish; in addition, Joanna has studied classical Arabic, I’ve got a bit of French under my belt and then there’s English of course. Some how between the four languages we negotiated a taxi to the near by city of Tetouan. You’d think that with multiple languages to aid in the communication, one would understand better; however, we still couldn’t help feeling that we were being cheated out of our Durham (the currency of Morocco) but then you stop and think, “Wait, I’m trying to haggle over 2 euros” and it puts things into perspective.
As we arrived to our hotel in the ancient Mercedes cab, school was just letting out and the streets were swarming with children. What immediately struck me and continued to impress throughout the trip was the sundry of colors: women in bright vails and skirts, men in robes with pointed hoods, the green of the Moroccan flag reflecting the lush landscape, and shoes of every imaginable tone and shade. 17 euros a night got us a triple room in a 3 star hotel with private bath and breakfast included, not to mention an incredibly helpful staff who walked our weary bodies directly to a sandwich shop for dinner.
Friday morning, after our hefty breakfast of Moroccan mint tea, fresh orange juice, an assortment of pastries and yogurt, we set out to explore the city and its market district know as the “medina” which was originally a fort built to keep out the Spanish. The strategy back then was to build like a labyrinth to confuse invaders (or those with an extremely poor sense of direction) but I was so awed by the sensory experience of the colors, sents, and sounds that I didn’t mind getting lost. Joanna and Melissa haggled over scarves, while the boys learned that not everyone who approaches you really wants to be your friend, and I gorged my self on olives and photo opportunities. Upon finally stumbling out of the medina we found our selves at the royal palace just as prayer was being called. I felt obtrusive witnessing such a spiritual act yet completely awed at the same time. There were hundreds of men filling the plaza, each with their own prayer rug with shoes neatly placed beside. The sound of the mass simultaneously rising and bowing was like a collective inhale and exhale, and when they began chanted together, even us western bystanders could feel the presence of Ala. Suddenly it was over; they bid fair well to each other, picked up their rugs, put on their shoes and dissolved back into the city.
My house mate had told me of a mountain town that was a must see called Chefchaouen, so on Saturday we crammed into another decrepit taxi and headed south. Chefchauen was like a story book village and as a result, much more touristy. The town colors are blue and white meaning they can be found in the buildings, tiles, and hand woven rugs and blankets that line the streets. We opted for less grand lodging at only 5 euros a night and enjoyed sampling couscous, Moroccan soup and mint tea at the various hole in the wall restaurants.
Once again, we found ourselves dazzled by the colors and sents of the market place: beads, scarves, leather, iron, animal skins, fabrics, mint, curry, cinnamon, incense, dirt, shit, donkey… Melissa and I succumbed to the offer of henna painting and wandered into a woman’s house where her daughter sat us down and, with a syringe, coaxed the thick paste into intricate designs on our hands. We walked to the waterfall where women were washing their clothes and past herds of sheep and goats as we made our way up the hill to a dilapidated tower. From the top one could see the village, mountains and country side. I was surprised by how lush the vegetation was; coming from Almería Spain where it is so dry I expected Africa to be a desert (I guess I’ve got to travel further south to find that). Since Morocco is a Muslim country, and therefore dry, much to Juan’s dismay, there was not a beer to be found anywhere and we had to celebrate the setting sun with yet another glass of sweet mint tea. So sweet in fact that honey bees decided to invite themselves to our party, rather impertinent but they felt they had a claim to get drunk on sugar as much as us.
It would have been easy to have gotten lost in the story book land of tea, blue and white, but the 5 am prayer call also signaled the embankment of our return trip home. It was like seeing a film in reverse: the taxi back, crossing the boarder, the ferry, the car ride and then finally home again, back to my clean bed, hot shower, bills to pay and a new day of spoiled children to teach. At least now I can say I’ve been to Africa.