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I was fully intending to move north and hole up for a few weeks in southern France but, being on the Costa del Sol in Spain, decided that Morocco was too close by not to visit for a few days. It was an easy decision made easier by a lack of any solid plans. I’ve happily found that you can’t break plans you don’t make.
About a week ago, a ferry from the port city of Tarifa took me to Africa in thirty-five minutes. I first stepped foot on this continent on the wide landing where once again I now stand, accompanied by a Swede named Klas (“like Santa”).
Klas and I arrived on the same ferry, had similar time frames, and were both taking the night train to Marrakech. We wound up traveling together over the last six days. With blonde hair and blue eyes, he is an elementary Swedish stereotype. He also has slightly rounded shoulders and a tendency to occasionally sit rigid, meditating, and to always win when we play chess. Strangely, his hair constantly looks like he’s just come out of the shower.
If it weren’t for something of a dental emergency, I wouldn’t be on this ferry rushing back to Spain. I’d either be relaxing in a cafe here in Tanger, or poking my nose around the city of Oujda near the Algerian border.
But instead, a section of my gums is swollen, and very recently, every time I eat or drink — neither being easy tasks during Ramadan — intolerable pain explodes through my lower left teeth like ribbed needles snaking through their roots. After nearly a year of generally good health, I guess I’m about due for something.
Klas and I had dinner in Rabat two nights ago, cramming ourselves inside a restaurant at dusk with the rest of the capital city’s starving populace. From our table, I spotted a dentist’s office behind battered steel doors framed in crumbling plaster, plywood, cracked tile, and a metal shutter. I promptly decided it was not an establishment I wanted to patronize, and now figure I’ll be better off in Spain.
Even if I didn’t have to leave, I’m not sure I would want to stay. As my Moroccan friend in Turkey told me, “Oh my God, Marrakech in Ramadan in August … you couldnt’ve picked a worse time to visit.” It is still saturated with tourists, its souks packed with cheap lanterns and leather, its alleys crawling with hustlers demanding tips for unsolicited directions or leading you to the wrong address.
Now sitting on the ferry with my travel chess board between me and Klas, I should be thinking about my next move but I’m thinking about the problem with my brief sojourn to Morocco. The real problem wasn’t the heat; that made the courtyard pool in the Marrakech hostel that much more heavenly. It wasn’t the teeming tourists; they’re anywhere you go anyway. It wasn’t Ramadan; that just made the night markets and open-air dusk concerts so much more lively.
The real problem was my unrealistic expectation that I could appreciate a new place in just a few days and a couple cities. Not making plans often works out well, but not this time. As the coastline recedes, I know two things: I’ll come back to Morocco when I’m healthy and have enough time to spend it liberally, and Klas is about to put me in checkmate again.
Ethan Martin is traveling throughout Asia and Europe, and keeping a blog, http://v-w-x.blogspot.com. The 2001 Exeter High School graduate’s column on his travels appears monthly in the News-Letter.
