La belle femme

Moroccan women are absolutely gorgeous. That is why there is all kinds of interest in my work group about "bringing back a souvenier". I'm learning more than I ever wanted to know about what it takes to marry a Moroccan woman here, bring her home to marry or get hitched elsewhere. Even down to the visa form numbers and the requirements and waiting times for each. Don't worry, Mike's mother. You're safe, so far.

I found out when I was scanning the supermarche shelves for facial cleanser that Moroccan women are just like American women. We want whatever we don't have in terms of natural beauty. It's a given that we'll either be perming our hair if it's straight or straightening it if it's curly at some time in our lives. So the only winners are the providers of those services, forever and ever, amen.

At home, we worship tanned bodies and faces. I have the skin cancers to prove it. Being a ghostly white redheaded girl who would kill for the skin most Moroccans have been blessed with, imagine my surprise at the plethora of skin care products available for "fairness"! Yes, they bleach. A lot. It must be very big business.

My massage therapist here last week must think I'm a bleaching experiment gone awry. "Look, she even bleaches her hands and feet and belly and butt..." Michael Jackson had nothing on me, baby. I'm a Freak in Afrique!

the Green Bucket

There are bidets in every hotel room that has a toilet here. I'm going to broach a subject that has appalled and fascinated all of us Americans in my work group here - THE GREEN BUCKET.

The bidet is a very nice thing to have. The problem is - once you're used to having one, what do you do, specifically how do you wipe in a sanitary way- when you're away from home?
Well, at the co-ed bathrooms near us at the refinery, what you do is fill a little green bucket part of the way full of hot water from the HOT WATER SPIGOT ON THE MACHINE WHERE FOLKS GET THEIR WATER FOR DRINKS. Then you carry your littler green bucket into the bathroom and add just the right amount of cold water from the sink faucet to make it the perfect temperature for your little heiny.  You then proceed to eliminate whatever you need to expel and you use the water in the green bucket like a bidet. How, you might ask? By making a huge mess on the walls, toilet seat, roll of toilet paper, and especially the floor and then you trail it out on your shoes. As does everyone unfortunate enough to come after you. I ask you, is this good citizen behavior? Some of us are more sensitive than others and won't touch the hot water drinking spigot, either. Then some people don't give a thought.
I think you know which camp I'm in. 

the Hotel Hager

My new hotel is charming and very European, right down to the teeny, tiny elevator that will barely hold you and 1 American bag. It called the Hager, it's on fish restaurant row, near the port of Mohammedia  on a main street that it is named after.


There is a panoramique terrace restaurant on ther 4th floor that feels like you're in a wooden boat. It overlooks the Atlantic. The people are delightful and very warm.


The food is outstanding, too.

 

Techno and Hookers and Johns, oh my!

I can tell you now. I couldn't say this as long as I was living there. The bouncers who were resident day and night (what was my first clue?) would have been happy to eject me before I had another place to go.

The hotel I first stayed in upon arrival in Maroc was the kind of place you spend only 1 night in. It might even be a memorable night. But you don't want to live there, trust me.

The Sabah has a disco. The music begins to get good at midnight and closes down at around 3:45. That's 1:15 before my wake-up alarm goes off. The music of choice is Arab techno with a great dance beat. Heavy percussion. The construction here is solid concrete with no wallboard or other insulating factor to help absorb sound. Are you feelin' me? No matter where in the 5-story hotel you are (and I tried quite a variety of rooms), you can feel the music in your bones and in your fillings.

I, who never watch TV,  learned to keep the TV on for background noise and I found that 1 of the few English-speaking channels was non-stop chick flicks. Amazing coincidence or Insallah? You tell me.

I also had a pillow over my head and an earplug. Over the 2 weeks I was there, I slowly wore down to a nub. I had to go to Gibraltar to get 1 good night's sleep.

However, when the music finally died, no amount of background noise could cover the sound of the spike heels on the tiled corridor floors. And the conversations and laughter during which time it was decided who was with whom in whose room. Then there were the straggler spike heels that came along a short time later, knocking on doors to see who was up for more company.

Now, I'm no prude, but in this world, this style of sexual encounters appears to a type of commerce that is accepted as healthy and normal. Even if  the women don't accept payment per se, there appears to usually be a very definite expectation of gaining something. For instance in the disco, if you're a man and you sit at a big table, you must buy a bottle of booze for all of the girls and their many friends to drink from. To the tune of $160 or so per bottle. But, hey- mixers are free!

The UGLY

Have you ever had a dream you're in the middle of a prison break? Have you felt the press of a lot of angry human flesh all around you and you can't get out of it's way? Have you been right at the point of needing a snorkel to breathe because of the boxed-in closeness, rife with righteous indignation and murderous intent? Nah, me neither.

So, on the return trip of my one-woman-traveling-fool-does-8-waking-hours-on-the-ground adventure, I have to travel back via Algeciras, Spain again. I realize how much time it's going to take me this time around and I set out by bus for that port from Gibraltar at around noon. It goes without a hitch boarding the jet boat and I eat lunch and settle in for a little nap before we even depart. Approximate departure of 2PM turns into 2:45, but no problem - I'll still be driving most of the way back in daylight once I get back to the rental car in Maroc because this is the FAST boat.

I noticed a small throng of people at the bow end holding their paperwork for passport control when I boarded, and when we left the dock an hour later, it looked like it hadn't gotten any smaller. I asked a young Arab gentleman what the deal was, to which he replied "They are illiterate and must need help filling out their paperwork."

I'm thinking "Whaat?"

A little while later the guy returns apologizing that he was wrong, that throng is where everyone on the boat must queue up to have their passport stamped before exiting the boat. So I join the throng. Thank God, there was a "line for ladies" off to the side of the velvet rope that only had a dozen or so women in it ahead of me. On the other side, the natives were becoming very restless and the ropes were starting to feel the pressure. Not to mention the men.

Did I mention that Arabs are not shy about the decibel level they project? Think "Marrakesh Casbah vendors" competing for the attention of the one lonely passport control cop who is having problems with his computer and so is VERY SLOWLY processing the group one at a time.

Then the tour bus lady (it was a car ferry) pushed the passports of all of her people in front of the cop, saying that they had priority. Shouts from the men became more a lot more agitated. Insult to injury, some insipid white woman was taking their picture and stealing their souls.

Then they announced over the loudspeaker that no-one was going to be able to get off of the boat until all of the passports had been processed.

Mayhem ensued. The ladies line was quickly infiltrated by persons of the other persuasion. The tour bus lady was long gone or her life would've been in danger. I had reached the first tier of people bearing down on the passport cop and had learned to lean in and shove my passport into his field of vision while he was busily processing some other poor slob. I could tell by the way he jerked his eyes up to mine that it was the only American passport he's seen that day. Not that he processed me any faster.

Of course, everything unfolded exactly as it should have and I only spent 4 hours driving home instead of 5. After the fog cleared (literally) I only had the last 1 hour or or so to drive in darkness. Insallah.



Outside of Tangiers in Maroc.
Not bad for 120 km/hr out of the driver's window, eh?



Another Moroccan sunset. One that will always remind me of a prison break!

Gibraltar- THE BAD a.k.a. "Lessons Learned"

Many people wouldn't even make such a long journey in a foreign country where they don't speak the language. Nobody who knew "the way things are" would even think of trying. I suppose the truth is that I'm afraid to stay still for fear of atrophy. So I went. There are no "bad things" when you 're able to learn. Here are the lessons.

Days 9&10 - Rocking Gibraltar - THE GOOD

I think my first name should have been Persistent, actually anything except Mary.

I was determined to get to the Rock of Gibraltar this past weekend and I did it! After all of the wondrous experiences that happen traveling by yourself in Morocco without speaking the language unfolded, I spent a total of 16 hours on the ground there, 8 of which I slept. But still, was it worth it?

Abso-frigging -lutely!

Insallah is a commonly used term here. It means "God Willing" in Arabic. In other Arab-speaking countries it means one thing. Here in Morocco, it means "there is no way this is going to happen unless God himself intervenes on your Christian behalf."

A.K.A. "NFW", "not a happening thang" and "I wouldn't count on it if I were you".

I drove our company rental car from Mohammedia to Tangiers (pronounced "Tawn-Gee" by the Moroccan guy who helped me when I was hopelessly lost in Rabat, Morocco's capital. He didn't know where this place was when I asked for how to get onto the road to "Tan-Jeers" and HE spoke English!)

This part of the odyssey took me 5 hrs. Google map said 3 hrs, 11 min. Google map has obviously not been here. Google map also refers to highway numbers. Ha! Numbers are not used on the roadway signs. Insallah.

 So, the thing to do in the absence of any ferry timetables to get across the Straits of Gibraltar from the continent of Africa to the continent of Europe is to just show up and hope for the best. Insallah. This is exactly what I did on the outbound trip. I set my intention for an easy journey, breathed deeply through Rabat city center (remember those pretty lane markings on the road? In Rabat, even the center lines are purely decorative on a Saturday at noon) and I got very lucky. I arrived in time to get a one-way ticket on the 4:30PM (approx.) slow boat out of Tangier Med to the Port of Algesiras.

Not to the Port of Gibraltar, which was my destination. But close. Only 2 bus rides away.

Looking back at it, it was unfolding perfectly.

 Algesiras is in southern Spain in the area called Andalucia. Wouldn't Nan be proud?

And if I has been on the fast boat, I would not have been allowed to take those great, clear photos of the Rock as we sailed past. They were taken from outside on the boat's deck. There were so few people on board the slow boat that I was the only one in the restaurant and I could leave my "stuff" there unattended and take those photos. On the jet boat, you had to take your photos thru the dirty, salt-sprayed windows. And if you walk away from your stuff on the jet boat, well - you'll see in the chapter of this saga called "the ugly".

But you'll just have to wait for it. I'm done for the night.

Tues, Jan 18th. Happy belated birthday, Bee!

Day 1- Hola! ¿Rioja for breakfast, anyone?

 OK, so right off the bat I can see that it's gonna be tough to lose twenty pounds on this trip.
First stop on foreign soil is in Madrid, Espana. The airport itself is a work of art- see solarized ceiling- but the business class lounge for Iberia Airlines is a throwback to the good old days of glamorous and fattening air travel. So at 2AM body time and 8AM local time, I feel great after a shower and 2 cappucinos.





Solarized ceiling- Madrid Airport

brought to you by my Droid-

Who needs Photoshop?




Karl on 2 hours of sleep (and no alcohol)

 

Day 4- Travels to Casablanca Casbah

The view from Salle 310-  my new, quieter room facing the sunset over the Atlantic.
I'm right at home (except it's not the Gulf of Mexico!)

Day 2- Early Daze




My first restaurant experience, Comptoir du Parc. Moroccans love PINK decor.

 

Here we go, my friends-

It’s been a whirlwind trip and a nice place to be so far. On Wednesday 1/5/2011, my boss Karl and I came from Tampa thru JFK’s Jet Blue terminal, Madrid airport on Thursday (fabulous!) to Casablanca and to my final destination, Mohammedia. It’s an Arabic country that is very French-influenced and Francaise is the official language, but younger Moroccan people have had English in high scholl and college. I’m told that their king is insistent on everyone learning English, to the extent that the Samir refinery I’m working in sends it’s workers without that skill to English classes in Casablanca, which is an hour away. So far the people have been very sweet and accomodating. Warm handshakes and hugs abound. However, it’s very “let’s make a deal” here which has a downside; the guy who rents cars to our team is quoted as saying “I’m Arabic , so it’s very difficult to say no to you. That is why I tell you I’ll do what you require in an hour and it takes me a few days. I’m not allowed to tell you I can’t do it.” The student interns who work next to our team, separated by a glass wall, were all a-titter at my arrival. My nickname is Cat. I wonder if they mean Cougar! J

My view out of Room 203

Morocco is very green, surprisingly. There are wildflowers blooming everywhere along the roads. The French influence is evident in the sidewalk cafes, beautiful parks and some of the upper crust houses have gorgeous private gardens and lush plantings. There is much poverty, as well as a middle class. (Remember middle class? ) I saw a man hand-clipping the grass at the bank today. Apparently, that’s pretty normal. Their greatest asset is their labor force and they know it. Workers are very well taken care of by the refinery.  They are transported to and from the refinery in Mohammedia in hordes of tour busses and fed subsidized healthy food, provided a giant sports complex with a pool where their kids can come and spend the day during school breaks. They are surrounded by parks inside the refinery as well as Samir-sponsored parks in the town. And there is a beautiful mosque on site at Samir, where Friday is the big prayer day for Muslims and workers get extra time off mid-day for that.

Mohammedia is a metropolis, but also a sea-side town that draws a gazillion people in the summer in spite of the fact that the refinery dominates the view from here. Tomorrow (actually later today) I get to explore beyond my little hood. I’m in a hotel called the Sabah, no frills, but pleasant. There is a disco here, as well as a restaurant and bar. And last night was a Friday Night Fever experience for me. It’s 2:53AM and the walls are still pulsating from the disco. I’m hoping that since it is Saturday, there may actually be hot water in the morning. Yeehaw! The Ritz Carlton, it ain’t. When the windows are open (no screens anywhere) the aromas of spicy meats cooking wafts up to my 3^rd story room. I like it, it reminds me of the Renaissance Festival.