Last week, we heard about Vince’s Moroccan adventures in Part 1: Intimidation, Mint Tea, and Hammams. It was nothing if not a heavy read, and this week’s tale’s both heavy and light in equal measure, as a good adventure often is. Vince is a mid-20s Aussie backpacker who recently spent 6 months in Morocco working as a surf instructor and got more than he bargained for, which he’ll continue to tell us all about in Part 2.  -RationalMatthew

As my three month Moroccan visa neared expiration, I organised a trip to a small Spanish territory at the top of the African mainland known as Ceuta. My boss at the surf camp I worked at, Youness, decided he would make the 15 hour drive with me, escape his wife, and take the opportunity to look for a nice European car for the surf school which I could drive back for him.

An Unexpected Wedding

We drove the first half before stopping in the Moroccan capital Rabat. Now besides seeing the King of Morocco drive past us in a convertible Mercedes, Rabat was a unique experience for me for another reason: my first Moroccan wedding! Youness had a friend living in Rabat who was lending us his holiday unit in Tetouan, near the border to the autonomous Ceuta. Upon meeting this friend to pick up the keys, a neighbour had overheard our plan to drive the 15 hours straight and insisted we attend their daughter’s wedding which had just begun. Needless to say we immediately agreed.

Being the only foreigner there I had at least 12 other party goers around me at all times desperately trying to shake my hand, practice their English and hear me string together some simple and probably offensive Arabic phrases. Moroccan weddings are a very loud celebration, full of vibrant colours and an energy which allows revellers to continue partying until the early hours of the sunrise. Fortunately for me, after some conservative dancing so as to not be culturally insensitive (I did not gyrate as hard as normally), Youness insisted we hit the road again for the remaining 7 hour leg.

Border Experience

I arrived at the border around 3am, I had only my skateboard and a backpack with essentials, so naturally I was nervous at the thought I couldn’t return to my main luggage and surfboard in Taghazout. My concerns were short lived though as the immigration officer suggested I come back at an appropriate hour the next day and while he informed me I had to leave the country for two weeks he hinted that I explain my case to the supervising officer.

Twelve hours later I returned and while Youness waited in the car once more I walked through with skateboard in hand and backpack on. Just before I had the Official stamp me out of the country though I made sure I could get stamped straight back in. “No, you must be out for 24 hours” was the reply, so I snatched my passport back and called Youness for some translating. He came over to the officer’s window and ________________________________________________ on promises of jet-ski rides in Taghazout. The officer’s mood quickly changed and he merrily assured me I would be stamped straight back in. Across the 100m void I walked between the two countries, but I remained nervous about the arrangement that had just taken place and just had to assume that he would contact the officer at the other end of the void stamping travellers into Morocco and say something along the lines of “expect a blonde guy carrying a skateboard in just a second, don’t give him any trouble getting back in”. Of course my concerns were justified because as soon as the stamp-in officer realised __________________________ too. Problem was, I didn’t have Youness’ back up now, and if I was denied re-entry, Spain likely wouldn’t accept me either as I was still within 90 days of leaving the Schengen zone.

I had no choice but to cross the road just before entering Spain and try my luck at re-entering Morocco. Sure enough the officer stamping people in looked at me and said “Go see my supervising officer”. I pleaded back “Please sir, I’m a surfer and the season is only just coming in. Can you please just stamp me in for another 3 months?” A shake of the head and directions to the supervisor’s office was all I was offered.

At the surly supervisor’s office, I recite the same practised spiel about being a surfer and wanting to stay for the better waves. I ask if he wants to talk to Youness, who also has the original officer nearby. This higher-ranked fellow was in a bad mood, and me annoying him with my petty qualms was only making it worse. What made it hellish though was getting onto Youness but the line dropping out as I handed the officer the phone. The man was clearly a fan of bureaucracy, and constantly stared daggers at me; the tourist wanting to re-enter his country to, as he may have guessed, work illegally.

I made connection with Youness again, and thankfully the line didn’t drop out this time. I knew the answer before he handed the phone back though: “Return to the entry officer and apply for an extended 12 days with the police in Agadir.”

Head down and resigned to having to leave in 12 days at best, hope flared as I spied the original officer as I approached the stamp in desk. “Look,” he explained, “I don’t have influence over that man, but I am above the stamping officer so I’ll tell him now to give you the three month stamp and he can’t refuse. I overheard the supervising officer talk with Youness but couldn’t risk requesting you get the 3 month stamp in case  ________________________, but now once you get this stamp we don’t chase it up so he’ll never know.”

After an hour of not technically being in either country I received my stamp and didn’t waste haste leaving, in case someone changed their mind! Our return journey went hassle free after some celebratory drinks and some much needed sleep. Soon after our return though I did get pulled up by a random road stop. Luckily though I had my good friend and surf camp manager Hamid with me, and he could adequately explain to the police the reason for the bald tyres, cracked windshield and missing mirrors by ____________________ as he looked at my licence.

Crazy Camels and Sure Footed Donkeys

Experiences with Camels and Donkeys in Morocco are unavoidable as they are abundant throughout the whole country. My first experience with both a Camel and a Donkey at the same time was a real highlight for me.

I was leaving Tamri beach where a local camel herder kept his 100 or so camels (he was a very wealthy man considering they are worth anywhere between €1000 and €4000 each!). I was with Hafid who just so happened to be from the same village as this herder, and thus they were old friends. The herder was carrying an old, dirty plastic bottle which he had filled with camels’ milk, which is quite rare and very expensive. He saw me eyeing it with curiosity, which soon turned to trepidation as he explained he had just milked one of the camels whilst waving the old bottle in front of my face.

“You must taste” urged Hafid, so I reluctantly obliged and although the milk was warm from being so fresh, admittedly it was quite pleasant due to its sweetness. Now happy that I had tried some camels’ milk, and content to continue on home, I did then notice that the herder was atop a donkey! Being attracted to their big ears and placid nature, I decided to ask Hafid to ask the man in Arabic if I could have a ride of his donkey. The herder nodded his consent and showed me how to jump on.

The way to mount a donkey is to jump straight onto the upper back (base of its neck) with both legs off to the same side. At first I was a little sceptical of doing this rather than the traditional saddle straddle, but I was assured that donkeys are incredibly strong. True to the herder’s word, saddleless, and legs dangling to one side made for an extremely comfortable ride, with none of the bouncing around and leg chaffing like on a horse! The best part though was how well trained the donkey was. A little tap on the bum got him trotting at a comfortable pace, a gentle push on the side of the head in the direction you wanted to go and it would turn that way but my favourite was getting it to stop by whispering “shhhhh.” From that moment on I fell in love with Donkeys and vowed to ride them again whenever I got the chance which was of course a handful more times whilst in Morocco.

As for the camel rides; much less pleasant. One of the first things I did in Morocco, before arriving at the surf camp, was go on a camel ride into the extremely hot, remote Saharan Desert with some friends. Now riding a camel may sound like fun, but they are stinky, your legs cramp up and your bum gets very sore, very quick.

On the way to our camp which awaited us for a sleepless night in the Saharan Desert, for some reason, the camels suddenly got spooked and took off galloping which the guides certainly didn’t expect, resulting in them taking off in an awkward, painful sprint for about 30m. Luckily the guides, who lead the camels by a rope out the front, managed to calm the beasts before anyone got thrown off.

Unfortunately I can’t say we were all as lucky the next day on the return journey. An American man named Mike was on a particularly restless camel, and whilst he managed to absorb the first few bucks after accidently dropping his water bottle onto the animal’s foot, he was eventually tossed down from the 2 metre high camel’s back onto the rocks below. Too bruised to get back on, Mike and his guide switched jobs and Mike was left to walk the remainder of the journey back through the Sahara desert leading his nemesis camel by the rope.

I had countless adventures during my all too-short visit to Morocco. It is a beautiful country and I met some friends that I hope to be in contact with forever. I can recommend it either as a respite from the Schengen zone or for a dedicated adventure, and I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have! Mafi mushkila.

The post Madness in Morocco Part 2: Road trips, Moroccan Marriage, Corrupt Officials, Crazy Camels and Sure-Footed Donkeys appeared first on Confiscated Toothpaste.

I first entered Morocco as an escape from my expiring Schengen zone visa (basically the European Union), but soon decided to stay for 6 months to teach surfing just outside the city of Agadir, in a small fishing turned surfing village named Taghazout, in Morocco’s South. The place was just too good, too crazy for an “escape”. Whether you plan to travel to Morocco for a relaxed surf trip, or the hustle bustle culture shock of the Marrakesh marketplace, or perhaps just want to read some interesting experiences of a young traveller- have a read through the following short stories which represent a sample of my most unusual adventures during my stay.

Surf Instructor Intimidation

Morocco for the most part is a welcome experience- in fact Morocco was recently outed as one of the most welcoming places in the world. That said, Morocco can also be a source of unpleasant experiences. My most unpleasant experiences in Morocco were of intimidation, through threats and insults. Some were just jives that you can laugh off, such as in Marrakesh as you wander through the souk markets (although I did see about 12 men beating up one poor soul on the ground in an alley). At other times, I had threats such as “I’m not plastic, I will go to jail, I’m not afraid to kill you.” More than a handful of times heard “I’ll break your nose, and all your surfboards.” That first quote there I received from a street hustler, who were often trying to get money from the surf camps clients, and failing that, would come to me with accusations of me bad mouthing them, resulting in their lacking incomes.

“Why you say bad things about me to your clients?” I’d often hear such things whilst I was trying to have a coffee at the local café. This all boiled down to the name of the game; intimidation. If you succumb to their threats and appear weak those men would eat you alive. You learn this pretty quick living in Morocco, and luckily I had it down pat for my most unpleasant experience.

On a small day surf wise in Taghazout, all the surf camps would head north to a break called Tamri, which receives more swell than other spots which face further west. I pull up one such day with my class of say 10 surfers. I choose a gap in between the other camps so that we are all in a line, and I have a good 4 metres either side of our camp to the closest parasols of other camps. As I finish setting up my own umbrellas I instantly have a young Moroccan man stalk past, and say somewhat indiscernibly “You move your parasols right now, I don’t want to tell you again.”

Not exactly registering what he had said, I went about my business preparing my surfers for their lesson. About 3 minutes later though he has returned and says “Did you not hear me?! I said move your fucking camp.”
To which I replied “No, I didn’t hear you, all you did was blab some nonsense and walk off.”
So he then insists once more that I move my camp, among many swear words.
I get slightly more frustrated about the inconvenient situation and say “Why do I need to move, do you own this fucking beach do you?!”

Now until this point we had been relatively low key, but then he thought I was smiling at him, but it was in fact me grimacing as I faced the sun (whoops). He didn’t take kindly to this and his voice had risen enough to gain most of the beaches attention, including a work mate of his who then came to join his cause. Now there was Atif, as I later learned he was called, up in my grill. The original man named Yassine staunched off, apparently too infuriated to continue. He yelled “Don’t fucking talk to me.” Now I did have a little scoff at that considering that was what I wished from the start! I then had the usual broken-nose, broken-board threats from Atif until finally Yassine returned, and being aware of all the clients watching, they grabbed me by the forearms and tried to drag me into the sand dunes: “Come and talk over here.”

Unsure of whether they would try to beat me up, but not taking the chance regardless, I yanked my arms away and was pretty furious by this stage myself so my voice had risen considerably when I growled “You got something to say, you can say it in front of everyone. What? You afraid of embarrassing yourself in front of all the clients? Getting your business a bad rep?!” This was enough aggression for them to back down and Atif relented “You know me now, don’t try this again.”

Now anyone who knows me, can definitely attest to me not being a confrontational person at all. Thus when something like this does happen, I’m on edge the rest of the day. Once I realised they worked for the same camp as Youssef, a large man who had confronted me about working without a visa before, and who I had seen punching another man in the head one surf at Anchor point, I called my friend Hafid, in case tempers flared once more. Luckily the rest of the day at the beach was uneventful, although Hamid and Hafid had decided we would all go to their camp that afternoon to nut things out.

An Angry Meeting over Mint Tea

The three of us arrive at the door to their camp that afternoon only for it to be immediately answered by the three aggressors Youssef, Yassine and Atif. The following dialogue then ensued:

Youssef: “You don’t listen, I told you not to fucking work here again.”
Me: “NO, you don’t fucking listen, I told YOU that I volunteer here, I don’t get paid.”
Youssef: “See this sign? It’s our camp. We have to pay 20% tax on what we earn.”
Me: “Well tell me Youssef, what’s 20% of zero?! Last time I checked it was zero!”

We are up in each other’s faces, so before he can reply, Hamid, who has a certain knack for these situations, jumps in and blows up at Youssef in Arabic. It’s something along the lines of “Don’t you talk to Vince. Not on the beach, not EVER. You have a problem then you let me know.” Even though Hamid is nowhere near as big as Youssef, he holds himself with such ferocity that Youssef immediately backed down. So there we were, 6 of us on the main road, outside their surf camp, and the tension tightening as the silence lengthens while I wait for someone to make a move.

Youssef had finally calmed down a little and said “Come inside.” There are a few breathless moments as we walk inside- I’m wondering if anything is going to go down out of sight of the road. Then my breath was truly taken away by how exquisite the inside of this camp was! Dark oak tables, marble floors and pillars, and cooks running around with trays of mint tea and cookies. To my surprise, Youssef then has us seated and treated to these same teas and cookies. For the next 15 minutes I sit and try to interpret what Hamid and Hafid are discussing with the other camp, with maybe once or twice me having to confirm that I don’t in fact get paid. Sometimes it gets a little heated again and other times it’s jokes all around but I only breathe properly again once they are all laughing and introducing themselves to me saying “Tomorrow you set your umbrellas up right next to ours. You are part of the brotherhood now!” Atif even said, “You know what? The first time I saw you on the beach I knew we would become friends!”

Needless to say, I left their camp that afternoon not knowing exactly what to think but from then on I didn’t receive any more grief from them and it was just the street hustlers I had to avoid.

The Hammams of Morocco

I went to the Hammam a number of times on my stay in Morocco. A Hammam in simple terms is a Muslim bath house where you enter gender separated spas and receive a cleansing and exfoliation followed by a not-so-traditional massage.

My first experience of a Hammam was nothing of the sort! Being in the tourist capital of Marrakesh with both male and female friends we didn’t have a problem finding a spa which accommodated our request to remain in swimmers and in our crew. In hindsight really our 50 euro ‘Hammam’ wasn’t a Hammam at all! It was a western spa, feet in buckets of rose petals, pretty young girls washing down the males, nice dark wood sauna and avocado face masks followed by a standard back massage. Naturally, after this experience, I jumped at the chance to have another Hammam once I was settled in Taghazout. Cue the crazy experience.

I arrived at a decrepit building in the dodge part of town, but apparently it was the locals choice. Perhaps for the 5 euro price tag rather than 50 euros. I entered the plain, tiled change room with an old cashier. I’m with Hamid and we both strip down to our undies in the strictly male only section. The first thing I noticed was the yellowed tiles, whilst surely originally white, some had even turned brown. Disconcerting enough, although not as bad as the first noise I hear; screams from within the next room!

I was worried. But Hamid paid the cashier and we stowed our bags into a locker behind the counter. I soon found the source of the scream as soon as we entered the Hammam room. I was immediately faced by a 50 year-old nude guy, while a younger 6 foot 6″ man with a moustache was standing on the back of this man’s legs, right behind his knees, and was using his hands to pull back on the clients arms one at a time while holding his shoulder down. Very plainly, he looked perilously close to popping the man’s shoulder out. I shot a  concerned glance at Hamid and he told me “That’s the massage bro, you’ll get it after the scrub.” Now I was sweating, and not just from the 40 degree heat in this joint.

The first stage of a Hammam is to be soaped down, which I had performed by an obese man of at least 60 with very thinned out, white underwear. I couldn’t decide what was grosser though, this image, or the fact that I was laying down on those dirtied tiles, cheek pressed right wear someone else had just been scrubbed free of however many days of built up filth! I’m all for experiencing others’ cultures though, embraced it- taking solace in knowing I would return to my unit for a nice shower.

Next was the exfoliating scrub. My main advice is not to go to a Hammam with sunburn. I kid you not it made my scrub in Marrakesh feel like they were using baby wipes. This felt like they were using sandpaper: I literally checked myself to see if blood had been drawn! Nothing too long, but they soap and scrub you everywhere. Everywhere.

Finally we got to the massage which I had been dreading. I made Hamid go first so I could get a rough idea of the different positions. For the next 7 minutes or so we made the Hammam sound like a torture chamber. I watched Hamid bent into several, incredibly unnatural positions. My turn came around much too quick and before I knew it, I was being set up into the first position. I was laid face down on the tiles once more with the masseur sitting on my bum and whilst my hands were on the back of my head he looped his arms through mine and pulls my upper body back so I felt like I was doing a ‘cobra’ style position, where my upper body was bent at 90 degrees at my lower back! I couldn’t scream though- I had the reverse effect, the wind being knocked out of me. This was followed by another 7 or 8 UFC style wrestling moves, which is honestly not too far from the truth considering the masseuse required that I “tap out” which indicates your submission. I literally had to slap the floor or whatever body part of this mans that I could reach to let him know he was millimetres from breaking my bones.

The best part- oh no actually the worst- was that once I tapped he would make these kissing noises which Hamid explained was the indicator that you should exhale your last breath so he can stretch you out just that tad more.

I have no idea of the benefits of this massage, if any at all. Though I walked away feeling very much like jelly. An incredible experience which you must try in a Muslim country and one that I repeated often during my stay in Morocco. One of these days I’ll have to GoPro it, and post it on Confiscated Toothpaste.

Yikes! Tune in again next week, where Vince will wax lyrical in Part 2: Road trips, Moroccan Marriage, Corrupt Officials, Crazy Camels and Sure-Footed Donkeys.

The post Madness in Morocco Part 1: Intimidation, Mint Tea, and Hammams appeared first on Confiscated Toothpaste.