Trip Log: Flores 2
Island life is very stressful so I took it easy today. Here is what I did from dawn till dusk, hanging out with Mardie, a fun solo Dutch traveler I met who arrived on Flores the same time I did. (In addition to everything below, I also took three cold showers to wash off the intolerable humidity.)
Started the day off with breakfast of champions: mango fruit juice and a plate of fresh cut tropical fruits.
After sitting around reading and relaxing, it’s time for lunch. The hotel girl fires up the grill,
cuts open the fish I just selected,
and prepares what was truly the juiciest and best-tasting fish I’ve ever eaten, really.
Then more sitting around.
We decide to be productive, and ended up finding a completely secluded beach to the north, with very warm water and this great view.
I now sit here in The Lounge, drinking an arak ginger (essentially a Moscow Mule but with locally produced alcohol), eating a pizza covered with chilis, and enjoying the tropical rainstorm outside.
Trip Log: Flores
Greetings from the island of Flores. This tiny island is east of Bali and is quite under-developed. Their main street is very similar to a back alley in America.
This morning a few of us rented a boat for a day trip to Komodo Island, home of Komodo National Park, itself home to the famed komodo dragon. These ugly beasts might appear slow, slothy, and boring in photos, but in reality … they’re exactly the same. They don’t move or do anything exciting. But they do have viciously sharp talons and very powerful tails that can snap goats in half. Unfortunately we didn’t see any of that action, and I wasn’t even allowed to get next to him for a photo.
On the way back we had our boat stop at one of the tiny islands for beach and snorkel time. Islands like these are abundant here, and nearly all have untouched white sand and luscious green flora. They are also completely uninhabited. The one we stopped at, pictured below, would have taken us at most 15 minutes to walk around its perimeter.
After a good snorkel we made our way home in our boat, which I should mention may possibly be the slowest thing ever to move on water; I think ducks were swimming faster. Not a problem, however, since we all sprawled out and fell asleep with ease. As we docked, we were greeted by an army of very young, very short, and very naked local children … all of whom enthusiastically rushed our boat, climbed aboard, and tried to impress us by jumping into the water. Definitely the most amusing part of the day!
One of the little guys showing us his skillz.
That evening, we recovered from this tiring day with lots of beer and cards.
Trip Log: Bali 4
I was woken up this morning by the following events in succession, starting at 2am:
Rain
I’m not talking about a gentle shower, I’m talking torrential downpour with thunder and lighting. As many people know, I am afraid of thunderstorms, mostly because I hate being startled unexpectedly, least of all in the middle of the night. This storm was so loud I half expected the raindrops to break through this thatch roof and pour directly on me.
Rumble
Less than an hour after the rain eased up, I felt subtle movements in my bed. Subtle, but definitely present. The movements got much stronger in amplitude over a few seconds, and I realized this was actually an earthquake. Normally I don’t mind earthquakes, being from California and all, however, here on this tiny island, I was concerned the quake would bring my bungalow crashing down. Also who knows, maybe this richter 3.0 earthquake (or whatever it was), was actually a 9.0 out in the middle of the Pacific, and a tsunami was on its way soon to drown Bali. I identified where I kept my diving mask and snorkel (just in case), and tried to get back to sleep.
Rumble again
The time has come. Shortly after the quake I thought I felt the start of an aftershock, but I was feeling movements only … down there. I tried to walk it off, but things only got more painful and crampy and violent, and I realized I was bathroom-bound very soon. These things felt like contractions, people. I have been slacking on my Pepto Bismol regimen since I arrived, so maybe I should starting being more compliant.
Rooster
This thing needs to die. Enough said.
Anyway, later in the day I was at a bar with a TV showing this:
Looks like I was right … unfortunately. And pretty spot-on with my predictions too. Those live shots of the massive destruction occuring in Japan are actually very frightening, and I hope the waves don’t make it anywhere near my little island chain. So as of now now, the list of things that are threatening me in Indonesia are as follows:
- Active volcanos
- Rabies
- Vocal roosters
I guess I should add “tsunami” now.
Trip Log: Bali 3
I was woken up this morning not by my alarm or a friendly wake up call, but a rooster. A good old “cock a doodle doo”ing rooster … at 5am. Who knew these things existed outside of childrens’ cartoons? All of which reminds me I’m living in a zoo out here. I live up the street from a monkey forest where monkeys wander (and attack) freely. Anywhere I eat, pee, or use the internet I see a new lizard hanging out next to me. And, I swear there is a bird in my bathroom, though I just can’t get him to show his head. Here is the a-hole that woke me up. If I ever get close enough to grab him by his neck, he’s going into a cage and straight to the butcher.
Today was Day of Food. In the morning I attended a great cooking class taught by a local chef with decades of cooking and teaching practice here in Ubud. The class was made up of approximately 15 travellers who have an interest in cooking. We first learned about the various local ingredients and then prepared a traditional Balinese meal. Here are some of the people at the preparation table.
We used this large mortar and pestle (Balinese food processor) to crush peanuts into a fresh-made peanut sauce, which was much better than anything I’ve had in any restaurant.
Here I am stir-frying our meal, and looking over to make sure she wasn’t doing a better job than I was.
Immediately afterwards, despite the great feast we just ate, a few Australians and I decided to seek out Warung Ibu Oka, the famed local food vendor that prepares an amazing roast suckling pig. They cook that pig for over five hours and serve it from only 11am — 3pm. After a little walk we found it, and luckily it was only 1pm. For only $5 we each got a plate of tender, flavored pork with “crackling” (roasted pig skin) with tons of spices on top and rice on the side … and a big bottle of Bintang (local) beer.
After stopping by my bungalow to change shirts, I then immediately set out in search of a highly-recommended restaurant. It was a long walk — over 2.5 miles one way! — but I decided to commit to it. After a grueling uphill walk for several hours, discouraged at times since there wasn’t another white person in sight, I finally found it …
… and it was closed. Two hours of hiking the humid heat, and it was closed. Since when is anything closed here? So I made the return walk — also 2.5 miles — tail between my legs, and came across another place people speak well of, Naughty Nuri’s. I went inside, partly to honor a friend from home and mostly to have one of these:
Four hours, five miles, and one stiff martini later, I arrived home and jumped straight in the pool under a full moon.
Trip Log: Bali 2
There seems to be a shortage of names in this place. My hotel owner is named Wayan, so was my greedy and unhelpful taxi driver, as was our rafting guide, medicine woman, and countless others people here. God forbid anybody gets named Sam or Jenny.
It turns out that there are only four names in Bali. They are Wayan (pronounced “why-Ann”), Made, Nyoman, and Ketut, and they mean “first”, “second”, “third”, and “fourth”, respectively, to indicate which order you were born in. So the first born child is named Wayan, and so forth. Number five gets named Wayan and the cycle starts again. Now I’m tempted to yell “Wayan” on the street and see how many people turn their head. Anyway, please call me Wayan from now on.
Trip Log: Bali
Hello from Indonesia! My trip starts out on the island of Bali, in the city of Ubud. (As I learned yesterday, the correct way to pronounce it is “oo-bood” … and not “you-bud”.) I am staying in the very peaceful Ubud Bungalows pictured below. Mine is the bungalow on top.
These bungalows are on the main strip called Monkey Forest road, which, like the rest of the roads in Bali, is very narrow, twisty, and noisy and packed with cars and taxis and buses and motorbikes. They also drive on the left side of the road, so on my first venture outside I thought traffic was completely clear after looking to my left … only to step out and have a minibus nearly crush me from my right.
I started off my first morning in Ubud with white water rafting. The drive picked up me and several other people at 9am, and we met up with a much larger group. After being outfitted with our gear, we walked down approximately 1000 steps down a steep gorge to reach the river.
After about an hour of exciting class 3 rapids, we stopped for a few minutes. Here is my rafting group: an Irish guy from Australia, me, and a couple from San Francisco.
Because we were completely drenched in water by the waves over and over again, I didn’t take out my camera during the rafting itself, but luckily someone from the company took this action photo. I’m in front, with the mean point.
After returning home, I decided to explore the famed Monkey Forest, for which the main street is named. It is a medium-sized forest with approximately 500 monkeys … monkeys who are not nice. I bought a few bananas just before going in, and I put them down for a split second to put the cash back in my pants. The moment I lay them down, a little hairy hand swiped them away. I yelled out an expletive loudy and chased after him, but all the guides were shouting “Don’t chase monkey!” so I stopped. This is me after a fight with yet another monkey, one that climbed up my body to try and grab my banana (banana fruit, you perverts). I’m about to throw that banana at him.
At the end of the day, one monkey had stolen from me, one had attacked me, and another had humped my leg. These guys are aggressive and they gang up. I’m actually a little afraid of them now. But here is a nice monkey baby and mom just to show that a few of them have the potential to be cute.
Next post: Bali naming culture.
Packing Light
People frequently ask how I am able to travel with only one backpack, so I’ve put together this detailed overview on what, why, and how I pack.
Jeans and shirt
Clothing. A pair of jeans, shorts, and three shirts. Swimming trunks and pajamas too.
Shoes
I take a pair to wear on a daily basis (being black, they double as shoes to wear out at night), flip-flops for the beach, and my new ugly five-toed shoes.
Socks and underwear
Three pair of each. You don’t need to see them.
Toiletry and health-related accessories
Toiletry bag (including Pepto Bismol), a well-packed first-aid kit (including new for this trip, suturing equipment in case things go wrong), and suntan lotion and mosquito repellent.
Reading material
A Lonely Planet book (travel bible) and two leisure books: 1) Eat, Pray, Love, which is a terrible book, but since I don’t like to leave books unfinished, I’m stuck with it, and 2) Dante’s Inferno … to remind me of the hell that is Thornton I will return to back at work. Oh and the GQ provides entertaining articles as well as cologne samples that can be rubbed on your face if you want to go out at night. Practical and really classy.
Diving mask and snorkel
Since this delicate face only tolerates my own equipment.
Toilet paper
Never leave for another country without it, unless you (and your hand) want to risk it.
Accessories
Small backpack, hat, sunglasses, super absorbent towel, etc.
Fancy electronics
Digital camera, LED flashlight, power outlet converters.
Eye shades, ear plugs, and Ativan
Turn a 14-hour plane ride into a sleepy, forgettable blur.
And that’s it. Now shove all this …
… into a backpack and you are ready to voyage almost anywhere in the world.
My New Ugly Shoes
Travel time means time to buy a new travel toy. I plan on doing a lot of water-based activities while in Indonesia including snorkeling, diving, rafting, and swimming. Unfortunately all these wet encounters would ruin my walking shoes and be difficult with flip-flops.
So say hello to my newest footwear: the Vibram FiveFingers. The Vibram FiveFingers Sprint to be precise. These innovative shoes may be funky and unattractive, but they’re as close to being barefoot as possible. The company claims one can run, hike, and go in the water with them … and I’m going to confirm each one.
Watch out Indonesia… there’s a new sheriff with ugly shoes in town.
Introducing Indonesia
Where to go, where to go? This year’s travels will take me to Indonesia — a group of 17,000+ islands in the South Pacific that ranks as the world’s fourth most populace country and includes islands with such names as Java, Sumatra, Papua, and Bali.
Indonesia is an archipelago, which simply means that it’s a group or chain of islands. Think of it as the United States if every state were an island. Don’t worry if you didn’t know what that word meant … I only learned that after I bought my ticket. See kids, traveling makes you smarter.
Time to do some pre-trip homework and read Eat, Pray, Love (apparently Love takes place in Bali). Stay tuned for travel details and adventures.
Start of Route 66
I had the opportunity to visit Chicago recently, and while I was there I decided to check out start of the famed Route 66. For those who don’t know, Route 66 is a historic road that starts in Chicago and ends in Los Angeles. Over the years most of it has been replaced by more modern roads and highways, and most maps don’t even note its presence any more. There are, however, many maps and signs and websites devoted to enthusiasts who are in search of it, whether to drive it or visit the countless restaurants or quirky stores along it.
Apparently the start of Route 66 has moved a few times. As you can see below, on the corner of Adams Street at Michigan Avenue, there is a sign marking the beginning of Route 66. However, this was not the original start of the highway.
The start of Route 66 apparently was moved from its original location, which is at Jackson Blvd and Michigan Avenue, pictured below (note the Sears Tower in the distance on the right). There is nothing mentioning Route 66 here…how sad.
Check out The Historic Route 66 website, which taught me everything I know and provides more details on this topic.
Skydiving
Several residents and I took the plunge and went skydiving today. Aboard a tiny Cessna airplane that only fit four, it took us about ten minutes to climb to 10000 feet. Not too strange except that one side of the plane was completely open to the outside. Just as I was getting used to that, it was time to strap in to my guide/instructor. I dutifully followed his instructions (”sit in my lap”) and was strapped very securely to my new butt-buddy’s front side.
Ida was up first. She and her tandem partner sat on the edge for a few seconds as I stared at them wondering what would happen next. Then they fell out, and I panicked (see video for confirmation). It was a very unsettling feeling seeing a friend fall out of the side of a plane. I tried to rush to the ledge in a strange effort to save her, but I was too paralyzed by terror. Immediately I was pushed us to the same spot, and all of a sudden I had my own set of problems to deal with … namely sitting on the edge of an airplane two miles high in the air. Actually, he was sitting on the plane; I was simply hanging off the edge, connected to him only by a few cloth straps.
And then we rolled out. Free fall was unlike any feeling I’ve ever experienced, and it was exhilarating. The video conveys it all, so enough talking and more watching:
Motherfucker, I’m awesome!
Return of the Derby Dolls
It’s not that they returned, rather I did. For the first time in seven months I wasn’t on call during a Derby Dolls game, so you know I could be found in LA. Roller coaster of a night, however. On the one hand, the San Diego Swarm won in an anticlimactic fashion by squeezing out three points in the final jam to break the tie. On the better hand, I was still able to get this photo taken with the Fight Crew’s Judy Gloom!
My Favorite Travel Tools
There are several products I find myself using each time I travel. The following are some of those items, without which my trips would be much more difficult, uncomfortable, or just impossible.
- Backpack — My North Face Terra 40 is my best friend. It travels everywhere I do. It is a very versatile mid-volume pack that has always been able to hold everything I want, including clothes, accessories, and several water bottles. It is comfortable to wear, has plenty of straps and loops, and is pretty rugged. Best of all, it qualifies as a carry-on bag, eliminating the need to check in luggage in the less-than-honest countries.
- IrfanView — This is my co-best friend. I use this image viewer/editor everywhere I travel. I download it onto whatever computer I’m using and make simple modifications to my photos before sending/posting them (e.g. resize, rotate, etc.) It is free, small, easy to download, and even easier to use. Get it here.
- Memory card converter drive – Make it easy for yourself to get your photos onto a computer during you trip. Simply plug your digital camera’s memory card into this tiny little accessory, which then plugs directly into a computer’s USB drive. This way you can transfer photos to a computer without bringing your camera’s connection cord. Radio Shack or Best Buy or any similar store will carry these. I use this one.
- Pepto Bismol — Keep your innards happy with these little pink pills.
- Toilet paper — Don’t assume any country — from third-world countries to westernized ones — will have toilet paper. Bring your own or else use local methods, which personally I don’t enjoy.
Pepto Bismol
I visted a travel doctor before my Morocco trip, who in addition to the usual advice, offered this excellent suggestion. She said to prevent diarrhea and other GI symptoms while travelling to other countries, take a Pepto Bismol dose four (4) times per day: once before each meal and once at bedtime. (In medical-speak, that’s Pepto Bismol 2 tabs qAC/qHS.)
I didn’t employ this from the start, as my stomach tends to be pretty strong on trips. But a few days in when things started to get a little…loose…I gave her suggestion a shot and it worked like a charm.
Beware: both stool and tongue may turn black temporarily. But it’s worth it.
Post-Morocco Thoughts
Despite a slightly rocky start, it was a great trip. Here are a few random final thoughts:
- I had an extremely hard time not speaking Spanish there. Because of my job, that’s the only other language I speak on a regular basis, and so I kept telling locals “por favor”, “de nada”, and “buenos dias” instead of their French equivalents. My finest moment? Telling someone ”Mucho désolée”.
- One day, while with my group of Dutch and Spanish travellers, a weird situation arose briefly when I had to translate from French (for one group) into Spanish (for the other). It’s a sad day when Amir has to do the translating.
- If anyone ever again asks me “where are you from?”, I might punch them. Anyone…whether we’re in Morocco or not.
- My skin color really screwed me over there. I was just white enough to stand out as a foreigner by the locals, but just brown enough such that the white Europeans/Americans thought I was a local when I tried talking to them, thus making them ignore me.
End of Morocco
Back in Casablanca which means it’s time to fly home. Not much happened since last time except that my camera finally broke, thanks to that Sahara sandstorm. At least it broke at the end of my trip.
Thanks to everyone who read along! Shukran and au revoir.
Trip Log: Sahara Desert 2
Excitement, readers, excitement!
The third and final day of our Sahara trip was upon us. On the road back home we pulled over to look at some very old water wells, which were essentially large mounds of dirt with a deep hole in their center. Some of us climbed on top of the well to look down the hole:
I was walking back to the van when from behind me I heard a shriek, then a pop, and then a crash. I looked back and saw one of the women of our group laying near the base of the well, flat on her back. She obviously had slipped and fallen, but having heard that pop I figured a bone or a ligament in her knee had broken too. I walked towards her (let’s call her Janet) and saw the bottom third of her shin was at a 45 degree angle to the rest of her leg, with a bone trying to poke through the skin. She must have simultaneously noticed this too because she began screaming, “Oh my God it’s broken, it’s broken!” It sure was.
At this point the ten or so people in our group looked straight to me. The only thing racing through my mind was how we were hundreds of miles away from any medical care. I tried forgetting about that momentarily and began working on trying to get her leg splinted in order to get her somewhere, anywhere. We began rummaging through the van and found a long and skinny Persian (well, Moroccan) rug/carpet, which we decided to wrap around her lower leg. Not elegant or high-tech, but it was all we had. We all helped load her into the van. I borrowed some tylenol with codeine from another passenger, gave it to Janet, and told her to relax as much as possible.
Our driver turned to me, asking what we to do and where we to go. I asked him where the nearest city was; Ouarzazate, a medium-sized city, the first city with a “bone doctor” was 280km away, and Marrakesh was over 400km away (Also, apparently I use the metric system now.) I figured the woman’s best chance at treatment was in the biggest city and biggest medical center we could find, and so I told our driver to start the long drive back towards Marrakesh.
The mood inside the van was tense. The few people who were talking were just mumbling to their neighbor, a few were asking me if Janet would be ok, and the rest were keeping silent. Our driver kept asking me what we should do, but all I could recommend was keep driving.
My mind began wandering a little bit. Why — of all medical emergencies — do I get one involving a broken bone? Of all fields of medicine, the one I know by far the least about is orthopedics (bones). People, here is the extent of what I know about bones: 1) We have them, 2) Sometimes they break, and 3) Occasionally they get infected. Beyond that I’m no good. But right then, someone from the back yelled out to me that Janet was having chest pain.
Finally…now we’re talking.
I jump into the back seat and start asking her all about it. Sure enough she was having some substernal chest tightness. After additional questioning I felt as if it was due to anxiety and so I told her I’d keep an eye on it. Fifteen minutes later, though, she said it was getting worse and now her hands were tingling. I still truly felt it was anxiety-induced, but I was sufficiently concerned (for her heart) that I told our driver to pull over and told everyone to search their bags for any aspirin. All that was done, Janet chewed her aspirin, and interestingly her pain resolved immediately. I was much less worried at that point.
I also realized something else after that brief incident…the group was now treating me as if I were the one in charge. Until now our driver had been in charge the entire trip: he determined where we’d go, he set our schedules, and he had answers to everything. Now, both passengers and driver were looking to me for all answers. Where should we take her? She’s in more pain, what should we do? Will she be ok? Plus, with a few people saying things like “Thank God you were here” and “We’re lucky to have you here”, for once I genuinely felt proud to be a doctor. Gotta remember that feeling next time I’m on call, getting middle-of-the-night “Doctor Doctor!” pages.
After an hour of driving in the van, I decided we should probably get an ambulance to take Janet to the medical center. Our driver phoned for one, and about 30 minutes later, waiting on the side of the road for us, was an ambulance. Now I use that term loosely because what really was awaiting us was a pickup truck for midgets, with the word “Ambulance” on it.
The ambulance driver (which is all he was, a driver, nothing more) opened the back and revealed a space which was as big as half a twin bed. And half of that space was taken up by the stretcher for Janet. And into that trunk crammed Janet, her friend, and me.
That didn’t leave much room for medical supplies. In case you’re wondering, that is an empty tank of oxygen and an even emptier “medicine” cabinet.
The rest of the day was filled with mayhem and nausea. Once we started driving, you would think we’d race as fast as we could towards a hospital. Instead here is the path we took: 1) the driver’s home, where he picked up a pillow from his wife so he could sit on it, 2) his son’s house to pick up his son, so he’d have company, 3) a gas station, for gas, and finally 4) another gas station, to go to the bathroom.
Our windy and dangerously speedy journey through the Atlas Mountains was completely miserable. It was six hours of the worst roller coaster ride, cramped in the back of a tiny pickup truck, and with no windows to look out of to anticipate upcoming turns. One minute we’d be sitting, the next I’d be slammed against poor Janet’s broken bones. It turned out that the winding mountain roads were too much for our driver’s son too, because at one point we stopped so the kid could run out and vomit on the side of the road. Apparently the poor bastard had never left his little home village, and had never been on such a twisty road. How do I know? He felt the need to tell us this the moment he finished vomitting…with fresh vomit dripping from his mouth with each word he spoke.
Adding to this comedy show about an hour later, the back doors to the ambulance flew open. I was asleep in the back, resting on the doors, when suddenly I dropped backwards. The doors had unlatched — remained connected to each other, though – but separated from the truck. I looked down and saw highway flying by me, and scurried to the center of the truck. I now had to sleep/sit/crouch in the back with my knees up to my chest, sitting on the floor. Fate was trying to make me laugh, but I didn’t really get the joke.
We finally reached the hospital after the ambulance driver rolled down his window and asked a few pedestrians where the nearest hospital was. Janet was taken in immediately, evaluated, and forced to stay overnight to get surgery the next day.
It had been a long, absurd, and physically painful day, but I was happy to have helped. At 8pm I finally walked out of the hospital…but not without first stealing her x-rays for a few minutes to take a photo (with a confident “Yes this is Dr. Schricker, I am a doctor in the USA, and I need to see her x-rays now.”) No need to have a radiology degree to interpret this one.
Trip Log: Sahara Desert
Time to get my sand on. I decided to take a trip to the Sahara Desert, some of which is contained within Morocco. It was a great two-day trip complete with a long camel trek into the heart of the desert, huge sand dunes, amazing views of the night sky, and sleeping in the tent of local Berber people…out of sight from any city lights.
After eight hours of driving, mostly through the tortuous Atlas Mountains, we spent our first night in the Dades Gorges, a gorge in the heart of the mountain range. This is the road that led up to our hotel:
To protect myself from the elements, it was recommended to buy a head scarf. If you do that, the locals will wrap it around your head. Here I am, prepared for the desert…and a jihad.
Camel ride during a Sahara sunset. Amazing view.
Half of our group (and my favorite photo of the trip.)
Camels, even more so than horses, do a number on your legs. Once we got off the camel none of us could walk normally. Anyway, we rode camel-back for over two hours and soon nighttime arrived. The ride was arduous and the only thing keeping me going was the hope of seeing a big roaring campfire with lots of food spread around it. Not quite. The camel ride ended, but that only meant we had to walk the rest of the way. Sahara by day was fun and exotic. Sahara by night — pitch black and being led by a guide that spoke none of the languages I did — was cold and frightening. Finally we arrived at the tent, which thankfully was already set up.
After a great dinner, the guides wanted us to walk up the nearby sand dune. While the base of the dune was calm, halfway up the wind picked up and soon it turned into a sandstorm. If you haven’t experienced a sandstorm…good for you. It was a deafeningly loud mess of wind and sand and more sand that forces you to walk with your eyes closed, your mouth shut, and your ears covered by your hands. My shoes filled with sand, making as if I was walking with a sandbag on each foot. Our campfire light was no longer visible. One of the Brits in our group stated it best with a succinct “This is no longer enjoyable.” When I returned to the tent, I discovered sand everywhere…in my ears, up my nose, and in my delicates.
Here is our tent, at the base of the dune we climbed (and whose size was very hard to capture with photo).
Nighttime musical entertainment by the Berbers.
Speaking of Berber music, upon returning to Marrakesh I went to a local CD shop to look for a specific Berber band that our driver was playing a lot during the trip. I knew the name of the band (”Archach”) and asked the shop owner for it. It was clear he didn’t have it, but all of a sudden his face lit up and he ran to the back to get a copy…or so he said. He returned with a CD covered in Arabic writing. He proudly pointed to the band name with his finger and said “Here it is, Archach. The best!”. Little did he know that ol’ Schricker can read Arabic writing, and the actual name on that CD was for an entirely different band. Punk. I told him, and he finally walked out of his store to make a genuine effort to find a CD.
Trip Log: Marrakesh
Fes Out. Marrakesh in…but only after a ten hour train ride. Bigger, more polluted, more touristy…but more lively. I went across town to the Ville Nouvelle (the new city) to look around and no sooner had I stepped foot outside than did a guy on a motorbike zip ahead of me, pull over, and proceed to tell me how much he loved America and would like buy me a coffee. A little reluctant, but also a little bored, I decided to go along with his plan. I thought we would walk there, but he made me get on the back of his motorbike.
The next 20 minutes were a little out of the ordinary for me, as I sat on a motorbike for the first time, clinging to a man who didn’t smell good, driving into desolate parts of an unknown city. When he sensed I was a little unnerved, he gave me a lot of crap for it…but then pulled over for this promised coffee. (By the way, “I’d like to buy you a coffee” is Moroccan for “I’ll buy the coffee but you pay for both of us”.) The ensuing conversation was pretty entertaining. Here are the more entertaining parts.
(On the city of Fes)
Him: Fes is no good.
Me: Why?
Him: They is Jew.
(On his asthma)
Him: I have very bad asthma. I use two inhalers a week. Do you have advice for me, doctor? (He lights his third cigarette).
Me: Stop smoking.
Him: I don’t smoke that much. I need better inhalers.
(This is where I thought he was going to beat me up for my wrong answer)
Him: Do you know why there are so many date trees in Marrakesh?
Me: I don’t know…the French?
Him: F*CK the French! Don’t ever say French around me again. No French!
(On American women)
American woman, they are not clean. They f*ck everything. I want to come to America and get American girl.
At this point a homeless bum walked up to us, stared at me, then just grabbed my cup of tea…and drank it all. Perfect.
(This is when I realized his ulterior motive)
Him: I try to come to America. I applied for visa, but it’s taking five years. Will you sponsor me?
(When that didn’t work, he moved to ulterior motive #2)
Him: Yes I work, I have job, but it doesn’t pay well. Sometimes when I see tourist, I say “would you like to go on tour?” and they say yes. Sometimes they pay me a little. Sometimes I take them to shopping. Sometimes they pay me for that too. I never ask, but it’s better than robbing them. Will you pay for my gas?
Me: No.
Him: You are very hard-fisted. Do you know what that means?
Me: Yes. You know it’s not nice to insult people you’re with.
Him: I’m not. But you should give local people money. Do you want to buy a blue scarf?
Me: No!
(Then he tries the old favorite)
Him: I will take you to leather tannery for beautiful leather. Yes?
(This is when he evaluates if he could kill me and get away with it.)
Him: Are you travelling alone? Does anyone know you’re here? Do they know what hotel you’re staying at? Have you emailed them? Do they know you’re here? Is your friend worried if you don’t write him? What room number are you in?
Me: 18 (in reality, 26)
I finally paid him a little just for the entertainment of the preceding hour. On the motorbike ride back, I tried taking a picture of us, but he refused to show his face.
Our encounter ended once I got off the bike. His final words to me were “Stop talking. You talk too fast.” Goddamn it! I travel halfway around the globe and people still tell me the same thing as back home.
Trip Log: Fes 2
What did you do last night? I got naked with a bunch of guys in a steamy room…Moroccan style. I’m talking, of course, about a hamman, the traditional Middle Eastern communal bathhouse, which is often the only way locals are able to bathe.
I decided to get down with the local Fassis (Fes citizens) and so I walked down to a nearby hammam. After stripping down nearly completely, a big hairy man gave me two buckets filled with extremely hot water that was being heated by a nearby fire. I walked into big hot tile-covered room and then wondered what to do. Where do I sit? Who do I look at? Am I sitting too close? Whose hand is on my butt?
I took a seat and sat for about 30 minutes as my skin soaked up the steam. I then rubbed a special black soap over myself. At this point, I could have taken advantage of one of the attendants to scrub the soap off of me, but I chose instead to do it myself. Had I used the attendant, I probably would have ended up like the poor guy next to me, who was forced to lie stomach-down on the floor while the attendant stood on his back, interweaved his legs around him, and then proceeded to perform painful moves that I’ve only seen on WWF wrestling. Maybe next time.
One last thing: attention potential future Lonely Planet Morocco readers. If you follow their instructions on proper hammam etiquette — which is a good idea — be careful not to make the same error I did. They recommend bringing an “extra pair of knickers”. I misread knickers (British for underwear) as kickers (American for shoes) and so I ended up showing up with two pairs of shoes…but zero underwear. Awkward. There was a full moon over Morocco tonight!
(Apologies if this photo makes anyone vomit.)