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We took the giant leap to Africa about 2 weeks ago, although it already
feels like we've been here for much longer. So much seems to happen here
every day and wa talk to so many people, that we have difficulty remembering
whether things happened the same morning or a few days ago.
At the moment we are in Marrakesh, Morocco, it's about 25°C, and we are at
the end of week 1 of Ramadan. No guide book really tells you what happens
during Ramadan and what you are supposed to do as a non-Muslim, so we have
gained lots of valuable experience by being here and observing all the local
customs. We thought we'd share it all with you, in case you are ever
fortunate enough to be in a muslim country during Ramadan.
For those of you that are totally unaware of what it's all about, Ramadan
means that for one lunar month Muslims are not allowed to eat, drink, smoke,
touch their wives or have naughty thoughts about women (!?) between sunrise
(5.30 am) and sunset (5.40pm). Therefore in a nutshell, all muslim men are
wandering around hungry, thirsty, twitchy, horny for 28 days. This has an
amazing effect on the behaviour of the local male populace. By the way, you
never see women behave strangely here. To our surprise it seems to be the
smoking that hits people the hardest.
Things start relatively civilized in the morning with people going about
their business in their usual manner. By noon there is some evidence of the
first scuffles between men, presumably the heaviest of smokers, who are
about to go for each other's throats. Then gradually the situation
deteriorates: you can sense testosterone levels rising throughout the
afternoon until they go through the roof by about 3pm. At this point and
until 5pm it is best to avoid any direct contact with a local if you want to
survive. By 4pm everything is closed and people are just sitting or lying in
the streets looking totally lifeless. There is a very positive side to all
this of course: the 'would-you-like-to-see-a-nice-carpet' types are so wiped
out, that they have been reduced to slug-like creatures with no business
initiative. Those travellers that are brave enough may even wander into
their shops, touch things and go out without being attacked from all sides
and forced to buy things.
As a foreigner, it is best to buy lots of provisions the evening before and
store them in the hotel room for those hungry pangs during the day. In a
relatively liberal society like Morocco's nobody seems to care too much if
you, as a Westerner, is seen eating in the street, but it just seems to make
the testosterone situation even worse. A bit like being in a monastery and
having a parade of naked women outside your window... Anyway, us infidels
are doomed to go to hell anyway, so eating a a bowl of couscous during
Ramadan will not make any difference.
At 5pm there is lots of noise. Everyone comes out in the streets and squares
holding obviously what they are craving most: some people are poised in
front of a cup of coffee and a bowl of soup, others are clutching a packet
of Malboros till their knuckles go white, some have litre bottles of orange
juice, bread, sweets, kebabs. Strangely enough, nobody seems to be anywhere
near their wives ...
Then the fun bit starts. At 5.35, the muezzin shouts the call for prayer
which lasts about 2 minutes and then a siren is sounded which signals the
end of the fast. At this point the streets and squares which were brimming
with people empty in a matter of seconds, as you witness a virtual stampede
towards restaurants, cafes, homes and other sources of food. You can almost
hear the sound of satisfied chomping from the 'breakfast' tables. By 6 pm,
men are beginning to emerge back onto the streets with a smile on their
face, testosterone levels have dropped back to normal and everyone is
heading for the eateries (yes, again) conveniently located in the square in
the centre of town. At 7pm everyone has their 'lunch', which consists of
mountains of couscous with tons of meat, chips, kebabs, chilli sauce, tajine
(moroccan stew) all in seemingly endless quantities. The square then fills
with local Berber bands playing fantastic drums, actors, transvestite
dancers (apparently a Marrakesh speciality), snake charmers, women wanting
to cover you from top to bottom with that nasty henna stuff. By 10 pm
everyone is sitting down ... to eat again. It's good to follow the locals'
example - ignore any protestations from your stomach that it is full and
your brain that it is bad for you and carry on eating. You will only be
grateful for this binge the following morning when you can't find any food.
At this point one of the locals will comment that Ramadan is very good for
your health. Just agree, even if you think that the prophet had totally lost
it when he was making up all these fasting rules.
Later in the evening you can wander around some more entertainers', or drink
some freshly squeezed juice, walk past the sweet vendors, have a bowl of
peppery boiled snails, be invited for some mint tea, eat some more ...
whatever, just do it in excess. Before the food stalls start packing up at
1am, you will notice that all the locals are diving in to buy a chicken or
some fish or some other consumable for their 3am supper just before they go
to bed.
And the next day, it's the same story all over again. 21 days of this
madness still to go.
Ramadan aside, this is how we found ourselves in this part of the world:
after we left the Mikkelsens in Nice, we spent 3 days in Barcelona, a week
in Madrid visiting some friends, 1 day in Toledo, and 2 days in Sevilla.
Spain was excellent fun but there were signs of winter in the air,
especially in Madrid, so we decided not to linger for too long. One of the
best evenings was a Saturday night in Madrid, where our friends took us from
tapas bar to tapas bar. We ended up in a bar with Andalucian flamenco music.
The singer/guitarist was a gypsy who seemed to have gargled with razor
blades and was coming up with reassuringly Spanish exclamations like
'hombre' and 'ole' in between singing. We ended up staying there until 3.30
am and like real madrilenos finished the evening in a traditional
'chocolateria' that served thick hot chocolate with churros (doughnut-like
twists), and going to bed at 5.30. We still had enough energy to visit the
Prado Museum the next day.
From Sevilla we caught the bus to Algeciras, a totally unremarkable town in
the south of Spain, useful only for catching the ferry to Ceuta, the Spanish
enclave in north Africa. From there, we crossed the Morrocan border with
absolutely no hassles and here we are in the Third World.
So far here in Morocco we've been to Chefchaouen, a village halfway up the
Rif mountains, Fes, Meknes and Casablanca. The latter was a bit
disappointing - the Moroccan population seems to be totally unaware of the
Hollywood blockbuster, as noone has seized the golden opportunity of opening
a "Rick's" cafe. Actually apart from the name and infrequent flights out of
Casablanca, there is absolutely nothing in common between the town and the
film. The presence of the second largest mosque in the world (which us
infidels can't get into anyway) is small consolation. Bogart any day.
We've had some interesting experiences on Moroccan buses. On one of the
first trips, we kept being stopped by the police at all the checkpoints out
of Chefchaouen. The police were not interested in us two at all, but instead
kept checking the same three guys over and over again. We heard the words
'contraband' and 'hashish'. In the end, at the 5th or 6th checkpoint they
found a small packet of hash on one of the Moroccan guys. It seems that
Chefchaouen is a major distribution centre for Spain and other parts of
Africa, and that the police had inside informers as they knew exactly who to
target. Fortunately the police never caught a guy on the same bus that had
smuggled in tins of tuna from Ceuta and had placed a tin of tuna at each one
of the overhead luggage lockers. He then proceeded to collect them all in
Fes and take them home. The same bus managed to scrape the side of a car, so
we waited for an hour for the police to sort out the dispute, which they
seemed to do in about 2 minutes. A different bus broke down and we had to
wait for a new one to arrive, while we spent time chatting to the
passengers. It seems that stepping on a bus here involves the start of an
adventure, but all the locals are really friendly and take it all in their
own stride, which is something that we are learning to do very quickly.
The old medina in Fes was amazing: an exercise on how to squeeze as many
stores, people, food, donkey carts and Japanese tourists in as narrow a
street as possible. Food is good and plentiful even (or rather especially)
during Ramadan.
We'd like to thank some of you who have kept us up to date with the current
world news, e.g. the US elections. The Canadians managed to elect someone in
only one day. Isn't that amazing?
We don't know when or where the next travel update will be from so MERRY
CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR 2001.
Lots of love
Markella & Kristian
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