Forget the Teller, Give me the Fortune

1.You are waiting for some news.

2.You are going to make a big change in your life.
3.You are very tired.

These were the three truths so prominent in my life at the time of their unveiling that when Mohammed, a Moroccan Berber/stone age fortune teller, scurried them out from under my shield of ignorance, I couldn't muster the words for a reply. The third prediction was one not easily ignored. Giant black crop circles had managed to set up permanent camp just below each eye and any desirable feature I possibly had now sagged with exhaustion in a droopy grimace. Two months of non-stop train hopping had taken the wind out of my sails, stripped the fuel from my tank, and hindered all performance. So ya, I was a little tired.

Number one one the list of insightful prophecies could pertain to any number of things, really. Every day I would scan through piles of emails, looking for the slightest reason to end these ridiculous escapades and head home. Although I loved the crisp, cool breath that freedom poured into my lungs in one resuscitating blow, I couldn't shake the resentment that clawed beneath my skin. I missed my father's long and insightful talks, his words strewn with Confucian remarks. Or the way my mother could craddle me in her arms by just looking at me. It wasn't until I'd left Mohammed's shop in the main square and wandered back to my hotel that I found the greatest treasure waiting for me. There in my inbox was news from my brother; he was coming to see me.

The second prediction Mohammed made is one I still can't put my finger on. Every day thus far has been loaded to the brim with illustrious choices and changes. From leaving home 2 months earlier as scared and unsure as I've ever been, to falling in love with a lifestyle so surreal, I couldn't see how the next few weeks of my journey could possibly be anything less than outrageous. And I hoped, for not only my self, but my sanity as well, that I would confront these future changes with an open heart and jump head first into the lion's den.

Don't Drink the Water

There they stand in files, pleated against the length of their clay dwellings.
Mothers cradle their young, who clutch the breast of life, waiting.
How long has it been since we've seen a reason or felt a truth?
How long has it been?
Day by day they crouch outside their homes, sieving heaps of crimson sand through callosed hands. Their fingertips numb to the steady rythm, and yet their nail beds throb after having bled a steady trickle of hope.
The well is dry and cracked and still they wait.
Still enough for the wind to catch their draped wishes in a swift breeze.
The work is hard, the tea is sweet, and they, they sweat for a faith that promises something in return.

The Atlas Mountains

Bouquets of color scramble wildly over each sculpted curve, every chiselled peak. Lush emerald blades strike upwards like rigid soldiers. Along their worn line that separates the broken hills from the lost valleys are buckets of bleeding reds shrivelled to a halt by an overgrowth of budding life. As you daunt past the mark Hope made with delight, life ceases to flourish in a pile of arid dust. But don't be made weary of the blanketing shepards. Like mourning widows hacked clean from their beloved mates, the hills cry for one another. Beneath each peak, settled along each base thrives the brush that sweeps, the stream that courses through the veins of the hollowed hills, the slow burn of a dying ember. Yet all those wandering eyes breathe in is the scar tissue that erodes each pinnacle.

Cover Up; It's Only 40 Degrees Outside

Someone once told me that Morocco is a hot spot for western women seeking romantic affairs, the place they run off to so some guy in an Armani t-shirt can whisper sweet nothings in her ear in Arabic. It's also the place where non-romantic affair seeking western women get hassled and propositioned on the street. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Tangier.

But that's not to say that all Tangierians anxiously await a new flock of wild geese each day. The women are a different story. The Islamic religion is one that preaches of modesty and self cleanliness. Therefore, Muslim women do not expose themselves in public as an act of respect. These women mean business; they go to the beach in 40 degree weather fully clothed; no hair unveiled, no skin shown. Well I wish someone would have told me this before I go marching in there with bare arms and ankles, flashy tattoos, and pierced ears. It was like going to a fancy dinner and flashing your smile all over the room to then notice, long after the evening has concluded, that there's something slimy and green wedged between your two front teeth. All you can do is cringe at the thought of how long it's been there. I was that slimy green thing to these women.

So, to escape from this onslaught of both ogling and glowering stares, I laid down on the sand with my face stretched towards the sun. It's warmth still reached down like an extended hand and I let out a breath of frustration. With the tension easing I listened to the waves roll over each other as they made their way to the shore. The sand beneath me had now cooled against my back, but I still smiled with contentment. But then, with my eyes still closed, I thought, yeah, this could be anywhere in the world.

We're not in Kansas Anymore

If you were to take a look in any Moroccan Travel Guide on any given day it would tell you that the country is located in North Africa, has a population of over 33 million people, and an area of 710,850km2. You are sure to read that the country’s capital is Rabat and that the national currency is the Moroccan Durham. If you’re really lucky and picked up the special edition copy featuring maps of cities with names you can’t pronounce, you most definitely will have a list of the best places to really experience Moroccan culture. From the Kasbahs to the mind droning carpet salesmen, these books have it all.

But, what you won’t find between page 3 and 4, located next to the long list of celebrity hot spots, is an accurate description of how it feels to truly be in Morocco. Yeah, you can pay 200 Euro to be taken 5 minutes out of town and ride an over worked and abused camel long enough to get your award winning picture. Or, visit a city’s bustling Souk to find yourself surrounded by hundreds of camera happy white faced tourists. Don't even get me started on the so called "snake charmers." But hey, this is what the folks back home pay to see on TV.

Never in a Travel Guide will you find a map of culture. It’s something that each one of us finds and experiences differently, and at our own pace. It took me days to truly get in the swing of things. I wasn’t used to strange men eyeballing me like a wolf would a three-legged cat. Or, how there are two prices for everything; the local’s price, and then the tourist’s price (I once paid a Euro for a single banana). I didn’t understand the importance of art and music to the Berber people until I was in the Dades Gorge drinking tea with them. Culture can’t be written, and it can’t be photographed. A people’s lifestyle must be experienced hands on and without any reservations. I didn’t completely unveil the true Morocco in the one week I spent in the country, but what I did discover is something you won’t ever read in a book.

Cadaques

Nuzzled in the far North East corner of Spain along the Mediterranean coast resides the little port town of Cadaques. Don’t be fooled by this town’s completely off the radar status; it’s everything you could ever ask of a beach bound holiday; If snoozing on the white sandy beaches in between dips in the calm, crystal sea is your thing. The entire town is stretched along the coast allowing for its town center to sit comfortably along the harbour. Once I stepped off the bus and looked out across the town’s white washed buildings, I knew I was in heaven.

But all was not well in the Land of Oz. I had arrived quite late in the day to Cadaques and as it was the weekend, all reasonably priced hostels were booked. So Mark and I trudged along the town’s coastal walk, hoping we might find a quite beach to set up at tent. Easier said than done. Not only Cadaques but most of Spain’s coast line is occupied by either farmland or local properties. In a country so beautiful these people weren’t leaving any free roaming grounds. Just then the sun began to set and our worries intensified. Camping on a government owned beach was a federal offense and could be punishable by law. If we set up the tent along the water we risked a hefty fine and eviction. What else do you think keeps the hobos out of Spain? So we continued to walk until we found ourselves slowly drifting out of town.

By this point I was all too willing to curl up in a tree if that meant I could go to sleep. I let these thoughts run through my head as Mark crept around some of the local’s land until I saw a blonde head bobbing towards me. The first thing that came to mind was, and pardon my language, Shit, she called the cops. We were done for. Next time I talked to my mom would be from a prison cell in the heart of Spain while I swatted away an eavesdropping inmate named Leslie. But the woman approached us with a smile and looked at us through her huge heart and asked us if we wanted to stay at her place. We followed her through the iron gates that led to her property and found that Jesse owned a villa rental and had recently housed god knows how many models for a Spanish photo shoot. She then led us to what would be our lodgings; a miniature house. We were delighted to have been granted this kindness and after watching Jesse walk back up to the main house, we both made a mad dash, like a couple of 4 year olds, to the giant king size bed where we bounced on the mattress, over come with giggles while revelling in our good luck.