Big Banana

It was time for me to get out of Marrakech… and I had explored a lot of options in regard to where I should venture to next. I had my heart set on returning to the Sahara desert, as I’d been there 25 years previously, and couldn’t remember anything other than it was undeniably spectacular.

But… there was a clincher this time around. I was bound and determined NOT to participate in any excursion that exploited camels.

This stipulation proved to be much more difficult than I had originally imagined. Every single tour, activity and multi-day excursion marketed camel rides as their principle highlight. That being said… if I wanted to see the Sahara (not on my own), I had to sign up.

So I did.

Of course, prior to this, I took the modern route of “asking other travelers” on social media for advice and recommendations, but was only met with reprimand, judgement and history lessons on Moroccan tradition. Spare me. Not one single person applauded my decision to stand against speciesism, while I sided with animal rights.

Before I fully committed to this 3-day excursion, which would take me to the renowned desert and then onto Fes, I wrote in the guide notes that I would NOT be riding a camel. They wrote back, almost immediately, letting me know that ATV rides would be available for an additional cost of €10 per ride. Although I wasn’t overly ecstatic at the thought of climbing aboard an ATV again, after my brush with death in the dunes of Namibia, it seemed a far more inviting option than that of contributing to the unethical treatment of camels.

But… we shall chat more about that later.

I arose at an ungodly hour in order to meet my tour on the day of my departure. When I arrived, I was met with a completely chaotic mass of confused people mulling about… and a slew of equally as confused tour guides, trying to figure out who was with who and where. It was my initial indicator that organization and communication were not going to be commonplace.

It all got sorted though… eventually… and off we went.

My bus had an interesting crew. 

Very interesting, indeed.

75% of the passengers were fabulous. There were a few young American students, an Australia student, a Norwegian couple and another solo traveller from Germany.  They were all fully engaged in the culture, the history and the Moroccan countryside… and for the most part, very fun to be around.

It was the other 25% that twisted the excursion into a pure nightmare.

I’m sure you have all experienced the irritation of a simple fly; that tiny, relentless pest, testing every ounce of your patience. It zips past your face repetitively and keeps landing on your skin with that unpleasant tickling. Swatting at it only seems to make it bolder with its taunting persistence.

Take the irritation of this one fly and add four more. Then multiple the aggravation by a million… and may I present the five Cuban Americans we had in our bus.

They were awful.

Awful.

Dreadful.

They were completely oblivious to their surroundings and displayed zero respect for anybody that was in the bus, except for themselves.

They spent the entire 72 hours exaggerating every one of their discussions and stories with over-the-top reactions, such as hysterical laughter, hand clapping or smashing themselves into the seats in front of them.

The shift between them talking loudly and shrieking made it impossible for the rest of us to tune them out. They were completely oblivious to how any of their disturbances were affecting the rest of the passengers. I don’t think they even cared.

They must have taken over 10,000 photos (each) and I would hazard to guess that they spent more time admiring their own selves and their surroundings from behind their screens, than with their own eyes.

It was awful.

They were awful.

And they were Trump supporters, which, in my opinion, makes them even more repulsive.

Loud, moronic, brash Trump supporters.

But aren’t they all, though?

Ya…

Shame.

I ended up sitting in the front with Mustafa, our driver and Ali, our guide. Ali’s character began as quite admirable… little foreshadowing here.

Judging on my first impression, I was thoroughly impressed. He spoke more languages than C3PO, seemed well travelled and could confidently (and wisely) speak about world affairs. His breath was rank, but it was a foul distinguishing we could let slide, considering all his other redeeming qualities.

Although I did sacrifice leg room, being squished in at the console, the front seat provided the best view as we winded our way up the Tizi n’Tichka pass and into the High Atlas Mountains.

It was stunning.

These jagged, sky-piercing and majestic mountain ranges extend for almost 2,000 kilometres across North Africa.

We stopped at a few viewpoints along the way and, of course, every pull out had its share of vendors ready to sell me their arts & crafts / junk.

They say there’s a sucker born every day… and I truly believe it’s me, most days. I seem to fall prey to decorative trash on the regular… and consider myself somewhat of a professional when it comes to wasting my money.

This time I bought a rock.

Not just any rock.

A pretty, lava-looking rock with a bewitching, purple crystallization inside. The video below is the green one. I bought the purple.

The vendor was charming and persuasive, convincing me that it was a precious stone. Obviously paying less than $3 for the piece of rubble should’ve given his opportunistic game away, but I can sometimes have a tough time believing all that glitters isn’t gold.

I bought it.

Hey… it’s pretty and it’s a rock… and it’ll make a dam good weapon should I need it.

Hopefully I don’t.

As we drove along, I suddenly felt as if I was catapulted back 25 years… and an imagine suddenly inched its way into my memory.

I turned to Ali and said, “Is there a place near here where Lawrence of Arabia was filmed?”

He nodded. “Yes. It’s just up here. It’s our next stop.”

How I knew that… I will never know. In fact, I don’t think I actually even went there the part time I was in Morocco. I only seem to recall driving past it and someone pointing it out.

Who knows?

I can hardly remember.

But there we were… Ksar Ait Benhudda.

This ancient ksar is an 7th century fortified city, the oldest village in Morocco and a great example of earthen clay architecture. It has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1987.

It’s not only the location of the filming of Lawrence of Arabia, but also Gladiator, The Jewel of the Nile, Alexander, Prince of Persia, The Mummy, Living Daylights… AND…. wait for it…

…

……

……….

Game of Thrones!

Ksar Ait Benhudda was Yunkai: one of the great cities in Slavers Bay, that Daenerys lays siege to in Season 3.

That’s right, every step I took, I was Daenerys, mother of dragons.

“I am Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria – I am the Dragon's Daughter…”

In fact, I got so carried away with my exploration of Yunkai, that I managed to get myself completely lost in the maze of the fortress.

Typical.

Once I was found, I was scolded for not being a responsible guest. Oops.

Ya… I was one of those people, like the damn Cubans. But I wasn’t… I was Khaleesi, a Dothraki queen, who’d just lost her way… temporarily.

Quite shameful, actually, for someone whose job is ‘tour guide’ back home.

Dreadful.

Like most organized tours, we stopped at shops where they are more focused on getting into your wallet than providing a memorable experience. Most of these ‘shops’ are more like warehouses than artisan boutiques… and  commission on sales are high and guaranteed. At least, I guess they’re guaranteed?? They must be… and sales must be high, or why would the tours bother stopping there?

In all of my travels, I have been witness to some fairly bizarre stops along the tourist trail, including stone structures, fossils, large area rugs, marble carvings, goldsmiths and perfumeries.

These stops have become staple in the world of snapshot tourism or express travel, the brief and often surface-level experiences, solely focused on capturing the essence of a destination.

There is nothing wrong with this style of travel… though I could never commit to it full time. When I’m feeling lazy or lonely, I often find myself taking advantage of this convenient, no-brainer way of seeing things. It’s a fabulous way to learn, have a bit of human interaction, make some connections and potentially, some new friends.

Ok… enough of me reproaching and praising group travel. Don’t even get me started on the restaurants they stop at…

Yes, we made some of these tourist style of stops along the way; a rose perfumery, a Berber village and an Argon oil factory. Sure… these places were interesting, but as soon as you recognize that you’re only there to spend money, the curiosity and enthusiasm diminishes quickly.

The Argon oil factory was one of our first stops… and an appallingexperience. While the majority of us diligently followed the local guide around, listening attentively to her over-rehearsed spiel, the Cubans behaved in a totally inconsiderate and disrespectful manner. They disregarded the young girl, speaking over her, laughing uncontrollably, ignoring her pleas for silence and continually wandering off.  The guide was visibly bothered and the rest of us were thoroughly horrified.

Our next stop was a Berber Village.

The Berber people are the true indigenous people of North African countries and the majority of their populations reside in Morocco and Algeria. Still today, many Berber tribes maintain their nomadic lifestyle within the Moroccan desert.

We were given a local guide, Hussain, who was quite the jokester. Throughout his commentary, he found it imperative to continuously remind us of “happy wife, happy life” and “no woman, no cry.”

I can’t really attest to how those citations related to our location, our tour or the history of Morocco, but every time he said it (and it was often), he would smile… and then he would point to his face and say, “big banana.”

It was amusing at first, but after a couple of hours, like most repetitious one-liners, it became quite irritating.

Every time he said it, he would dissolve into fits of laughter.

“BIG BANANA! Look at my face!” he would enthusiastically instruct, pointing at his not-so-pearly whites. “BIG BANANA!”

Hussain showed us around the Berber gardens, providing insight into the different types of plants & trees, as well as the community irrigation system. We were then herded into a Berber home, which was a great honour. What a special privilege for our group… invited into a family home for Moroccan tea.

Wait! Hold on…

What’s going on here?

This wasn’t an honour.

Not one but!

It wasn’t a Berber home.

It wasn’t a home at all.

Basically, we’d been cordially invited into a multi-level rug shop building. Of course, for cultural value, it presented itself as a genuine family home, ready to give us all an authentic Berber experience.

These types of “homes” are set up primarily to attract tourists and encourage them to purchase handcrafted goods, such as rugs!

I’m the killjoy of short term group travel.

Apologies.

I know I might sound particularity negative, but I’ve done enough of these “authentic experiences” to be able to see right through them now.

Our crowd was not exactly the carpet-buying crew though, so I’m sure we left them all thoroughly disappointed.

The man at the “house” wasnt brilliant at reading the room, and kept pushing rugs sales,  assuring us that international shipping is cheap & reasonable. I can assure all of you though, overseas shipping is neither cheap, nor reasonable.

Myth debunked.

Right here.

Much to my delight, I managed to refrain from purchasing any oil, rugs or rose perfume.

Way to go, Jo. Or, not go?

Whatever.

Hussain then took us to Todra Gorge, a natural oasis carved in limestone by the River Todra. If anyone has ever seen ‘The Princess Bride,’ knows what I’m talking about when I say that these were the cliffs of insanity. It was inexplicable how high and steep they were. It was also the location of Mission Impossible 2 filming.

The Cubans were no less disrespectful with Hussain than any other local guide we’d had.  They dawdled & dragged, squealed & squeaked, wailed & whooped, ignored his directions… and spent more time taking selfies than concerning themselves with the tour and the people affected by their ignorant behaviour.

But… “BIG BANANA!!!”

Sometimes you just have to big banana & bear it.  Hard as it is…