Le atekelem Arabia and things of that nature.

Chefchouan, Morocco

*Note: Please know that I am typing on an old, French and Arabic keyboard, in a small mountain village of Morocco, so please excuse any and all typos.

I am warm and comfy in my newly purchased Zilaba, a full length robe like garment with a pointy KKK style hood and two small slits in the sides to put your hands through. My particular one is dark brown with small dark brown stripes and smaller white stripes. The man wanted 380 Dirham for it. I bargained him down to 290, approximately 42 US Dollars. However, I didnt buy it right away. I walked away and checked out prices at other shops. I did return eventually after asking Mustafa -the young man who runs the place Im staying - and he said 300 was a good price. Whether I overpaid or not, I dont care because now I am warm and stylish, maybe except for the fact that I am wearing my green raincoat/windbreaker over the zilaba.
I arrived yesterday from a rocky three hour ferry ride from Algeciras, in the South of Spain, to Tangiers, Morocco. The slight initial sprinkling became a drenching downpour. Most of my belongings are still drenched and hanging to dry in my room, as I type this. I eventually found my way to the bus depot and bought a ticket for Chefchouan. I achieved this by warding off several men who wanted to find me a taxi or accompany me through the dangerous streets that I would have to walk through -- according to the man. There was also an old lady from the boat who seemed to be helpful and friendly, in exchanged for me helping lug her 5 heavy bags from the ship. However when we got to the taxi and I didnt have the 2 Euros to pay for the ride, she hopped in the car and they took off without so much as a second glance. I asked directions from two different posts of checkpoint guards, and possibly also policemen. When revealed that I am from the US, the second checkpoint officer got a glimmer in his eyes and began enthusiastically talking about the beauty of Los Angeles and the discos in Las Vegas. I dont think he had ever been there, these were just faraway fantasies. I thanked him and was about to say goodbye when he took off in the opposite direction, blowing his whistle and chasing after a couple young rapscallions who had run by the gate. After realizing he couldnt catch up with them, he shrugged and turned around. I began to head off for the bus station when he called to me and waved goodbye excitedly. I waved back, and as I turned around to continue on, I believe he was still waving. I waited for several hours in the bus depot, journalling, reading, and munching on snacks I had purchased earlier in the day -- around which time I somehow lost my sweater/jacket. The bus finally arrived in Chefchouan around 11:30ish PM. It dropped me off on the side of a lowly lit road, supposedly near the bus station. Within minutes, a police officer had come out to help. However he only spoke French, so he held my umbrella as I fumbled around my moist mochila -- لسيبسشيب سيتمنسيمبنتس سمينتبس ث تثهçس. Mochila means backpack. Thats what I was trying to type when my keyboard became possessed and began spewing Arabic characters as you can see above. Anyway, the kind policeman patiently got rained on as I looked up the words hotel and inexpensive, in my little French phrasebook. He pointed me up an incredibly steep street and told me to ask the police up there -- all this was in French mind you. Panting, I reached the top of the hill and headed down the main boulevard. I found the policeman and they politely accompanied me to a hotel. The bigger of the two incessantly, knocked, banged and rang the doorbell until the sleepy hotel manager opened the door and infomed us they were full. We continued on to another place that charged signicantly more than I wanted to spend, having forked over 25 Euros the night before for an insect-inhabited, port-town room. I continued on alone, thanking the officers for their assistance. Eventually after climbing another steep incline and wandering around a labyrinth of white and blue connected buildings, which I believe to be the Medina, I found my little Oasis -- Pensiones Cordoba. It was warm and dry and for 70 Dirham a night, it was Heaven. Mustafa, the aforementioned pension manager, showed me around the corner to a little hole-in-the-wall where I purchased a mug of fruit and green yogurt, and a sandwich that contained tuna, small slices of ham, pasta salad, pickles, onions, tomatoes, green olives and ketchup. I also purchased a bottle of water from another nearby shop and we headed back to the pension. I devoured my food, perched atop a hard pillow, while Mustafa and Abdul watched Argentina and Colombia duke it out on the soccerfield, on TV.

I have always said that I Love the rain. And I do. However, I must say that it is not the most ideal condition to experience the beauty of this wonderess country known as Morocco.