an evening out at jem el fna in marrakech
It was supposed to be a short stroll around the medina and lunch before my afternoon meetings. One wrong turn, and I got 'lost' in the labyrinth for hours. Met some single-serving friends who I made plans to hang out with later that evening. But I got a turned around again in the medina’s maze on my way to meet them, and they bailed on me.
So I braved the bizarre bazaar that is the nighttime scene at Jem al Fna solo. Had dinner at a meat stall run by a man everyone called Obama, but who called himself Eddie Murphy. Finished the night chatting over tea with a Berber boy who tried to run game, but wasn't ready for 'Macon Red'.
casablanca: the few good places to go
Sent out the bat signal to the homey Karl 'the mineral man' Mangialardi, aka, 'Our man in Morocco', aka, 'The Philly goosepimple pimp'.
He took the first thing smokin' from Fez to Casa to show me the ropes.
'Casa's a shithole.' He confided. 'You have to know the few good places to go.'
Over the next few days he proceeded to show me these places. Rick's cafe near the port, with its incredible live jazz band on Sundays. The Marché Centrale where we had fresh-shucked oysters from a smack-talking auntie and watched a turtle try to escape its fate. The best cafe to order a cafe noir w/'shwee' lait. The mazelike and surprisingly modern-focused medina. The beachfront bustle of Ain Diab. The tragic misuses of travertine and other stones in the crumbling, barely-beautiful Art-Deco style buildings around central Casa.
But my favorite Mangialardi insider experience? The 'man bars'.
You see, as a Muslim country, the consumption of alcohol is technically prohibited. But... drankers gonna drank. So, Karl inducted me into the secret society of Casablanca dive bars frequented only by men.
The telltale sign of one of these hidden-in-plain-sight bars? A 70s-style beaded curtain. Once pulled back, another world awaits. Cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air. Moroccan men of all ages - but mostly older - belly up to the bar, camp out at tables, ordering round after round of Stork (lager) or Speciale (pilsner). The music from the comically ancient jukebox is either classic rock (heavy on the Dire Straits) or Moroccan gnawa (Karl and I are both partial to the gnawa music).
With Karl as my escort, I am largely invisible. I imbibe my beers and observe much. Chokran and merci beaucoup for the crash course, Karl! #askalocal #behindthebeadedcurtain
cape town airbnb
After 2 months of travel, packing has become both a science and a herculean feat. Each place I visit means I acquire a little bit more that still has to fit into 2 carry-on sized bags. This would be why I was late checking out of my Cape Town Airbnb.
CAPE TOWN AIRBNB
Thankfully, Peter, my host wasn't fazed. The cleaning service started doing their thing while I finished stacking, rolling and stuffing all my sh*t, then stored it off to the side. Once finished, I was famished. I had several hours before my flight.
Peter queried, "So what are you going to do now?"
I mentioned that I wanted to try out a nearby restaurant on Bree Street, but couldn't remember the name.
"Is it Clarke's?" He offered.
"Yes! That's it!"
"Ohhhh.... they have the BEST burgers. I wish I could join you."
"You should," I replied. He looked momentarily shocked at the ease of my offer, then his eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas.
"I really shouldn't eat a whole burger by myself," I proffer. "Why don't you come split one with me?"
The magic words work, Peter grabs keys, we walk to his car and are off.
At Clarke's, we find a table, order. Burger with cheese. Double fries. 2 blonde beers. Peter prefers medium rare. I'm more of a medium gal. As the guest, I win out. As we wait for our food, Peter reminds me why over-40 gay men are some of my fave people to hang out with.
He points out naughty things and rattles off dirty double entendres that have us both giggling like prim and precocious Catholic schoolchildren.
He blames it on the 1 beer we had, but I know a fellow 'dirty mind' when I encounter it. The beer is a convenient excuse. When I ask, are you Jewish, he quickly replies, "Half. The bottom half." Despite the silliness, our conversation spans many serious topics: housing values in central Cape Town, what it's like being gay in South Africa, backwards practices around HIV/AIDS prevention, what African men are really like, Jacob Zuma, Donald Trump and government corruption. We even stop for ice cream and candies after lunch. By the time we're back at the flat, we hug and cheek-kiss like old friends.
"Don 't forget to leave a review on Airbnb," Peter calls after me as I walk out the door. " Absolutely!" I reply.
johannesburg, i am soaking you in
Johannesburg, I am soaking you in. I am parched and you are succulent and nourishing balm, you are a mental and emotional emollient. Months of travelling in countries where I do not speak the language, where the music does not move me quite as deeply as I need to be moved, where my skin, my features, my existence are novelties has slowly been drying me out, leaving me feeling chapped and tightened.
But here you are with your streets, shops and buildings full of beautiful black faces that call each other (and me) ‘sister’ or ‘brother’ and the elders ‘mother’ and ‘father; with your music that makes me sweat out my road-weariness on the dancefloor, with your new luxuries and your old culture on full and unabashed display; and – perhaps most importantly – with your Krispy Kreme and your Popeye’s and your Outkast playing on the radio. Already, I can tell that you are much too much to explore all in one go, but I’m willing to give it my best shot.
***
In hindsight, I didn’t really realize how physically and mentally exhausting Morocco (and my long layover in Egypt) was. Being in Johannesburg has sharply contrasted my entire north African experience. I literally feel like I have emerged from an ancient desert with the sand still stinging my eyes, and landed smack in the middle of a modern, luxurious world where the familiarity of everything makes me feel strangely disoriented. The past 2.5 days in Jozi have been a gradual awakening from a dream that I had resigned myself to accepting as brute fact into a much sweeter reality. No piles of carcasses on the streets. Here, there are Porsches and BMWs. No hawkers or hustlers to avoid or clap back at. Here, the street vendors are passively available to anyone who’s interested in buying. No worry about what to wear so as not to draw undue attention to myself. No dirt and grime and dust settled into everything. No navigating narrow alleyways in medinas or hoping that the taxi I just hailed will actually take me to my destination and won’t end up heatedly arguing with me about the fare. Here, the Uber driver always arrives on time, asks me what radio station I want to listen to, calls me sister and wishes me a nice day when I disembark. I can barely swallow it all. I feel grateful and almost, but not quite undeserving. I have earned this. I deserve to bask in these simple luxuries.
***
As I pass people on the street, in the mall, at the office, I openly observe their faces, mannerisms, the way they walk, their style of dress. I am hungry for these people. My eyes devour all the beautiful black faces around me. I am generous with my ‘hellos’ and thank you’s and ‘good mornings’ and ‘have a nice days’. I eavesdrop and smile at snippets of conversations….
Hearing someone exclaim “AAYEEE!” while talking to their friend.
Hearing everyone of similar age refer to each other (even strangers, even me) as sister and brother and to their elders as mother and father.
The guy at the security checkpoint in the airport to the older woman dressed in her West African finest... “Mother, this way please’
The girl at the coffee shop when I was inquiring about ground transport, “I know one father here who drives a taxi…”
The security guard who was making the rounds in the office where I was working late one evening. “Hello, sister, how are you?”
And that accent? So roundly soft with British and Dutch undertones yet still so distinctly African. I plump up every time I hear it.
***
My Uber driver who dropped me off back at my flat after I finished grocery shopping asked me,
“First time to South Africa?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of it?”
“I like it. Everyone looks so healthy and happy here.”
He laughs.
cape town: boulders beach stopover
Booked a shuttle to Cape Point, aka, the Cape of Good Hope, and along the way we stopped at Boulders Beach, home to a settlement of penguins. I was absolutely giddy to see these birds in natural habitat, plodding about officiously on the sand and darting through the water with amazing speed. Truly one of the most delightful nature excursions I've ever had.
17 hours in cairo
My flight from Morocco to South Africa included a 17-hour layover in Cairo. Which was plenty of time to see 1 of the 7 Wonders of the Ancient World.
I had stayed out well past bedtime the night before and slept poorly on the plane, so exhausted was an understatement. My tour driver met me at the airport after a long wait for my free hotel voucher from the airline.
The first part of the tour was just what I’d hoped, but it quickly turned into a shill show that ultimately left a sour taste in my mouth. Still, it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience that I won’t soon forget.
