Getting to Morocco meant taking the 9am bus from Cadiz to
the Tarifa port, with enough time allowed for delays before the 1pm ferry
across the Strait of Gibraltar to Tangier, Morocco. Many of the reviews we read
said the ferries and buses never ran to schedule but everything seemed to run
smoothly for us without any issues. All our tickets had been pre-booked.
Leaving Spain from Tarifa Port |
Boarding the 45-minute ferry ride to cross the Strait of Gibraltar to Morocco |
The ferry ride across the Strait of Gibraltar was sickening.
Literally. With the wild weather and rain over the past few weeks, the seas
were rough. I’m not sure if they’re always that rough but luckily the 3 kids
took their travel sickness tablets and managed to keep everything down. John, who
is terrible with boats and sea sickness, refused to take the travel tablets and
was turning green. I think his pride was the only thing that kept everything
down.
I’m usually OK with boats and choppy seas, so I didn’t feel the need to take any meds. However, during what was probably the roughest part of the trip, I was walking back and forth between the passport control queue on board and where the kids were sitting as I thought they may have needed to present themselves to passport control when our turn came. Those trips trying to keep my balance in a boat rocking side to side, coupled with standing in the queue trying to keep my balance while people around me were being sick, and the relative warmth and stuffiness the closer I got to the counter all combined into the perfect storm. In the midst of the officer processing our 5 passports at what felt like a snail’s pace, I could feel myself breaking into a cold sweat. I had to call John to finish the transaction excusing myself for some fresh air outside where I stayed until the end of the trip.
I’m usually OK with boats and choppy seas, so I didn’t feel the need to take any meds. However, during what was probably the roughest part of the trip, I was walking back and forth between the passport control queue on board and where the kids were sitting as I thought they may have needed to present themselves to passport control when our turn came. Those trips trying to keep my balance in a boat rocking side to side, coupled with standing in the queue trying to keep my balance while people around me were being sick, and the relative warmth and stuffiness the closer I got to the counter all combined into the perfect storm. In the midst of the officer processing our 5 passports at what felt like a snail’s pace, I could feel myself breaking into a cold sweat. I had to call John to finish the transaction excusing myself for some fresh air outside where I stayed until the end of the trip.
Onboard the ferry before we turned green |
Adios Espana! |
I had told the kids that we would have to ‘hail a donkey’
and find our own way around Morocco after their persistent questioning about
how we were going to get around. Given that we were making our own way to
Tangier, they believed me, so there was a combined sense of excitement and relief
when Mig saw someone holding up Hubby's name at the Tangier port. Even more
relief when we were ushered out to the waiting vehicle.
Our ride while we're in Morocco. No hailing of donkeys necessary. |
Tangier is a massive and relatively cosmopolitan city, more
European than Moroccan as far as the eyes were concerned… nothing at all like
Marrakech, or even Fez, which I will never forget as my first impression into
Morocco. I had envisioned Tangier to be a small port town, nothing at all like
the city that it is. I have since found out that it’s the second largest city
after Casablanca. My thoughts went back to the Canadian I was talking to while
standing in the passport control queue on the ferry. They were making an
overnight trip to Tangier from Spain just so they could ‘check out Morocco’.
Tangier is not Morocco. It’s in Morocco but I couldn’t help but wonder what
impression of Morocco this Canadian and his family would have if that’s all
they saw. There’s so much more depth and variety to Morocco that I couldn’t help
but feel sorry for them – the souks, the medinas, the kasbahs, the desert, the
Rif and Atlas mountains.
It seems there are many who do this - hop on the ferry from Spain, spend a few nights in Tangier, and that’s their foray into Morocco. It’s the equivalent of hopping on a ferry across the English Channel from Portsmouth, England into Caen or Calais, France - spending a few nights there and going no further to experience the rest of France. If Tangier is all you have time for, then at least stay in and explore the old medina inside the old city walls.
It seems there are many who do this - hop on the ferry from Spain, spend a few nights in Tangier, and that’s their foray into Morocco. It’s the equivalent of hopping on a ferry across the English Channel from Portsmouth, England into Caen or Calais, France - spending a few nights there and going no further to experience the rest of France. If Tangier is all you have time for, then at least stay in and explore the old medina inside the old city walls.
Old prison now abandoned. Beautiful buildings 'ripe for renovation' are not an uncommon site. |
Riad just inside the old city walls. |
We managed to get Mig a cake with a candle at our lunch
stop which led to an entire restaurant full of people singing Happy Birthday to
him in a bunch of mixed languages so I was glad we were able to make his day
feel special before it ended.
Little did we know, Moha, our driver/guide, had also
arranged for a birthday cake and some Moroccan tea at our riad. Hubby and I were
completely caught off guard wondering if the other had organised the surprise.
Unfortunately, we weren’t quick enough and the confusion showed on our faces so
we weren’t able to take credit for the preparations.
The long day ended in the most unexpected way possible. Our
riad had a private hammam (bath house) which we had always wanted to experience. We had seen the historical moorish bath houses when we were in Granada, Spain several years earlier but never got to try any of the hammams there. So when Hubby asked to see it, he was quick to organise ‘a hammam experience’ for both of
us. It was a heated stone room similar to the now familiar Finnish and Swedish
saunas except - instead of wood – it is made of marble, stone and traditional
mosaics expected from this part of the world. Then there was a massage table. ‘Great!’,
I thought. ‘I know how this works! I’ve been to spas before. Sign me up.’
The attendant showed us where we could undress. Always the
awkward part with any spa experience as you never really know how far to
undress. Down to your underwear? Underwear off? Top only? Or everything??
Change room and massage area |
In
this case, as it was a private hammam, the attendant told us matter-of-factly
we could just remove everything and go naked. Everything?? Ok… I complied but
clutched my towel wrapped around me as I sat on the hot marble bench. Then she
asked for my towel. “But I’ve got nothing on”, I sheepishly reminded her. “Can
I just sit on my towel??” I asked now feeling like I was back in Year 2 asking
for permission to go to the toilet. That marble was HOT! “Ok” she shrugged, “...but
you’ll need to take off the towel when I do all the other things”. Other
things?? What other things? Aren’t we just supposed to sit here and sweat, then
shower, then get a massage??
(Damn it! I should've Googled 'Moroccan Hammam' before getting to this point!)
Well… those “other things” involve the attendant bathing and scrubbing you like you’ve never been bathed and scrubbed before.
First, she asks you to lie down on the hot marble slab. So ‘naked you’ not only has to lie down, but more bare skin now has to touch this hot stone. The ‘ritual’ then starts with the attendant pouring hot water over you using shallow dishes, a bit like how you would baste a roasting turkey with glaze. This is a relief because it actually cools the hot stone. Next, she starts slathering every inch of you in what I now know as ‘black soap’ (sabon beldi), a gel-like substance made from olive oil that makes you so slippery you could easily slip off the marble bench you’re laying on.
(Damn it! I should've Googled 'Moroccan Hammam' before getting to this point!)
Well… those “other things” involve the attendant bathing and scrubbing you like you’ve never been bathed and scrubbed before.
First, she asks you to lie down on the hot marble slab. So ‘naked you’ not only has to lie down, but more bare skin now has to touch this hot stone. The ‘ritual’ then starts with the attendant pouring hot water over you using shallow dishes, a bit like how you would baste a roasting turkey with glaze. This is a relief because it actually cools the hot stone. Next, she starts slathering every inch of you in what I now know as ‘black soap’ (sabon beldi), a gel-like substance made from olive oil that makes you so slippery you could easily slip off the marble bench you’re laying on.
Marble bench - 'Scene of the Crime' |
Water fountain (tap) and buckets of water with THAT marble bench in background |
Once you’ve been cleansed of your dead skin, the attendant
slathers on something else that looks like a black scrub. By this
stage you’re well and truly resigned to the nakedness and the fact that a
complete stranger is not only washing you but has just scrubbed you in places
you’ve never been scrubbed before.
After several minutes of letting this black ‘shmuck’ do its
work, you’re then free to get under the shower and wash it off yourself (Really??! Why stop now?). You’re
then ushered into the change room and given fresh robes where you can sip on a
cool cup of fresh lemon drink while you wonder what the hell just happened.
Shower area |
PS. The massage needed to be booked separately so we never got one as we were only there overnight!
PPS. I have since Googled 'Moroccan Hammams' and discovered that the Arabic hammams in Granada and Seville, Spain that I've seen with the pools of water at different temperatures is more aligned to the Turkish bathing tradition. Moroccan hammams include the washing and scrubbing I just described. It's not a touristy or ancient ritual either. Moroccans today go to public hammams around once a week, or at least once a month. What a luxury! My skin has never felt so soft - ever! Not even after a body scrub at a 'normal' spa. This was next level exfoliation which, heaven knows, our skin needed after last winter.
Mental note: need to get my hands on that sabon beldi and scrubbing mitt. That was a miracle combo.
PPS. I have since Googled 'Moroccan Hammams' and discovered that the Arabic hammams in Granada and Seville, Spain that I've seen with the pools of water at different temperatures is more aligned to the Turkish bathing tradition. Moroccan hammams include the washing and scrubbing I just described. It's not a touristy or ancient ritual either. Moroccans today go to public hammams around once a week, or at least once a month. What a luxury! My skin has never felt so soft - ever! Not even after a body scrub at a 'normal' spa. This was next level exfoliation which, heaven knows, our skin needed after last winter.
Mental note: need to get my hands on that sabon beldi and scrubbing mitt. That was a miracle combo.
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