All plans are written in Jell-o

The title of this final post is a mantra I learned early in my Outdoor Education career. It's always good to have plans, but things rarely go exactly as planned. Take the final week of my trip, for example.

Be careful what you wish for

My flight out of Douala was at 3:50am. Awkward. For some reason many of the flights in and out of Douala are in that odd time period between sunset and sunrise when you can't quite decide whether to call it "ungodly early" or "really freakin' late." Us travelers are then left with a crucial decision: stay up all night or get up early?

1am? Stay up late. 5am? Get up early. 3:50am? Let's play it by ear...

Bad idea. After a "last" night of fish and beer with Evan, Lisa and Elvis (the new owner of my motorcycle), I realized that I was too tired to stay up all night, so I'd try to take a quick nap before heading to the airport. As can be expected, the next thing I know Evan's standing in the doorway and it's 4am. Oops.

Regardless of the fact that it was well past departure time, I decided to make a run for the airport and try my chances. I believe my thoughts were somewhere between "Well, it's Africa, maybe they run their planes like they run their buses and it won't leave for another hour or two?" (forgetting that it's an international airport), and "Well, it's an international airport, so there's bound to be another flight soon or someone I can talk to to get this cleared up." (forgetting that it's Africa).

Once at the airport, I found it empty of anyone save security guards and sleeping taxi men. All of the airline personnel had left promptly after check-in and would not be returning until Monday, more than 24hrs later. Dejected, I hopped back in a taxi to Evan and Lisa's, tail between my legs. Going off a security guard's suggestion, I tried to visit the downtown airline offices first thing in the morning, only to be reminded that it was still Sunday and they probably wouldn't be coming in, although they might in the afternoon (they didn't, I checked). Without anyone at the office or answering the phone, my next plan was to just show up at the airport again that night and hope it was a daily departure.

More time for science with Mr. Murphy!

Long story less long, there wasn't. All I got was another shortened night of sleep, some more time hanging out in Douala, and another suggestion to go to the downtown offices the next day, where I was charged a ridiculously large fee I'd rather not dwell on and given a new flight for Tuesday morning (5am, thankfully).

When I crossed the river from Congo I said I wished I had more time in this trip to explore Cameroon. This isn't quite what I had planned...

Wedding plans

Om nom

The original idea, with the Sunday departure, was to spend a few days in Morocco visiting my friend Sue (another PCV, but this time one I knew from before) and attending the wedding of her friend. On the plus side, Moroccans apparently also write their plans in Jell-o (couscous?) and the wedding was delayed indefinitely, pending the arrival of the groom. Downside: my 3-day visit with Sue was down to 24hrs.

Even the 24hrs was lucky, though, as Sue lives near Agdz in southern Morocco and my flight was in and out of Casablana. The main route between the two is a 7-hr bus ride over the notorious Tichka pass (buses tend to fall off from time to time), but I got some comfort knowing that I'd be taking the safer, official CTM bus. Wrong again. CTM was sold out, leaving me to wander into the melee of the Gare Routiere to find a souk bus (for those east-coasters reading this, it's similar to opting for Fung Wah over Bolt Bus, but without any real schedule or rules).

In the end, I was able to find a bus, get over the pass and give the finger to the fates who seemed determined to keep Sue and I from hanging out (Anna and I had tried back in December, too).

Success!

So after a fourth night in a row of shortened sleep, I got to spend a day eating Tajines and sandwiches, drinking tea and coffee and debriefing long international experiences as only two Outward Bound instructors can. Then, it was back on the night bus to Casablanca for a fifth sleep-deprived night.

The home stretch

I was in the airport a solid 4 hours before my flight left (not making that mistake again), quickly whisked away to Madrid for a short stop (long enough to realize that Spanish is a different language than French and they don't seem to appreciate it if you try to speak bad African French to them), then lobbed across the ocean to JFK, 282 days after I last stepped foot out of the US. Customs was quick and painless (I was expecting interrogation after all the spy accusations in Kazakhstan) and I was soon back with good friends, good food, good coffee and good beer.

Watching the East River from Brooklyn after a hipster-soaked food festival with BJ and John

The end

282 days, 12 countries, 2 continents (ignoring Madrid), countless new friends, cups of tea, shots of vodka, plates of plov, bowls of Ndole, bottles of lager, uncomfortable seats, cold nights, sweaty nights, new experiences and some very worn-out travel clothes. I'll never be able to fully quantify the events of my life since I left home last summer, nor what I have learned, nor how I have changed from it. As Oliver Wendell Holmes once said, "A mind, once stretched by a new idea, can never return to its original dimensions." Mine's been stretched quite a bit over the last year and I'm sure I'll be continuing to learn from this trip for the rest of my life. I'm glad I at least got to share some of it with you all along the way.

So, that brings an end to my publicly-broadcast life of the past 40 weeks. I'll spare you from the details of my American experiences from here on out, although hopefully many of you'll be there to share them with me. Thank you all for your support and friendship during this trip, I couldn't have made a trip around the world alone like this without knowing that I wasn't truly alone in the world. See you soon!

A welcome-home from Kenny and Julia in NYC

from Traveler to Tourist

Many people have asked me why I chose the destinations for this trip. My answer has generally been something along the lines of, "I want to go to places off the beaten track, where (mostly American) people don't visit very often." This was quite true of much of Central Asia, and even so for China and Mongolia, although to a lesser extent. Morocco, however, is a different story.

First off, Morocco has been a tourist destination for at least a hundred years, I figure, with the French colonization and proximity to Europe. In Central Asia, people are still getting the hang of this "tourist exploitation" thing, but in Morocco they have it down pat. At every turn, in even the small towns, people are constantly trying to sell you knick-knacks, tours, or useless services (like pointing you in the direction of the tourist plaza you just ran away from).

It took some philosophical adjustment to get used to this new environment, but I figure that's part of the point of the whole "two regions" requirement of the fellowship, anyway: to throw you off balance a bit. In the end, I was able to treat it as a game, and a little holiday vacation from cold nights on the steppe and being labeled a spy at every turn...

But first, business

One of the main reasons I made this mid-way stop in Morocco was to get a visa for Cameroon. Turns out that's not as easy as it sounds. After a week of visiting and calling various embassies, I was left empty handed and with new plans to stop in Senegal next week to give that a try. I'll save that story for another time. On the plus side, I was staying with my Moroccan CouchSurfing host, Rachid, at the time, and between frustrating embassy encounters I was distracted by:

Hanging out with Rachid and his friend, Aga

Delicious tagines (and a lesson on how to cook them)

Dressing up in a djellaba for Friday mosque

Couscous (a tradition on Friday after mosque)

Getting lost in the Medinas

Exploring old Kasbahs

Visiting a Hammam/bathhouse (can you guess which side is men and which is women?)

Sharing some meals with Rachid's family (Dad, me, Brother Said and Mom)

And, of course, drinking lots and lots of sweet minty Moroccan tea (they call it "Berber whiskey")

Step Two: Explore Morocco

After the frustrating failure of my diplomacy, I was quickly distracted by a wonderful early Christmas present, the arrival of my girlfriend, Anna, for the holidays. I'll let her take it from here:

I (Anna) arrived at the airport with no less than 60 lbs of gear - 20 or so of it was actually mine. It wasn't a total burden though, I got to walk through the Paris airport carrying a motorcycle helmet and a techy-looking duffel bag. People either looked very confused or very impressed - either way it made me feel cool. The pilot on my flight from Paris to Casa even informed me, politely, that all I would need for the flight was a seatbelt - the helmet wasn't necessary, before exploding in laughter. The only thing that kept me from exiting customs in Casablanca wearing the helmet (to help Shawn find me, of course) was the larger urge to finish my 24 hours of traveling and give that man a hug (helmets get in the way of that).

Us and all of our Shawn's motorcycle crap. Fortuantely, we were able to leave half of this behind in Casablanca

I was insanely jealous that Shawn was already multiple days of eating delicious food ahead of me, so we immediately went out and "splurged" on a $15 dinner.

Shawn even dressed up! (Thanks Mom, from Shawn!)

Then, we actually splurged by renting a car (thanks Kevin and Arlene!) so we could escape the time-sucking nature of bus travel or hitching, but still have the freedom of stopping where we wanted. The picture below is of us right before we crossed the Tizi n' Test pass that crosses the High Atlas Mountains. It is a "yellow road" on our map, which apparently means that ALMOST two cars can fit on the road and there are lots of holes. Everywhere. Needless to say, travel is slow. And stressful, Shawn might say, when you have a passenger screaming every time you round a corner and have to slam on the brakes for the truck coming up the hill.

The Renault SYMBOL that carried us

We stopped in Taliouine,a little countryside town known for growing saffron (so I bought some) where I discovered that I do not, in fact, hate olives (so I bought some a lot, on several occasions). We began our week long road trip by going to the market, where there were oranges, onions, beans, cauliflower, etc. etc. (so we bought some). Shawn practiced his French (C'est combien? Q'uest-ce que c'est?") and made us dinner, while I fulfilled my role of lady on holiday by reading on my Kindle (imagine having the time to read!) and occasionally checking to see if the laundry Shawn had done was dry (it wasn't, ah well, better sit down...).

A traveler's washing machine...

After many failed attempts at this picture (in one, Shawn is still running toward the wall), we gave up and just stood really close to the camera...

We stayed a few nights, so we could spend the day trekking around the town. The town is surrounded by these amazing rock formations (and no trees, really). We hiked up and out of the town, through some smaller villages and back to the road, where we attempted to hitch back until our generous ride stopped and said, "Two minutes", then walked off. We walked back.

Taliouine is in the background.

A view of the hills surrounding Taliouine.

We continued on, staying in various cheap hotels that felt like dungeons and had gross bathrooms. We ended up pushing pretty hard to reach a town called Merzouga, which is on the edge of the Sahara, where we stayed at the best place in Morocco, Hotel Kasbah Panorama. It's situated on a hill, which gives a beautiful view of the dunes. We were there during the lull before the holidays (New Year's), so we were treated really well by the family who owned it. Hands down, the best food we've had here, no one tried to get us to buy useless crap, and it was peaceful. One of the owners, Ismael, showed us around a bit and talked with us about Berber culture a lot - education, history, etc.

This is Jovanna. She is cute. Her partner, Jovannie, followed us into the desert (brave cat!).

Ismael, whose family owns the hotel, took us to the souk (market) in Rissani and showed us where you can buy spices. There were so many types and they smelled so good, so I bought some a kilo of spices...oops.

Then we went into the desert on camels - ours were named Bob Marley (left) and Jimi Hendrix (right)!  This is the first time we learned that if you don't lead a camel, it goes where it wants...

This is me, fighting to keep my seat atop Bob Marley's back. (Look at how red that sand is!)

Saharan dunes, plus Youssef, our guide, who spent some of the walk talking on his cell phone.

Hiking the dunes for a sunset view.

Small Anna on a big Saharan dune at sunset.

Shawn playing on the dunes at sunrise. So early. So cold.

The nomadic Berber camp we slept in, while fennec foxes walked silently around our tents all night, taunting me (my biggest hope was to see one of these critters - no foxes, but lots of burrows and tracks).

The well - only 1 meter deep and - BOOM - cold, clear, fresh water.

 The night we stayed in the desert, our guides kept encouraging us to go for walks, see the stars, etc. We wondered where they had tied the camels...

The next morning, one of the guides approached Shawn and said, "Last night, the camels, they go....I do not know where", in a most dejected way. So there we were, on a camel trek into the Sahara, with no camels! I overheard the Portuguese couple asking him, in Spanish, "Escaparon? (they escaped?)" The guide replied..."Ehh......." In truth, I suppose it's hard for an animal to escape if you don't first tie them to something.

Never fear though, we're in Morocco - he maintained his dejected attitude, and offered to sell us some (fake? real?) fossils while we waited for the 4 x 4 to come rescue us. As they say, ain't no man sadder than a nomad without his camel - but $15 for a rock is still expensive.

Turns out that our camels had gone wandering in search of "greener pastures" - they had been found down by the river, where there are more plants. And so, we learned that Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix had, quite naturally, left the early-to-bed tourists in search of some grass...

He said, "8 x 8 in, now 4 x 4 out! Haha!"

We have eaten a lot of delicious little street-cart donuts, street meat-wiches, olives (Anna), and had liters and liters of mint tea, I'm sure. Now, we're kicking back and enjoying the last few days together with a newfound confidence to deal with the touts as they harrass us. We only buy things from people that barely talk to us, only enter shops where the person seems apathetic about whether we buy anything, and only stay at hotels if they don't barrage us with advertisements and attempts to draw us in. Take that, Morocco.

Some parting shots:

Hands down, the best tagine we had (at Kasbah Panorama, in Merzouga) - a mixture of chopped beef and vegetables, with eggs cracked on top. It is apparently a traditional Berber dish.

The quintessential Sahara/camel/sunset shot.

Thanks for taking a break from your travels to be a tourist on vacay with me :)