last nights under an african sky

I apologize for the hugely tardy nature of this blog – shit has been INTENSE on the MV in recent days since we sailed into off into the smog… I mean sunset of Casablanca. It’s been like a page out of some cheesy teen Euro trip novel with lying and intrigue and a ball! Yep, we have a ball. It’s called the Med-Summer Night’s Dream and it’s the final culmination of our two months of fun, friendship, poor academic habits, and questionable safety decisions in foreign countries. Yes we’ll be celebrating like royalty not only at a seated dinner of filet mignon but also with a grand total of two – count them – TWO drinks (beer and wine only, of course) for the entirety of the night. For you math whizzes out there, that averages out at a staggering one half drink per hour if you count the dinner and following dance. I suspect some rowdiness will be occurring on the 7th deck between the ping-pong table and baby pool if you know what I mean.

In other news, oh hey we went to Morocco. And it seems like an eternity ago, already. Once you set foot through the gangway on the last day in port, settle into your cozy cabin and unpack all of your goodies, the memories you made just moments ago seem to hurtle away like the wake following the MV. How can you be nostalgic for a chapter of your life that has literally just closed? It’s a strange feeling, but more than anything I feel like this summer has been a movie or a trip to a really authentic Mediterranean Epcot, or something I experienced through pictures or stories from a friend. I can’t believe it happened to me. And that it’s over. But I’ll leave the tears and waxing poetic for the next post. Now is the time to savor these last breaths of salty Atlantic air, pop a few more Meclizines for old times, and reflect on what incredible adventures we’ve had. Most recently, our trip into the strange and fantastical land of Morocco.

It was magical. In every way. There couldn’t have been a better way to bring this whirlwind to a close. When you picture foreign countries in your head, its natural to have a slightly romanticized image of what they might look like if you ever saw them before your own eyes. For instance, the whitewashed buildings set starkly against a perfectly cerulean sky I imagined of Greece were there, but not quite as striking as I’d hoped. But as I hopped out of the taxi in front of the main square in Marrakech, it felt like Morocco. Exactly as I imagined it to be. There really were dudes throwing monkeys on your head, snake charmers playing entrancing tunes on their flutes and women accosting your hands trying to give you cheap henna tattoos. The narrow streets around the main square were a labyrinth of sights and smells: the aroma of saffron swirling in from apartment windows and the sound of donkey-led wheelbarrows click-clacking with their daily deliveries.

I’ve begun to realize that most Mediterranean port cities are worthless after the unbeatable lineup of Civitavecchia, Athens (sorry), Alexandria and now Casablanca. So finally at the last port we learned from our mistakes and got out of Casablanca as quickly as possible, Marrakech or bust. Our mode of transportation had less character than the now-infamous Cairo station wagon road trip, but the decision to set up camp in Marrakech was a good one.

The recommended manner of accommodation in Morocco is the “riad,” which is essentially a small bed-and-breakfast with a few rooms that looks like nothing but a break in the stone wall from the outside. However, step inside and you’re transported to an opulent Arabic palace with a bright open-air quad packed with ornate tilework and lush greenery. I read somewhere that it’s customary for Muslim homes to be rudimentary from the outside as to not come off as ostentatious next to their neighbors’. However, all bets are off once within the four walls of the riad. Our beds were sprinkled with rose petals and rooms adorned with chandeliers, antique furniture and lush bathrobes. Not bad digs for around 25 Euro per night/per person. And we got to fill our bellies with a savory Moroccan breakfast served cheerily by a genuinely caring staff each day before whatever adventures awaited us.

And adventure we did. From popping bottles to scaling mountains, we conquered Morocco as only SASers can.

We shopped and shopped at the endless stalls of the souks that encircle the main square in the Old Town of Marrakech. Each turn of a corner and a new wonder awaited us. We brought silver snake bracelets, aromatic spices, hand-painted bowls, shimmering scarves, and even live animals (long story). And after a long day on the retail grind, we needed a little R&R. So seemingly all of the SASers in Marrakech flocked to the same local haunt to kick back. Oh it was casually the largest club in Africa – Pacha, a chain of nightclubs many of you might recognize from New York City. Although we’d been jaded from the endless scams and rip-offs of clubs we visited around the Mediterranean (cough Mykonos), this was our last chance to toast the summer. So we clenched our teeth through the expensive cover/cost of bottles and danced the night away at Africa’s largest club. L’chaim.

The remainder of days in Marrakech run together in my mind in a sea of bright colors, delicious earthy scents, and the melodic sounds that seem to fill every nook and cranny of Morocco. We took a full-day trip to the spectacular Atlas Mountains a few hours outside the city. Every minute of that van ride was worth the view we witnessed just steps from the parking lot. Some of the largest waterfalls in the area shimmer down into a canopy of fluffy greenery and rich red clay. And than we hiked. And hiked. And hiked. It was like nature’s StairMaster but with a sheer drop of hundreds of feet just beyond the tiny path. Our guide led us through slick rocky rivers and tiny slippery passages. After a mildly “Into The Wild”-eque experience where one friend and I got stranded on the side of a mountain (ask me personally for the full story – it’s quite dramatic), we reached the bottom. It seemed as though we’d tapped into the Rastafarian commune of North Africa. Eager young men danced and sang delightedly at the banks of the rapids that careen through the feet of the mountains. Marijuana leaves and the quintessential red/yellow/green/black color scheme adorned everything from tiny barges to tote tourists through the rapids and cozy restaurants tucked into the forests. We trotted across numerous rickety wooden bridges and peered up at the souring mountains and jungle-like scenery around us. It felt like Indonesia or Vietnam – worlds away from our friends haggling over jewelry and ashtrays in Marrakech.

I still don’t think I’ve gotten all of that Atlas Mountains mud off my shoes, but the experience was downright spiritual. We returned to humanity for a few more precious hours of freedom before setting off to sea the next day, for a blowout at our friends’ immense villa tucked somewhere in suburban Marrakech. The 10 or so SAS kids renting the place spared no expense to give us the best send-off party we ever could have dreamed of. Food and drink were plentiful, as were the stories traded and memories relived under the shimmering Moroccan stars. We didn’t even care when the power went out – Marrakech clearly couldn’t handle the wattage of our festivities. But we didn’t care. With our closest friends around, we shimmied with belly dancers, marveled at fire-blowers and celebrated the end of this insane ride.

What a unpleasant slap in the face to return to – final papers, exams, dragging ourselves away from the paradise known as the pool deck tanning area. We’d almost forgotten this was school. So we now put away our cameras and passport protectors for a few days and hunker down on academics. Talk has begun of first meals back, moving into new houses, and what fall semester has in store for us. To that I’d like to quote Jack Kerouac, whose generation-defining novel “On The Road” I finished just moments ago:

“What is the feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? –it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”