You know you don’t deserve to travel when …
You’re standing 30 feet away from wild elephants with nothing between you and them but the 50 degree heat and you think, “I’d really rather be watching this on tv.”
You know you’re fed up with bureaucracy when …
You’d consider an unplanned side trip to Togo if it meant avoiding another visa fee in Ghana.
You know he must have had a tough time too when …
The Brit you meet admits that he loves and misses England.
You know you’ve been hungry when …
A flight attendant serves you the best meal you’ve eaten in three months.
You know you’ve gained some distance when…
Looking back, you think you might have liked fufu.
You know you’re rundown when …
A common cold knocks you out for 19 days.
You know your Canadian politeness has paid off when…
While simply trying to extricate yourself from a pricey sale, you accidentally bargain the price down to less and a third of what it’s worth … and he sells it to you.
You know you’re tired of the hassles when …
You can barely let go of the fact you’ve been scammed long enough to appreciate that you’re still standing in front of the Pyramids.
You know you’ve stayed in some dodgy places when …
Is there a bed? Is there a door? We’ll take it!
But you know you’ve had it good when …
You start to think that more than $10 for a room or more than $1 for a sandwich is highway robbery!
You know it’s your goat when …
You just know.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
One month in Morocco: Part Two (The good bits)
We certainly didn’t suffer our whole stay in Morocco. On the contrary, we threw ourselves headlong into the café culture, enjoying a cuppa or two in the wide boulevards of the Ville Nouvelles and in tiny Medina cafés. We discovered the most charming feature of Moroccan cities in these old, walled towns where it’s said that life in their cramped and winding streets has carried on in much the same way for hundreds of years. You’re liable to believe that claim when you see mules teetering along the cobblestones, burdened with their loads, so long as you can ignore that the treasures they carry are as often bootlegged dvds and gold lamé caftans as the traditional carpets and hides. We explored a bit of Moroccan cuisine, enjoying simple couscous and lamb tagines. We celebrated the reintroduction of dairy to our diets, gorging ourselves daily on yogurt drinks and cheese. We improved our French, though found it entirely impossible to decide which language to use since we were regularly spoken to in English, French, and Arabic, in addition to being heckled in Spanish.
Morocco had a few downsides. In addition to dealing with our mounting travel fatigue, we had to unlearn the rules of Africa and acquaint ourselves with the customs of the muslim world. Among the most unfortunate casualties in this new adventure was the nerve I’d gained through so many weeks at the farm – commuting solo to and from the library, or even just approaching people, asking questions, or taking chances with new experiences. Unsure if the scrutiny was real, I began to rely more on Sam to do the talking for us and started to imagine that I felt less safe here than I had in the arguably more dangerous territory from where we’d come.
Still, our experiences had hardened us against that thing most commented upon in the travel books: namely the persistence of the Moroccan touts and shop owners who, if you’d believe what’s written, would stop at nothing to lighten the load on your wallet. On the contrary, we found it refreshing to be able to constructively respond to the people engaging us – a smile and a sincerely uninterested “no thank you” seemed perfectly polite and sufficient, whereas we had always previously been at a loss for a response to “Hey, white man!”
By the time we were feeling reasonably recovered from our illness, we had already experienced some great travel highlights across the country.
In Casablanca, the most cosmopolitan and European of Moroccan cities, we gaped at skyscrapers and the dizzying heights of the Hassan II grande mosqué, the second largest mosque in the world. We drank coffee and ate sandwiches, french fries, chocolate, and sorbet.
An utterly civilized commute by train brought us to El Jadida, a modern and relaxed town catering to Moroccan holiday-makers, West of Casablanca on the Atlantic Coast. Around the quiet cité portugaise – the Portuguese medina – we walked the bastion walls next to the sea and peered at the wooden fishing boats docked at the pier. Inside the medina we visited the old, sixteenth century cistern: a dark, vaulted room out of a fairy tale, where a single circular opening in the ceiling reflects the many pillars in a shallow pool of water. Despite our sickness we couldn’t resist our first dip in the Atlantic, though we had to work hard to muster our courage among prying eyes.
We pressed onwards to Essaouira (“Ess-a-wi-ra”), the self-titled “wind city” which lived up to its name. We took a long stroll along the wide, blustery beach while simultaneously dipping our feet in the sea and politely dodging the persistent touts offering camel and horseback rides into the dunes. We walked too far, got sunburned noses and then painfully sniffed and sneezed our way through a delicious seafood lunch.
In search of our cure in a warmer climate, we headed by bus to Marrakech. We wound over green hills lined with olive trees and wheat bales and believed we were in Italy. When the ground had grown flatter and the mountains moved higher into the distance, we pulled into the city and found a taxi to the main medina square. In the Djemaa el-Fna, this expanse of bustle and noise, we saw snake charmers, musicians, storytellers, and henna painters weaving in and around the crowds buying freshly squeezed orange juice from a neverending line of stalls. We decided that the best tasting juice was the sweet, chilled and already-squeeze variety – sold as “freshly-squeezed” and emphatically looked-down upon by our guidebook for its reputed adulteration with water and squash.
We visited our first real souqs, those winding market streets where only the bravest beams of sunlight penetrate into their narrow, trellised alleys. We saw carpets and lanterns, silver kettles and trays, tea glasses and colourful slippers piled up against layer upon layer of all manner of fabric and cloth. We walked around the gardens by the Koutoubia Mosque, visited the grounds of a ruined palace, and marveled at the intricate zellij tilework of the Saadian tombs. We ate at McDonalds.
One night in Marrakech we mustered our courage and ventured out after dark into the square, which had transformed over the course of the afternoon. Now filled with hundreds of outdoor food stalls, crowded with smoke and touts and eager diners, we picked the most local-looking one we could find (free of tourist wranglers) and waited our turn to grab a seat at the narrow counters surrounding the grill. Under the halo of incandescent bulbs, two of the frenzied men in aprons doled out sausages and bread on small metal plates, and poured tomato salsa from a pitcher. When our turn came we ate as more and more people gathered round to wait their turn and the cooks kept their pace through the noise and billowing smoke.
From Marrakech another train brought us back through Casablanca and on to Fes, home of the oldest living medieval city in the Islamic world. Reputed to be a tourist-swallowing labyrinth of streets and dead-end alleys, we proudly found our way in and out with relative ease. Staying on the top floor of a sparse little medina hotel, we could peer out of our “tower” down to the pedestrian arteries of the old town, or out over the sprawling roofs which betray nothing of the city below. With five minarets within shouting distance of our window, we were regularly blasted at all hours by calls to prayer.
We suffered a resurgence in our illness but recovered in time to brave the souqs and emerge triumphant but sweaty from our first real experience in bargaining. We wound through the back alleys to the famous leather tanneries, where the cramped city suddenly opens into a sea of dye pots, ammonia and drying hides. Through the heinous smells and the sun’s heat workers wade in and out of the colourful paint pots as a neverending succession of donkeys tramp in and out. Among the piles of poop Sam might have felt nostalgic for his days at the farm, but he didn’t say. We visited another medersa – one of the religious teaching colleges – and admired more spectacular tile and plasterwork.
Nearing the end of our journey we spent one night in Chefchaouen, an unusually beautiful and isolated mountain town where the buildings are awash in white and blue, and the friendly residents have an unfortunate-though-luckily-bygone history of murdering tourists. (Just the first few, really.) Next in Tangier we opened the hold of the bus to unhappily discover that our bags had spent the journey marinating in a liberal dousing of olive oil. Despite views of the Med the city was likewise damp, depressed, smelly and forlorn (but how much can you really expect from just one country?) and so we left.
Morocco had a few downsides. In addition to dealing with our mounting travel fatigue, we had to unlearn the rules of Africa and acquaint ourselves with the customs of the muslim world. Among the most unfortunate casualties in this new adventure was the nerve I’d gained through so many weeks at the farm – commuting solo to and from the library, or even just approaching people, asking questions, or taking chances with new experiences. Unsure if the scrutiny was real, I began to rely more on Sam to do the talking for us and started to imagine that I felt less safe here than I had in the arguably more dangerous territory from where we’d come.
Still, our experiences had hardened us against that thing most commented upon in the travel books: namely the persistence of the Moroccan touts and shop owners who, if you’d believe what’s written, would stop at nothing to lighten the load on your wallet. On the contrary, we found it refreshing to be able to constructively respond to the people engaging us – a smile and a sincerely uninterested “no thank you” seemed perfectly polite and sufficient, whereas we had always previously been at a loss for a response to “Hey, white man!”
By the time we were feeling reasonably recovered from our illness, we had already experienced some great travel highlights across the country.
In Casablanca, the most cosmopolitan and European of Moroccan cities, we gaped at skyscrapers and the dizzying heights of the Hassan II grande mosqué, the second largest mosque in the world. We drank coffee and ate sandwiches, french fries, chocolate, and sorbet.
An utterly civilized commute by train brought us to El Jadida, a modern and relaxed town catering to Moroccan holiday-makers, West of Casablanca on the Atlantic Coast. Around the quiet cité portugaise – the Portuguese medina – we walked the bastion walls next to the sea and peered at the wooden fishing boats docked at the pier. Inside the medina we visited the old, sixteenth century cistern: a dark, vaulted room out of a fairy tale, where a single circular opening in the ceiling reflects the many pillars in a shallow pool of water. Despite our sickness we couldn’t resist our first dip in the Atlantic, though we had to work hard to muster our courage among prying eyes.
We pressed onwards to Essaouira (“Ess-a-wi-ra”), the self-titled “wind city” which lived up to its name. We took a long stroll along the wide, blustery beach while simultaneously dipping our feet in the sea and politely dodging the persistent touts offering camel and horseback rides into the dunes. We walked too far, got sunburned noses and then painfully sniffed and sneezed our way through a delicious seafood lunch.
In search of our cure in a warmer climate, we headed by bus to Marrakech. We wound over green hills lined with olive trees and wheat bales and believed we were in Italy. When the ground had grown flatter and the mountains moved higher into the distance, we pulled into the city and found a taxi to the main medina square. In the Djemaa el-Fna, this expanse of bustle and noise, we saw snake charmers, musicians, storytellers, and henna painters weaving in and around the crowds buying freshly squeezed orange juice from a neverending line of stalls. We decided that the best tasting juice was the sweet, chilled and already-squeeze variety – sold as “freshly-squeezed” and emphatically looked-down upon by our guidebook for its reputed adulteration with water and squash.
We visited our first real souqs, those winding market streets where only the bravest beams of sunlight penetrate into their narrow, trellised alleys. We saw carpets and lanterns, silver kettles and trays, tea glasses and colourful slippers piled up against layer upon layer of all manner of fabric and cloth. We walked around the gardens by the Koutoubia Mosque, visited the grounds of a ruined palace, and marveled at the intricate zellij tilework of the Saadian tombs. We ate at McDonalds.
One night in Marrakech we mustered our courage and ventured out after dark into the square, which had transformed over the course of the afternoon. Now filled with hundreds of outdoor food stalls, crowded with smoke and touts and eager diners, we picked the most local-looking one we could find (free of tourist wranglers) and waited our turn to grab a seat at the narrow counters surrounding the grill. Under the halo of incandescent bulbs, two of the frenzied men in aprons doled out sausages and bread on small metal plates, and poured tomato salsa from a pitcher. When our turn came we ate as more and more people gathered round to wait their turn and the cooks kept their pace through the noise and billowing smoke.
From Marrakech another train brought us back through Casablanca and on to Fes, home of the oldest living medieval city in the Islamic world. Reputed to be a tourist-swallowing labyrinth of streets and dead-end alleys, we proudly found our way in and out with relative ease. Staying on the top floor of a sparse little medina hotel, we could peer out of our “tower” down to the pedestrian arteries of the old town, or out over the sprawling roofs which betray nothing of the city below. With five minarets within shouting distance of our window, we were regularly blasted at all hours by calls to prayer.
We suffered a resurgence in our illness but recovered in time to brave the souqs and emerge triumphant but sweaty from our first real experience in bargaining. We wound through the back alleys to the famous leather tanneries, where the cramped city suddenly opens into a sea of dye pots, ammonia and drying hides. Through the heinous smells and the sun’s heat workers wade in and out of the colourful paint pots as a neverending succession of donkeys tramp in and out. Among the piles of poop Sam might have felt nostalgic for his days at the farm, but he didn’t say. We visited another medersa – one of the religious teaching colleges – and admired more spectacular tile and plasterwork.
Nearing the end of our journey we spent one night in Chefchaouen, an unusually beautiful and isolated mountain town where the buildings are awash in white and blue, and the friendly residents have an unfortunate-though-luckily-bygone history of murdering tourists. (Just the first few, really.) Next in Tangier we opened the hold of the bus to unhappily discover that our bags had spent the journey marinating in a liberal dousing of olive oil. Despite views of the Med the city was likewise damp, depressed, smelly and forlorn (but how much can you really expect from just one country?) and so we left.
Monday, July 6, 2009
One month in Morocco: Part One (Purgatory)
May 7th to June 2nd, 2009
It seems that our narrative has fallen behind. In case you were curious we’re still on the road, with just a few more weeks to go but, oh, the stories we have to tell you! One month in Morocco (part two ahead) and then we jetted off to Egypt and back in between visits to see family in London. And now, just to make sure you’re positively green with envy, we have indeed found ourselves a sailboat. So you’ll have to forgive me, but we’ve spent the last few nights anchoring in sandy little turquoise bays by some islands off the Cote D’Azur; I’ve just been so busy swimming and snorkeling and exploring and reading that I haven’t found time to get back to this blasted, overdue blog!
Back to our story.
Morocco was a big change for us – a change we’d been breathlessly anticipating – but nothing could have prepared us for the sheer bliss we felt in our first few days there. Nothing we did escaped comparison to our earlier travels, and any troubles or hassles our guidebooks warned us about seemed insignificant in light of what we were increasingly coming to see as the gauntlet we’d survived in sub-Saharan Africa. Although we reminded ourselves often that we were still in a strange city in a foreign land, we couldn’t help relaxing as we relished even the simple pleasure of a slow, meandering walk down the street.
Adding to our excitement was the delight of discovering that the Moroccan travel of our imaginations was possible in the real world and moreover was accessible to us. For a time, each place we stayed outdid the last in both its fairytale qualities and amazing deals. The tiled halls of our hostel in Casablanca were followed by an outrageously inexpensive room in a converted mansion in the seaside town of El Jadida. In Essaouira we stayed in the picturesque Medina, winding through narrow lanes packed with shops selling colourful cloths and shiny trinkets to find our hotel in a lovely little two-storey building centred around a fig tree growing in a small, open courtyard. At the time of our arrival in the early afternoon we could spy another guest through his open door playing Spanish guitar on the other side of some leafy boughs. In Marrakech we stayed in the walled Medina once again where, from one of so many narrow, nameless lanes, our hotel opened out into a tall, bright courtyard, four storeys high, with colourfully tiled walls and a sunny rooftop café.
The weather, too, was heavenly. A week or so into our stay at the EDYM farm, I’d shoved my only sweatshirt to the absolute bottom of my bag unable to comprehend why I’d even packed it. However, as we spent our first week in Morocco working our way along the Atlantic Coast we were thrilled to dress for the day in sweatshirts and long pants (jeans, which hadn’t seen the light of day since Canada), probably in direct contradiction to most of the other travelers who’d ventured South in hopes of sun. That we were in the company of so many other travelers too was a big change, and we reveled in what we imagined to be the relative anonymity afforded by that company.
Far be it for us to make it too easy on ourselves, though. It could have been many things: the stress and exhaustion from constant travel; the long bus rides and sleepless nights in intense heat; the drastic change in climate after stepping off the plane in Morocco; the poor diet that had seen each of us lose at least 25 lbs (you thought maybe we were exaggerating, right?). Whatever it was, by our second night we were sick, and for 19 days both Sam and I suffered with what we contend to be the worst head cold of our lives.
That we were bitterly disappointed by our sickness is not surprising. We had so looked forward to the vacation we felt we’d earned that we had more than a little trouble letting ourselves be sick and recover, and certainly this contributed to our sad state lasting so long. Our resulting approach to travel was, in retrospect, a bit of a comedy. Some days we mustered our energy and our tissues and braved the towns, only to walk too far and burn our chaffed noses in the sun. Other days we gave up entirely and hunkered down in our rooms, moaning into our pillows about the injustice of it all, only to go out again as soon as we felt even a tiny bit better.
Eventually we relented, as much as we could, and decided that we’d just have to stay in Morocco long enough to get better and see some of the country as well. As a result we probably got an interesting perspective on some of the towns we visited, staying much longer than a tour company might prescribe, and becoming a little more familiar with the guy who sold us water and cream cheese sandwiches in between naps, and going for “the usual” at the internet café.
That we stayed long enough in some places to tire of some really spectacular sights is perhaps not as deserving of pride. During our first few days in Marrakech, I wrote home about the heartbreak of squinting my watery eyes and ducking my stuffed-up head past the Djemaa el-Fna, a huge open market square where musicians, storytellers, artists, and acrobats from all over the country come to perform and ply their trade. Nine days on, however, I found myself increasingly noticing the lack of melody and rhythm displayed by the costumed men on drums and pipes, and Sam and I had given our illness the inauspicious title of “The Curse of the Djemaa el-Fna”.
Another interesting side effect of being sick was the short, unplanned tour of the Moroccan medical system we got as a result. This was my treat, of course, as with Sam’s and my polar opposite approaches to sickness and recovery I am the one to err decidedly on the side of go-tell-someone-and-get-them-to-give-you-something-to-fix-it-fast. I tried pharmacy drugs, felt a bit better, gave the rest to Sam, and then plummeted into misery once again. I went to see a nice doctor who spoke very little English, and I mimed my various symptoms and general misery before he prescribed a list of drugs that I only vaguely understood the purpose of. Upon returning from the pharmacy once again I played that game we enjoy at Christmastime, in the hazy afterglow of a turkey feast, whereupon you try to read the French side of the riddles and jokes from your bilingual Christmas cracker, except that this time there’s no English version and instead of a punchline it’s the vital warnings and possible side effects of the powerful drugs you’re about to ingest. (“In the case of prolonged treatment, never stop brutally your treatment but follow the recommendations of your medicine for the diminution of doses. This medication must never be taken if you have experienced … something.” Ha! Ha!)
In actual fact I was able to understand enough to realize that I was allergic to the prescribed antibiotic, and so in Fes we visited another doctor. He spoke more English (and I more French) and was very kind but nevertheless ruthlessly shoved some kind of pliers up nose, rubbed goo on my belly, and roughly pushed me into a dark, full-body-sized machine where – with my face and chest squished against some kind of x-ray pad – I mustered a chortle and said, “Yup, this’ll make the blog.” Deeming the antibiotics unnecessary and diagnosing my symptoms as at least partially due to allergies, he prescribed antihistamines (to the pharmacy again) as well as some of the things I was already taking. On this new regimen, I finally started to feel better. Without all the accompanying drama, Sam had slowly been recovering as well, and about 20 days into our Moroccan travels we began to feel like ourselves again.
It seems that our narrative has fallen behind. In case you were curious we’re still on the road, with just a few more weeks to go but, oh, the stories we have to tell you! One month in Morocco (part two ahead) and then we jetted off to Egypt and back in between visits to see family in London. And now, just to make sure you’re positively green with envy, we have indeed found ourselves a sailboat. So you’ll have to forgive me, but we’ve spent the last few nights anchoring in sandy little turquoise bays by some islands off the Cote D’Azur; I’ve just been so busy swimming and snorkeling and exploring and reading that I haven’t found time to get back to this blasted, overdue blog!
Back to our story.
Morocco was a big change for us – a change we’d been breathlessly anticipating – but nothing could have prepared us for the sheer bliss we felt in our first few days there. Nothing we did escaped comparison to our earlier travels, and any troubles or hassles our guidebooks warned us about seemed insignificant in light of what we were increasingly coming to see as the gauntlet we’d survived in sub-Saharan Africa. Although we reminded ourselves often that we were still in a strange city in a foreign land, we couldn’t help relaxing as we relished even the simple pleasure of a slow, meandering walk down the street.
Adding to our excitement was the delight of discovering that the Moroccan travel of our imaginations was possible in the real world and moreover was accessible to us. For a time, each place we stayed outdid the last in both its fairytale qualities and amazing deals. The tiled halls of our hostel in Casablanca were followed by an outrageously inexpensive room in a converted mansion in the seaside town of El Jadida. In Essaouira we stayed in the picturesque Medina, winding through narrow lanes packed with shops selling colourful cloths and shiny trinkets to find our hotel in a lovely little two-storey building centred around a fig tree growing in a small, open courtyard. At the time of our arrival in the early afternoon we could spy another guest through his open door playing Spanish guitar on the other side of some leafy boughs. In Marrakech we stayed in the walled Medina once again where, from one of so many narrow, nameless lanes, our hotel opened out into a tall, bright courtyard, four storeys high, with colourfully tiled walls and a sunny rooftop café.
The weather, too, was heavenly. A week or so into our stay at the EDYM farm, I’d shoved my only sweatshirt to the absolute bottom of my bag unable to comprehend why I’d even packed it. However, as we spent our first week in Morocco working our way along the Atlantic Coast we were thrilled to dress for the day in sweatshirts and long pants (jeans, which hadn’t seen the light of day since Canada), probably in direct contradiction to most of the other travelers who’d ventured South in hopes of sun. That we were in the company of so many other travelers too was a big change, and we reveled in what we imagined to be the relative anonymity afforded by that company.
Far be it for us to make it too easy on ourselves, though. It could have been many things: the stress and exhaustion from constant travel; the long bus rides and sleepless nights in intense heat; the drastic change in climate after stepping off the plane in Morocco; the poor diet that had seen each of us lose at least 25 lbs (you thought maybe we were exaggerating, right?). Whatever it was, by our second night we were sick, and for 19 days both Sam and I suffered with what we contend to be the worst head cold of our lives.
That we were bitterly disappointed by our sickness is not surprising. We had so looked forward to the vacation we felt we’d earned that we had more than a little trouble letting ourselves be sick and recover, and certainly this contributed to our sad state lasting so long. Our resulting approach to travel was, in retrospect, a bit of a comedy. Some days we mustered our energy and our tissues and braved the towns, only to walk too far and burn our chaffed noses in the sun. Other days we gave up entirely and hunkered down in our rooms, moaning into our pillows about the injustice of it all, only to go out again as soon as we felt even a tiny bit better.
Eventually we relented, as much as we could, and decided that we’d just have to stay in Morocco long enough to get better and see some of the country as well. As a result we probably got an interesting perspective on some of the towns we visited, staying much longer than a tour company might prescribe, and becoming a little more familiar with the guy who sold us water and cream cheese sandwiches in between naps, and going for “the usual” at the internet café.
That we stayed long enough in some places to tire of some really spectacular sights is perhaps not as deserving of pride. During our first few days in Marrakech, I wrote home about the heartbreak of squinting my watery eyes and ducking my stuffed-up head past the Djemaa el-Fna, a huge open market square where musicians, storytellers, artists, and acrobats from all over the country come to perform and ply their trade. Nine days on, however, I found myself increasingly noticing the lack of melody and rhythm displayed by the costumed men on drums and pipes, and Sam and I had given our illness the inauspicious title of “The Curse of the Djemaa el-Fna”.
Another interesting side effect of being sick was the short, unplanned tour of the Moroccan medical system we got as a result. This was my treat, of course, as with Sam’s and my polar opposite approaches to sickness and recovery I am the one to err decidedly on the side of go-tell-someone-and-get-them-to-give-you-something-to-fix-it-fast. I tried pharmacy drugs, felt a bit better, gave the rest to Sam, and then plummeted into misery once again. I went to see a nice doctor who spoke very little English, and I mimed my various symptoms and general misery before he prescribed a list of drugs that I only vaguely understood the purpose of. Upon returning from the pharmacy once again I played that game we enjoy at Christmastime, in the hazy afterglow of a turkey feast, whereupon you try to read the French side of the riddles and jokes from your bilingual Christmas cracker, except that this time there’s no English version and instead of a punchline it’s the vital warnings and possible side effects of the powerful drugs you’re about to ingest. (“In the case of prolonged treatment, never stop brutally your treatment but follow the recommendations of your medicine for the diminution of doses. This medication must never be taken if you have experienced … something.” Ha! Ha!)
In actual fact I was able to understand enough to realize that I was allergic to the prescribed antibiotic, and so in Fes we visited another doctor. He spoke more English (and I more French) and was very kind but nevertheless ruthlessly shoved some kind of pliers up nose, rubbed goo on my belly, and roughly pushed me into a dark, full-body-sized machine where – with my face and chest squished against some kind of x-ray pad – I mustered a chortle and said, “Yup, this’ll make the blog.” Deeming the antibiotics unnecessary and diagnosing my symptoms as at least partially due to allergies, he prescribed antihistamines (to the pharmacy again) as well as some of the things I was already taking. On this new regimen, I finally started to feel better. Without all the accompanying drama, Sam had slowly been recovering as well, and about 20 days into our Moroccan travels we began to feel like ourselves again.
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