Leaving Marrakesh

Sumbitch, it is hot. Really hot. Like "oh crap, I hope I don't faint" hot.

I've decided not to head out to the beach with the Argentine girls, so as of tommorow I'll be heading off alone, slowly working my way back to Errachidia by way of some waterfalls along the way.

I visited a Moroccan bar for the first (and most likely last) time the other evening. Such a strange place.

We walked in the door of a Pizzeria that the taxi driver recommended. The people at the door gave us strange looks. "Would you like to eat," they asked, "or just for drinks?"

"Just for drinks," we told them, and indicated that we would head to where the rest of the people were, upstairs and through a closed door from behind which we could hear loud music playing.

They looked at us even more oddly, seemingly surprised that we wanted to have a drink where the Moroccans drank, and not sit alone in the unlit restaurant area.

Oddly, there were women in the bar as well, and they did not appear to be prostitutes, although they were certainly not your run-of-the-mill Moroccan women. The place was mostly populated by men, drinking and somehow talking and understanding each other over the incredibly loud music.

The music sounded like most popular Moroccan sounds to me. My untrained ears seem to hear all Moroccan songs as one long song occasionaly broken up by a moment of silence.

The band was two people--a guy on the keyboard and a singer. The singer would walk all around the bar and say hello to people as he sang. He would sit down at tables in dark corners and continue to sing without pause.

The waiter kept on bringing us plates of fruits and vegetables. At first I scoffed. Then I scarfed (them down).

That's all for now. I hope that all are well.