Christine and Keith's Travels

Marrakesh to Casablanca, Morocco, Thursday January 15th

2009-01-16T01:45:00.000-08:00

I was sad to be leaving Marrakesh – there were many more interesting things to do and see here and while we were here, we were not in Casablanca, the last city of all for us. We woke early to eat and pack, and then sped along to the station in the bus. Two cleaners with mop-like brooms performed a choreographed cleaning ritual on the spotless marble mosaic. Keith searched for the toilets, foolishly believing that arrows indicating up besides steps meant that. At last we boarded the train, and walked down the corridor looking for a compartment with room for us and all of our luggage. We found one with two ladies and a little boy. Here began a boring journey during which we nodded off occasionally, waking to find the landscape changing to green farm lands, to the shanty town look of outer suburbs, and finally to high rise buildings, roads, shops and the city of Casablanca. The ladies chatted with each other but we rode on in silence. Occasionally I thought that I heard French words mixed with whatever language they were speaking.

We left the station and, batting off the many offers of taxis, found the bus stop and waited for the number 2 bus that would take us into the city centre. We had a very cheap hotel in mind, and found it easily. After a quick lunch, we set off to walk to the Grand Mosque. It was further than we thought and we ended up having to run part of the way to make it in time for the only afternoon tour at two p.m. The mosque will be closed to the public tomorrow because it is Friday; the special day when most people attend for prayers. We arrived puffing and panting, just as the tour marched in, but we had not yet bought our tickets. A kind attendant took our money and rushed down the stairs to buy our tickets for us so that we would not miss out. He also bought us one concession ticket, which was a bonus, since the entry price for one person is more than our hotel for both of us for the night.

We all placed our shoes in plastic bags and then we joined the English speaking guide, who was accompanied by a Polish woman translating his words for her tour group. We learnt so many facts about the mosque; that there were 77 architects and engineers, and also the same number of columns to commemorate them. The mosque covers 9 ½ hectares, was built over the sea, caters for 25000 worshippers inside and another 80000 in the courtyard, took six years to finish from 1987 – 1993, with 55 million man hours being needed to complete the project. The ceiling opens to provide ventilation on Fridays when everyone comes to this mosque, rather than to the 2000 other mosques in Casablanca. Hassan II’s family tree is written on one column. He commissioned the mosque and wanted it to be a big and very impressive monument that would really put Casablanca on the map. It certainly is that – and is a graceful and beautifully proportioned mosque with superb artistry and craftsmanship everywhere. Above all it is very definitely a Moroccan mosque, and epitomises the use of colour and design that we saw in the Ben Youssef Medersa. It is the only mosque open to non-Muslims in Morocco.

We stood under the minaret, looking up at the ceiling and imagining the weight of the 200 metres above us. Downstairs there are 41 fountains for purification washing before prayers and magnificent copper lanterns that remain shiny despite the moist atmosphere. The secret to this is in the mixture called tadelakt, covering the pillars; a mix of sand, black soap, limestone and egg yolk, which absorbs humidity. The pillars in the mosque proper are covered in a mixture of limestone, plaster and egg whites, so it was reassuring to know that there had been no need to worry about left over yolks or whites during construction. Downstairs again, we came to a hammam, which the guide said is just to show tourists what one is like, and which is not actually used. More steps led to a Turkish bath, not operating either, although it had water in its pool and is used sometimes.

The Grand Mosque was financed by the people, with a tax being imposed on everyone and some making voluntary contributions. Some Moroccans in El Kelaar des Mgouna told us that the Grand Mosque is referred to as the Mosque of the Poor, since it was built at the expense of the welfare of poor people. They commented that Hassan II said in an interview on television that he made an economic misjudgement with the way it had been financed. Our guidebook says that US$750,000,000 was raised, which temporarily reduced Morocco’s money supply and brought down inflation.

During the tour, I had met a woman, Debra, who I was talking to at the end. She lives in Brisbane with her Moroccan born husband, and they are here with their children visiting family. It was starting to rain, so I suggested that we go somewhere for a cup of tea to continue our chat. As it was, her husband, Rashid, was waiting for her in their hire car, so she suggested that we go over and meet him, and drive somewhere for tea. They needed to end up near our hotel, so we were saved a long walk in the rain or a long time sheltering somewhere, and spent a delightful hour chatting and having a drink together. It was a lovely chance meeting, with Rashid explaining that Moroccans often use a mixture of French and Arabic, and that the degree to which it is done reflects a person’s level of education. He also told us that he can get better prices being a Moroccan that Debra, and joked that he told her to hide sometimes. He said that it would be possible for that to happen even with a large bus company, and so it may be that our guide Youssef had in fact got a reduced bus fare for us.

We spent the last of the daylight walking in the Medina, a section that was only built in the late 19^th Century. Casablanca was a Portuguese settlement that was abandoned in 1755, and became not much more than a settlement for the local tribes. Development as a commercial centre led to the creation of the Medina just above the port, but its buildings have a neglected air now and most of the shops that we saw are functional ones for today’s lifestyle. We walked for a while in the rain, past noisy games halls with pool tables, shops full of brand name items and piles of rubbish.

Our last stop for the day was in one of the very few craft shops we have seen in which the items have price tags. We chose a couple of little things, and it was so different to have no-one asking us what we would offer, or suggesting an over inflated price.

We decided to have our last dinner out, and settled into the very cheap restaurant attached to our hotel. The TV showed terrible scenes of death and destruction in the Gaza Strip, and all the interviews were on that topic, even though we could not understand them. We discussed how the State of Israel had been set up, and what were options for ending hostilities, and how common ground, or even acceptance of each other’s right to exist and have a peaceful home could ever be found. It was a very depressing topic, and the vision of two little boys, floppy in death from wounds to their chests, was burned into my brain.

Keith changed the topic to our year – to whether it had met our expectations. It was hard to change mental gear for me, but when we both looked at how things had turned out, we were both happy with how it had gone. The long ago tossed out goals had all been met, with lots of extra unexpected bonuses along the way. Wanting to meet people had been well and truly accomplished, but we had not expected to make friendships which will continue to develop. We learnt about cultures and ancient history, and about modern history and issues as well. I hadn’t become fluent in French but we could both use it for communicating so that was a very good start. I had also learnt that language is all about communicating, and that while vocabulary and grammar are important, having a go and making contact with others is what drives language acquisition. We had met all sorts of characters, some for a moment and others for much longer. We had travelled as we wanted to – taking our opportunities and following where they led us. We had enjoyed being with each other, and sharing so many experiences. I was sure that I needed to change my work/home balance, and not just because the family will be living with us, but for our own sakes. We had been free of the regular responsibilities, free of timetables, free of work obligations, free to enjoy being alive. Simple things had given us great pleasure. We knew that we were amongst the privileged few in the world to be able to do what we had done, and that life is very tough for many people. On occasions we were frustrated or uncomfortable with the role of voyeur tourist, relishing the times we had roles such as learner, friend, visitor, pilgrim or helper. I was cured of wanting to live in the 16^th Century. Keith learnt that he could survive without being permanently connected to the radio news and current affairs programs since he was experiencing and seeing so much first hand. We had learnt again and again that people have forever been hating each other, that difference is used to create ‘other’, and that ‘other’ is a category which enables people to commit atrocities. We also learnt about, experienced and observed the other side of the coin, the ability for people to reach out and share, the ability to respect and to care for each other. We had seen many natural and man made wonders. So all in all, we are in awe of the magnitude of the world’s blessings and problems, and we are very glad that we spent this year journeying, learning and experiencing life beyond our own shores.

Tomorrow we take that plane and it will all be over.

Marrakesh, Morocco, Wednesday January 14th

2009-01-16T01:41:00.001-08:00

After a bit more typing, and as usual realising that my brain and fingers are more productive early in the day, we set off for a walk around the walls and across town to the Majorelle Garden. Unlike Fes, where the walls hug the intricate maze of the medina, here the medina is a compact discreet area and there are other buildings, roads, squares and gardens between it and the walls. Marrakesh excels with its gardens and I would love to come here in late summer or autumn when the literally thousands of roses we have seen would be in full bloom. As it was, I picked up a few pruning tips, and it seems as if brutal pruning is favoured here. We exited through one of the many grand gates and found ourselves where the bus had deposited us two days ago. We were able to give the garden there more than just a glance today, and to admire its mixture of palms and shrubs.

We didn’t actually see any street signs, but we knew the name of the one leading from the gate and could use it to find ourselves on the map. We love this aspect of a new city – walking the streets to learn its character and to find our feet. Crossing the road here is a bit of a nightmare, with the lights often not including a pedestrian element, and often only applying to traffic travelling in one direction. There are stripes on the road to indicate a crossing, but no drivers respect pedestrians on them and it is a case of dodging in and out of oncoming vehicles. As far as we could see, Marrakesh outside the walls was like any major city anywhere, except for the number of gardens.

The Majorelle Garden was created by French artist, Jacques Majorelle who came to Marrakech in 1919. He was a plant collector who created as much a sculpture as a garden, with the plants providing an exciting array of different textures, shapes and forms. There are many different types of palms and succulents, as well as other shrubs, trees and climbers. Although not flowering now, there are a multitude of greens, greys and browns, against the raked red stones of the beds. Paths lead between them, and are lined with huge pot plants painted blue, yellow, orange and green. There is a long canal, and several ponds. The structures of a pavilion, the garden edges, a museum and colonnades and a gazebo are painted a vivid blue, which was the colour of the French workmen’s overalls, as the garden was being built. The garden has many staff, still wearing that colour, who maintain its raked stones and immaculate appearance. Jacques Majorelle died in 1962, and the gardens were neglected. Yves St Laurent and Pierre Bergé purchased it and restored it, and very sensibly created a trust so that it will continue to be cared for. A path in the garden led to a memorial to Yves St Laurent, which had an ancient column at its centre. We entered and left by a gorgeous courtyard, with red paving, slightly lighter rendered walls, vivid green and blue tiles surrounding a central fountain, and pots of nasturtiums. It was simple and vibrant. People were sitting around in the sun here, and in the shade throughout the gardens. This garden is certainly a work of art.

The museum holds a small collection of Majorelle’s paintings. He was intrigued by rural southern Morocco and really captured the sense of it, as we have experienced it, in his paintings. They are beautiful, and like visual sonnets to the land he loved. There are outstanding examples of crafts, including amazing carved doors, which were collected by Yves St Laurent, in the rest of the museum.

We took a long walk to the other side of town, pausing to buy fruit and veggies and to be given a complimentary bunch of parsley by a sweet old green grocer. We remarked on the smog from all the traffic, drifting like a haze in all the streets. At last we came to the Theatre Royal, and opposite, the equally grand Marrakesh station. It is new and like a film set for the place the rich and famous would arrive at in an exotic city. It has so many guards and cleaners, with the former keeping out beggars and mischief makers and one of the latter continuously sweeping the beautiful central mosaic marble floor design, so that no speck of dust or foot print will mar it. We purchased out tickets to Casablanca for tomorrow; our last destination and the place we would fly home from on Friday. It all felt very momentous and inevitable.

We ate lunch on a bench near the theatre and then walked back towards the medina. Dear Marrakesh provided two more enormous gardens for us to stroll through, with one having names like ‘Avenue of Olives’ in it. It also had roses in flower, fountains, paths, a myriad of trees and a children’s area with two gigantic grey concrete dinosaurs amongst the play things. This section was named ‘Children’s Space’. It was well frequented by families and young people who we guessed were students from the nearby Hassan II High School. There was definitely a French influence at work here, with the order, care and opportunity for romance.

Our last garden for the day was the Cyber Park, which is absolutely huge and provided a long respite from walking beside roads. The trees here are very old, which seemed strange, given the very modern name. At the end of the gardens there is a building that seemed to be an internet café, and outside, scattered around the gardens, there are free internet stations. It was quite a remarkable idea, but a very handy one in a city with a lot of poor people who would not have home computers. The garden was full of people walking, sitting, reading, relaxing or logging on to their favourite sites.

By the time we reached the square, we realised that we may not be able to fulfil our last shopping requirements as well as visit a palace and a museum house. Really, it didn’t matter since we had had an enjoyable time and the pace in Marrakech was a slow one. We had received a last minute request from our daughter to buy a belly dancing belt if not expensive, and so we set off in pursuit of one. The belly dancing shop, not for tourists but the one regularly frequented by the women of Marrakesh, according to the proprietors, was awash with gaudy colours and dangling coins. There were two salesmen, both in their sixties. They stood in their very proper western overcoats amongst their stock of see through, seductive and saucy bra tops, pants and skirts and scarves covered in coins. I couldn’t imagine a modest Moroccan woman asking to try on the red bra top with the gold tassels dangling from the centre of the cups, along with the skin tight skirt with the coins. We explained that we just wanted something cheap for a party costume, a concept obviously very foreign to these gentlemen, who were used to providing quality items for use in the privacy of the home. Eventually they produced a range of silver coin covered chiffon scarves and one demonstrated for me how to use it, wiggling his hips in a convincing manner. At this point, Keith revealed that Holly had definitely requested either gold or silver, but he couldn’t remember which! We went back to the hotel to check her email, which was just as well, since she wanted gold coins. We found a similar black chiffon scarf with gold coins on it in another shop, but I did feel bad that we had not returned to our two kind and helpful gentlemen, since maybe they had one after all.

Next I wanted some small items, and we just pottered in and out of shops, looking at all the lovely treasures and eventually making our purchases. It was dusk already, and with Keith’s cough getting worse as the cold increased, we decided to buy another fried jaffle for tea, to eat it in the square, and to have an early night. A new act had arrived, but we did not see how the hedgehog, the hamster and the pigeon, nibbling on lettuce and apparently not a bit fazed by being on the ground in a square thronging with noise and people, were going to make money for their master. All the other acts were on in full force, with the faces of the crowd showing their interest and enjoyment.

Keith left me at the hotel to type while he went to the internet café. I joined him after a while to ring Kerry’s family in England, since we were still on the same side of the world. I had the loveliest chat with Maureen, and know that Rohan is joining a very loving and inclusive family. On the way back by myself, I wondered at the collection of men who lean against walls in the narrow alley that leads to our hotel. There would be about fourteen of them, some singly and others in groups. Since some are always there, they must have some role, perhaps to suggest a hotel to people passing by. They provided a sense of security for me, walking out in the dark alone, as they posed in never ending nonchalance in a scene that waited to be painted.

A gate in the city wall

Marrakesh, Morocco, Tuesday January 13th

2009-01-16T01:27:00.000-08:00

When I woke up, I felt really tired. My cold was still hanging on and so I lazed about in bed typing and trying to restore myself to perfect health. Keith read the guide book and we made plans. At lunch time we set out for the museum. To set out for a destination here is a little hit and miss, even with the map. The medina is completely different to Fez; made up of wider lanes with galleries and smaller lanes leading off them. The souks are somewhere in there, with each craft having its own, but there are so many other stalls selling craft goods all the way along that you can have a visual or shopping feast wherever you go. We were not so interested in shopping, but had a couple of little items that we wanted to pick up. We decided to ignore the stalls for now or we would never make it to the museum.

At the entry to the museum there is a display to show how the building was restored, and also a sweet translation into English of the welcome to visitors to the museum. The museum is in the most beautiful nineteenth century palace. It has a breathtakingly beautiful internal courtyard and because music was playing and there were chairs around and people sitting about relaxing, you could imagine life in it in former times. In those days the courtyard, now covered with a skylight, was planted with fruit trees. Part of the palace is an art gallery and paintings, textiles and a sculpture by Morrocan artist, Nafaa Mezouar, were on display. Keith liked one called ‘Moyen Atlas’, which combined paint with a textured, almost wrinkled surface.

The rooms leading from the courtyard featured different areas of artisanship, and photos showed traditional use of each type. The embroidery photo showed little girls of about five years of age concentrating on their samplers. The different regions specialised in different forms of embroidery, and even now the continuation of the traditional skills has kept the differences alive. The jewellery was large and chunky and, from the photos, it was clear that more was the way to go. I don’t know how brides could walk with all the heavy jewellery that they would wear. A silver ‘hand of Fatima’, used to ward off the evil eye, had a scarab beetle on it; an Egyptian symbol of good luck, so it was really a powerful aid to happiness. It was interesting to see a photo of a groom with his face covered.

The hammam rooms still had their decorations in them, which was a change after seeing all the Roman baths in ruins. The hammams served an ablutionary purpose prior to praying and so were regularly built as part of mosque complexes, but could be in rich people’s homes or just set up as private businesses. The lady who ran the women’s hammam knew everyone and oversaw the running of the place and the scheduling of visits. Bathing was a social event as well. There was a reception room so, if there were too many people already there, or if your favourite masseuse was busy, you could wait and chat with others. Women allowed half a day for the outing, and organised easy to make meals so that they could spend time away from home. They also went at the same time as their friends, taking all the young children as well. Another room featured tea pots and sets, with tea drinking apparently being introduced from England in the 17^th Century. I was amazed to see exactly the cloak that the Imam had been wearing on our donkey ride in the textiles section, and learnt that it is called an akhnif.

Just across the square from the museum there is an archeological site with a beautiful ablutions kiosk in it. It originally served the Ben Youssef Mosque, but was buried under rubble over the years and it was only in 1952 that it was found again. The ground level at that time was two storeys lower than it is now. We walked down steps made of ancient bricks, which we guess were salvaged from the rubble during the excavations. This kiosk is one of the very few Almoravid buildings still intact. The Almoravid dynasty were in power from about 1060 – 1147. The building is remarkable because the architect must have given his all to this kiosk and it has all sorts of features and decorations that were to be taken up as signatures for Moroccan architecture in later eras. When it was built it must have been a most innovative design. Even to our uneducated eyes it was a miniature masterpiece.The neighbouring cistern and fountains have also been excavated, as well as the latrines. I can never work out ancient latrines, which always look as if people in the past were a very communal lot. Cats seemed to be in control of this site, with a very lazy one sleeping off the night before, on duty at the gate. Others resisted having their photos taken by Keith, perhaps having learnt that they should be paid to pose. A very dirty cat with a bent tail was seen off the premises by the reigning feline dynasty’s junior members.

The Ben Youssef Mosque has been rebuilt and altered over the years, and attached to it is the Ben Youssef Medersa. It was a school where students learnt the Koran by heart and studied other ‘diverse sciences’, but really the lessons took place in the mosque and the medersa was an enormous students’ residence for revision, study and accommodation, complete with prayer hall. The 132 rooms are on two storeys, with some looking into the large central courtyard and others facing small courtyards around the perimeter of the building. Islamic architecture is inward facing and private, with blank walls presented to the street and windows facing an internal courtyard. The rooms were extremely basic, with four walls being all most students got, along with room mates, with each person bringing his own furnishings and cooking requirements. About 800 students lived in this medersa at a time. Some rooms were a little larger and had a shelf cut into the wall. Two rooms were set up as they would have been, and as parents of students who moved regularly, we think that a tiny desk, an ink well, a small carpet, a one burner cooking stove and pot and an ablutions bucket as belongings is sufficient for anyone studying. The rooms and corridors were a little like rabbit warrens, but each had access to a courtyard which let in light and fresh air.

For me, the highlight of our time in Marrakesh was the central courtyard of this medersa. Originally founded in the fourteenth century, it was rebuilt by the Saadians in the 1560s. The Saadians were a southern dynasty which was greatly influenced by the Spanish Andalusian art styles. They favoured intricate decorations on all surfaces. That means that this building is like the Alhambra in Granada and may have been built or designed by people from Muslim Spain. I was raving about it as we walked around, admiring the details and craftsmanship, but mainly the overall design that brings all the smaller touches together. The colours were different to those used in Spain, with the natural colours of Morocco forming the palette - coffee coloured plaster lacework, chocolate carved wood above the pillars, pinky apricot pillars and lower plaster work, cream on apricot inscriptions from the Koran, apricot, black and cream border tiles and blue, green, orange, tan, gold and cream mosaic tiles in geometric designs like flowers. There are many carving patterns that we had not seen before including pine cones and palm motifs, with some parts protruding out from the surface. Arcades along two sides are thought to have once provided extra teaching space. A marvellously decorated prayer hall at the end links to all the colours and details in the courtyard outside. It was food for the soul indeed.

By eavesdropping on a tour group, I learnt that people were supposed to give money for the building of new mosques and medersas. Poor people who couldn’t, would have been expected to donate ten to twenty days of labour. The tour guide also commented on early educational methods. Students learnt passages from the Koran by rote. They were pardoned for two mistakes but if they made a third they had to stay back an hour and study more. Parents would know that their child was late home, and would beat them to make them learn better. The Imam would be the teacher, and each week the parents had to pay according to how much of the Imam’s time a child had taken. Poor or disabled students were beaten a lot before it would be decided to keep them home and set them to work around the farm or workshop.

Like the cat at the Koubba, the attendant at the medersa was having forty winks and didn’t notice us go by.

We wandered around the medina soaking up the atmosphere and looking for a place to have a cup of tea. We found a tiny little café in an alley, and sat and watched the locals. There are so many beggars here - stationary ones who find a good spot with a lot of people passing and sit with their hand out, and mobile ones who work the crowd and anyone seated. We were approached many times, and in Marrakesh we have handed out coins more than anywhere else since Egypt. It is a bit of a dampener when you are relaxing over a cup of tea to have begging appeals, and also the noise and fumes of the many motorbikes that career through the narrow streets amongst the people is not so great. I was reading the guide book aloud to Keith and we chose a couple of places to visit tomorrow. We were happy to take it slowly and to just indulge in a little more of the entertainments in the Djemma el Fna this evening.

On our way home, we were intrigued by a fast food shop where a woman fried bread dough and added fillings. We watched for a while, and began chatting with a couple of New Zealand graphic designers who are working in the UK. They, and eventually we, ordered what turned out to be oily but delicious fried jaffles. They told us that with three years of experience in graphic design it is possible to get positions overseas, as they had done. They also mentioned inter-government projects that gave good experience, such as in working for developing countries setting up museums. They were enjoying their work experiences and catching a holiday in Morocco, saying that their wages easily allowed for travel.

Finally back at the hotel, I typed on until I was nearly up to date and Keith had some more dinner then went to the internet café to publish as many pages as he could. We are so close to the end of our trip, and have both sacrificed other activities to create this blog. We want to leave Morocco knowing that the record of our travels is virtually complete.

Kalaa des Mgouna to Marrakesh, Morocco, Monday January 12th

2009-01-15T12:02:00.000-08:00

We rose early to find that the lights were not working. The power point worked but not the lights. Nevertheless we groped our way around and packed up our bags. Just before we left, the lights came on. It was still dark outside as we crept past the house so as not to wake Youssef up. It wasn’t far to the road. We took off our bags and Keith walked up and down to keep warm. No one stirred. We heard a vehicle in the distance but it turned out to be a laden utility and it didn’t stop for us. Silence again, save for Keith’s footsteps. At last we had to admit that our get away plan had failed due to the early hour and the remote place.

We started walking back to the house. Before we got there, we heard the car start up as Youssef backed out of his drive. When we reached him, he began to ask us what we were doing, but then settled for telling us to get in. I sat in the back with the bags and Keith sat in the front. Youssef asked me if I had slept well. I said that I hadn’t because I had been worried because of the difficult time he had given us the night before. He said, ‘No problems,’ and in French, he apologised for upsetting me. He later apologised to Keith as well. Maybe for him that wiped the slate clean, but for us, we knew that he could be dishonest and unscrupulous, so we would not ever recommend him as a guide to others.

We were glad to be on the bus and away. It was a large bus with less than a dozen passengers, which meant that reserving seats the previous night had been unnecessary.

The sun rose, creating pink and mauve lines above the distant snowy mountains. We were both exhausted so we slept for a while, waking to find ourselves in snow covered mountains, the High Atlas, being driven along narrow switch back roads. Little stalls selling brightly coloured ceramics were set up in freezing spots along the way. For once we had invested in a bus with heating, and we were glad that we had. After we had crossed the highest mountains, the views were just as spectacular of valleys with rivers winding through them and every available bit of fertile land farmed. The run up to Marrakesh was a mix of towns and farmlands, and even in Marrakesh, where there is an incredible amount of traffic, donkeys and horses are still used for transport. There is so much traffic that a haze of exhaust hung over the streets in the still afternoon air.

It was a bit of a walk to the tourist office but, since they were supposed to have a list of hotels and could give us a map, we thought it would be worthwhile. The map bit was, but the hotel advice was a circle drawn on the map to show where we could look for cheap hotels. Burnt out, but polite, is how I would describe the man who served us, and we saw so many tourists here in what is the off season, that I had some sympathy for him. We took a bus to the area he had indicated, near the main square – the Djemma El Fna. We followed our guide book’s map towards one of the cheap hotels it recommended but were made offers for rooms as we walked along. One sounded fine so I went up to have a look while Keith minded the bags. The man dropped the already cheap price without me doing any haggling and after I said that I thought that we would take it. It was a pleasant moment to counteract our bad feelings of last night. We do have to remember that we have met many kind and helpful Moroccans in the tourist industry, and to keep a balanced view.

As soon as we had unloaded our bags we set out to enjoy the afternoon and Marrakesh in the sunshine. The Djemma El Fna is an enormous open square with no infrastructure in it. It is just an empty paved space which is the greatest venue for buskers Moroccan style. It was already reasonably busy. Snake charmers played their pipes while cobras rose up, and just as quickly were squashed down under a hat if someone appeared to be taking a photo without paying. I don’t know how snake charmers made money before cameras were invented, but now they seem to live on photography payments, with an assistant who wanders around with snakes to drape over tourist’s shoulders for more photo opportunities. Bundles of snakes lay on the ground with sometimes no-one even watching to see that they didn’t make off. One charmer, taking a break, was bitten by a young snake that he was carelessly ‘doodling’ with, and just shook his hand a few times and sucked it. Water sellers in traditional costumes posed with tourists and also cashed in on the craze for photos of every moment.

Women sat on stools, calling out to women and waving patterns for henna hand and face paintings. Other women told fortunes with cards, although I don’t know how the customers would have understood if they didn’t speak Arabic. There were games to try such as fishing for soft drink bottles and a card game in which the customer had to say where a particular card was. A dispute arose from that one, at the same time that a man with a snake chased a female tourist who had taken a photo and not paid enough. Circles of men indicated something of interest in the middle, and these varied from acrobatics, comedy routines, men doing belly dancing, story telling with a few props and readings from an illustrated Koran. Unlike western buskers, who tend to be young and travelling, most of these buskers were middle aged or older, and many were very serious. It was such a pity to not be able to understand what was being said, although we could enjoy the musicians who performed for circles of listeners or who moved across the square playing their instruments. Payments were made voluntarily by listeners and onlookers, sometimes to encourage the next part of the act and sometimes at the end. As many as a hundred and fifty people would be crowded around a performer.

There were rows and rows of stalls selling freshly squeezed juice, with pyramids of oranges and grapefruits. Others sold all kinds of dried fruits and their displays were immaculate works of art, with every kind neatly in its own section. Some more stalls on the ground had items for treatment of ailments and for making spells. Different herbs and compounds were displayed amongst parts of animals, such as horns, skins and testicles, and roots and bark of different plants.

What was truly amazing was that on a Monday afternoon there were so many people with the time to go to the square and listen. While there were some tourists, the vast majority were Moroccans and nearly all men, completely absorbed by what they were watching.

We stayed watching the entertainments for a while, and then walked to some seats opposite the treed Foucault Square to eat our lunch. It was a good choice since we could observe everyone passing by and a bad choice because all the horse drawn carriages were just opposite and the smell of manure and urine, despite the nifty arrangement hanging below the horses’ tails, was pretty overpowering. It was just lovely to be relaxing in the sun anyway, with no arrangements to rush to fulfil and nowhere we had to be. It was just lovely to be warm. The motor bike has gone crazy here in Marrakesh, with so many rushing back and forth without regard to any road rules that there is quite a bit of noise pollution as well as exhaust pollution from them. Women ride them as well as men here. There is a wide range of dressing among Moroccan women, from the traditional to the modern for all ages. The tourists are very interesting to observe, with the majority seeming to be our age or older. Of course there are lots of young people too. Today we were noting how couples looked like each other, and how if they were old hippies, they would both be old hippies, and if one wore a lot of gold jewellery, the other would too.

A little girl of about eight with a very runny nose was trying to sell a tray of biscuits. Her younger brother, about five, came along with a couple of packets of tissues for sale. Keith said ‘Non, merci,’ (No, thank you,) but instead of moving on the little boy just propped in front of Keith repeating ‘Non, merci, non, merci’. Presumably someone has taught him not to take ‘no’ for an answer and to wear the customer down. Keith just ignored him and eventually he moved off, with a very firm, ‘Well fuck you!’ Such are the life lessons for some five year olds here. His approach was successful further on when a tourist gave in and took the two packets and gave him a coin. He grabbed a packet back, so he obviously knew what his goods were worth.

Moving on again, it was a pleasure to see the Koutoubia minaret, built in 1150. It is an aesthetically very pleasing minaret, nearly seventy metres high, in soft apricot stone with bands of green tiles, and turrets like stepped pyramids. It has been recently restored, but not to its original state, which would have been painted plaster. The original mosque on the site can be seen as excavated ruins. They show the costly mistake which was made by someone who did not line it up properly with Mecca. It looks to have been about ten degrees out. It was demolished and a new mosque was built beside it.

We strolled in the loveliest gardens behind the mosque, with roses still in flower providing a lovely perfume. They are in a formal style, with a central fountain and paths around beds of orange trees, palms and flowers. There are numerous seats, and all were being sat on. We were not the only ones to be taking a day to relax and enjoy the weather. I noticed an elderly French couple, walking along arm in arm and making it from one resting spot to the next around the gardens. Their appearance was timeless, and made no concession to modern travel wear or comfortable shoes. Their faces were marked by joy, and their expressions were sweet and benign. I hope that we can be as happy to be in the moment in our later years, and that we are still visiting gardens in exotic places too.

Suddenly I was very tired and so we walked back to the hotel. I didn’t even last to have any dinner, since I was fast asleep by 5.30. Keith went out to the internet café. I didn’t wake to find his note telling me when he would be back. I didn’t wake until fourteen and a half hours later.

Below: views of Marrakesh's main square in the late afternoon The two seller above has all kinds of animal parts, one presumes to be illegally obtained, such as python skins.

A roadside food stall in a mountain village with the snack meals prepared in traditional pottery tajines, with a small charcoal fire in the pot underneath.

In Fes motor vehicles are banned from the medina. In the narrow market streets of Marrakesh we found the constant speedy motor scooters a noisy, smelly, hazardous nuisance, making the area unpleasant to be in. In the still air the exhaust fumes hang in the air and it must be a very unhealthy environment for those who work there.

Trekking in southern Morocco, Sunday January 11th

2009-01-15T11:45:00.000-08:00

Keith woke early and surprised some locals when he appeared at the spring with a bucket to collect water for the toilet. He walked around the area to stay warm. I woke at about eight o’clock when we had breakfast of omelette, tea and bread. We thanked and farewelled the family members and Youssef II, and set off on our trek. The water in some puddles was frozen and the wind was icy cold.

We crossed the road and headed off over the mountains, along a little path that was one person wide. It was a fantastic feeling to have nothing man made in view – just the vast and bleak mountains and their glorious textures and colours. Youssef was walking very fast and I had a little trouble keeping up as I wiped my weeping eyes and dripping nose. We were 2400 metres above sea level, so it was probably my cold that was affecting me, rather than the altitude, but I did feel a little breathless. After a while we passed a village, and could see a part of a long wall. When we asked Youssef about it, he told us that it was the wall that marked someone’s land, where no-one else could go, and that a house would eventually be built in it. Youssef was not very communicative, but he did tell us that he had been very cold in the night.

We walked for quite a long time before we headed downhill and into a gorge. The river rushed along through it and was washing over the stepping stone crossings. At one point we were clambering along the cliff wall, and it was quite difficult for me but I managed with Youssef’s help. Youssef decided that the mountain crossing that he had planned a little further on would be too difficult for me and said that it was no problem because we could go the other way, by the road, at that point. I asked Keith if he would like to go over the mountain with Youssef and I could meet them later coming via the road, but Keith said that we should stick together.

The gorge became narrower and the river crossings more frequent. Soft flaky snow was falling. Youssef was trying to find more rocks so that I could cross at one point when a man on a donkey came along. Later Youssef told me that he was the Immam of the next village; a friend and a neighbour of his aunt. After some talking, the man agreed to take me on his donkey up the gorge to the aunt’s house, where I would wait for Keith and Youssef. Getting me up onto the donkey was a major task, but once I was up there it was quite comfortable because I could put my feet into the open panniers and hold onto the man’s waist. He was wearing a marvellous semi-circular hooded cloak of tightly woven dark brown wool to keep him warm. We trotted away, leaving the others to negotiate the river with their longer legs. The gorge was a different place from the muffled perspective of the back passenger on a donkey, but it was very beautiful, with oleander bushes fringing it in many spots. The Immam made sure that I was holding on well whenever we went uphill and I was in danger of slipping off the back.

It was a surprise to the aunt and her family when we arrived, and I dismounted on a rock outside her door. Nevertheless, she took me into the family room where some boys were watching television. I was deposited there and after a while Youssef and Keith arrived. Youssef had hurried to arrive, leaving Keith behind and unsure of what streets to take or where to go once he came to the village. He had to ask people on the street which way a man had gone.

We met the wives of the aunt’s two sons, one of the sons and the grandchildren, and the Immam was there too. We had a cup of tea and then we seemed to stay on forever. Lunch appeared - a Berber omelette for us and a tajine for the family. There was a warm, friendly atmosphere but the television was showing continuous coverage of the war, in Arabic. We could see the images but understand nothing. The family and Youssef were talking about it. At no stage were we included in any of the conversations, so it was a bit like watching a play rather than having any part in it. The only time Youssef spoke to us was to say ‘Happy?’ or to answer a direct question from us. Eventually I coaxed a little boy called Mohamed to come and sit on my knee, and then we were a little included because motherhood is revered and respected everywhere. He was the sweetest little boy and just snuggled in.

We set off again, coming out of the gorge and up onto the road not far from where we had caught the bus the day before. Youssef walked ahead of us and only spoke if we asked him something. It was not so far to the village where we had had a glass of tea the day before so we were surprised when he suggested stopping there for tea. We said that we didn’t need any and could walk on, but if he wanted to have a rest, that that was fine too. We stayed there for ages while Youssef caught up on the hash smoking that he had missed during the morning, due to having run out. He talked with his friends, and with us to push further tours. He said that snow on these mountains meant that the road to Marrakesh would be closed for the bus, but that he could drive us and we could stay at his friend’s place. We said that we would be taking the bus in the morning to Marrakesh and that we would not be taking any other tours. If the bus couldn’t go, we would wait for one that did. From this point on, the lack of effort towards us seemed to degenerate into disinterest and even contempt. Perhaps he had seen us as rich tourists who could be milked for more and he was disappointed, but lack of sleep may have been affecting him too. At any rate, he asked me for medication for the absent shop keeper who had a headache so I handed over my only three paracetamols. After that we were just sitting there waiting for him to finish, as precious walking time passed by.

At last we left and from then on we seemed to be perpetually about five metres behind him, no matter how fast we walked. At one point he stopped to make another walking baton for Keith but I explained that we could not take them away with us even if we wanted to, because of the Australian regulations. We were now in the country we had walked in yesterday, and it was different, yet just as beautiful, seeing it from the other direction. We walked on and on and on. When Youssef stopped to go to the toilet, he told us to just keep going up the road. We walked for at least three kilometres without him, which gave us a chance to discuss his behaviour. Ultimately we thought that it is best to have some time with a guide before employing him, to check that he is able to be the sort of guide that you want and that your combined language skills would be adequate. The fit here with us wasn’t perfect, with all of us speaking only some French, and us wanting more that just someone to follow into unknown country. No doubt the people who wrote in his comments book had had great times, with different expectations from the beginning.

When Youssef caught up with us, he suggested that we flag a ride if possible. That seemed a good idea since it looked as if we might not make it back before dark. No passing vehicles stopped for a lot further, but we kept walking on. Eventually we were lucky and, piled into a taxi, we were driven at least six kilometres, but maybe more, to Youssef’s village. We scrambled back up the hill to his place and gratefully warmed ourselves by the heater. His sister-in-law had prepared a delicious meal so we had an early dinner. Keith paid the last part of the trekking fee. Youssef said that we could repack our bags and give him things that we didn’t need – ‘for the poor’. He said that we could give him our medications since they are expensive here. We could also give him some money for continuing his building projects and that hat is what tourists do.

It was when we discussed the bus that the atmosphere completely changed and Youssef turned nasty. He said that we would need to book tickets that night for the bus in the morning, with the best one being at 7 a.m. He could drive in and do it, for an exorbitant cost that he claimed was only for petrol. He also gave the bus ticket prices at way above what we expected them to be. He was so nasty when we queried the prices that I just wanted to get on the first bus and leave. I did ask him what would happen if we gave him the money he claimed was the cost of the tickets and it turned out to be less. He said that he would give us back the difference. You can see by this that we no longer trusted him. We gave him the money and he left to buy the tickets.

When he returned he told me that the price he had told us was the correct one but that he had been able to get it cheaper as a Moroccan. I did not really believe that since it was a big company and not just a private bus company. He asked me to give him Keith’s walking boots while Keith was in the shower but I refused. The bus tickets had the price written on them. When Keith asked for the change, about $A20, Youssef said that he was keeping it as a charge for the trip to take us to the bus tomorrow. It all went downhill from here, with us reminding him that that was included in the original agreement and him saying that we could make our own way there since it would be too early for him to take us unless we gave him more money. We were ten kilometres from town in a place with only occasional passing taxis. He raved on about his costs, and what he had paid the families and how we should pay more, particularly aiming it at me, as possibly the softer touch. He went on about being a poor man, as if that gave him the right to be dishonest. In the end he agreed to take us, and said that we could knock on the house door to wake him up. He told us all about other generous tourists again, and I said that we were not other people. He left, but almost immediately popped back to remind us to give him things for the poor and some money to help with his buildings.

We were completely nonplussed and the ugly scene left us feeling very uncomfortable. Even though he had not been the greatest guide for us, we had enjoyed the trekking. We had paid him a lot of money for what the tour turned out to be, but we had chosen to do that. Now we felt that we were dealing with an unscrupulous man who to some extent had us in his power. We couldn’t understand why he had suddenly agreed to drive us for no extra cost, although Keith thought that perhaps he still hoped we would give him more money. I was glad that I was not alone in this situation, since Youssef had been quite aggressive and overpowering. We went to bed, but not to sleep, as each of us re-ran the conversations and thought of what we should do. At last I dropped off but Keith worried on. At 3 a.m. he asked me if we could just leave very early and take our chances on other transport, since he never wanted to see Youssef again. I had thought that we could report him to the tourist police if he tried any more tricks and I wanted him to say ‘Happy?’ so that I could say that I was not. We decided to do Keith’s plan, and if no-one came by, to put mine into action.

A Berber nomad hut: sheep and shepherd share the same space for warmth during the night. There is not enough feed for the sheep to stay for long in one place.

El Kalaa des Mgouna, Morocco, Saturday January 10th

2009-01-15T11:23:00.000-08:00

Keith and Christine would love to hear from you with questions, comments, personal news and any news at all from Australia or wherever you are. We will reply to all emails! Please write to either windlechristine@gmail.com or windle.keith@gmail.com

Youssef collected us and drove us to his house where we left our big packs. We would stay there on Sunday night and leave early for the bus on Monday morning. We had the inevitable cup of tea before we left.

It was exciting to be scrambling down the hill and onto the road, setting off on a two day trek into beautiful country. The distances were realistic, with about 16 km today and 19 or so tomorrow, and with our recent walk at the Todra Gorge, we knew that we could handle them. It was cold to start with but we walked at a brisk pace and I was soon stripping off. The area is really lovely, with the bare mountains showing every kind of geological change. The light shining on ridges and casting other areas into shadow and the changing colours of pink to almost red gave us constantly interesting views. We walked along the river and through the gardens. Youssef said that the gardens no longer support Berber families and that they have to buy some provisions from markets. Men were working in the fields, turning over the ground with short handled spades with the blade at an acute angle. Tamarisks were grown to be coppiced, and they and the prunings from the olives and figs provided fuel for cooking. Lucerne, wheat and various vegetable crops were grown between the trees and roses. The men’s puppy followed us until it was driven back by Youssef.

An old lady sat at the doorway of a walled house and yard, and Youssef asked her if anyone was home. The family was out working in the fields, but we were able to go in to use the toilet. When I held out my hand in greeting to the old lady she ignored it. Youssef told me that she was blind, so I reached down to her hand and took it as I spoke. She spoke to me in Berber which I didn’t understand. There are four forms of the Berber language in Morocco, and everyone learns Arabic at school. Children start on French at third class level in primary school and on English at secondary school, called college here. Many older people speak only Berber and Arabic. We left the old lady sitting on her step and continued on.

We passed by a village where we could hear the sound of a celebration, which Youssef said was a wedding. At last we came to a house that seemed to grow out of the gorge wall. We entered and met some friends of Youssef’s. We were taken around to a locked building which had rugs and cushions in it, as well as a strange little tree ornament. Youssef’s friend brought us some tea and mostly we were alone drinking it. We didn’t realise that this was the lunch stop since it was quite early. Once Youssef said that we would be having lunch, I reminded him that we did not eat meat or fish. The man brought in a delicious Berber omelette and bread. Knives and forks are not used here. The food is presented on a communal plate and pieces of flat bread are used to scoop it up. Through the window we could see a woman digging up carrots in the garden on the flats below. She gave them to Youssef to deliver to her mother up in the mountain village where we would be staying the night. Youssef’s friend is also building on areas for tourists to stop and eat at and also an area for a craft shop.

As we left, we passed a woman washing the clothes in the canal. There is a great system of canals everywhere, with water taken from the river upstream and fed through very small canals to irrigate the farmlands. I was so busy watching her that I slipped and fell quite heavily. I scratched my thigh and tore a hole in my pants. Of course I said that it was nothing, and walked on.

Youssef helped me in the tricky parts where it required a very long step or the ability to walk on a ledge or near vertical rocks. Keith had no problems at all and enjoyed any parts that were challenging. We crossed the river on rickety little bridges a couple of times and on rocks at others. Youssef took a long cane from a pile and broke it and cleaned it to make me a Berber walking stick. It was excellent, being very strong but light. Eventually we left the canal edges and gardens and returned to the road. Although not as interesting, we did pass through villages and see more people. Women and children were carrying great loads of wood and animal feed on their backs. Some men were working on canal repairs. People were walking along the road and some were simply resting beside it on rocks. The mountains continued to dominate the scenery and along with the river, and at one stage the confluence of two rivers, provided constantly changing and mesmerising vistas.

Another stop was at a village café where we had more cups of tea. The owner was a tall, gaunt man in a dark woven cloak. He sat opposite his shop in a patch of sunshine against a low wall. He wiped the nose of his young son now and then; a boy we had guessed to be about five years old but who the father said was eight. Nearby a group of girls was playing soccer, practising some pretty nifty footwork. Youssef told us that there is a women’s soccer team in Morocco that does quite well.

Youssef asked Keith for some money to pay for food for later, so Keith gave him part of the fee. I was a bit embarrassed at that show of lack of faith in our guide, but I know that not paying until you have received services is what the guide book advises. When Youssef returned, he made a plate of sardine, tomato and onion salad which he offered us. I reminded him that we are vegetarian so he ate the salad alone. During this stop Youssef spent quite a lot of time chatting with his acquaintances. We could not understand what was being said and Youssef did not include us with any translations. About every half hour throughout the day he would ask us ‘Ca va?’ or ‘Happy?’ which after a while began to get on our nerves. He did answer our questions but most of the conversation he initiated was directed at ways to make more money out of us, such as suggestions for him to take us to the desert or on extra trips here and there, or that we should stay with his friend in Marrakesh.

We set off again, this time with the road climbing higher and higher and eventually passing under a short tunnel. The water fell in noisy cascades down below. The rocks were amazing, looking as if they had been neatly laid as bricks. The whole area was an erosion lover’s dream, showing the effects of water and the extremes of temperature. It was late afternoon and any warmth from the sun had long since gone. We climbed up a hill for a view over the village in a valley while Youssef stopped for a rest and a smoke. Just as we climbed down a country bus came along so Youssef flagged it down. It seemed to be full already, but we were wrong since we and a few more passengers further on were squeezed in. It was a mini bus, probably for about fourteen people, but the back area was full of bags of wheat or some such. That did not stop it transporting twenty people including the driver and four children, and a sheep. I couldn’t see anything but Keith was near a window and said that that was just as well, since I wouldn’t have liked the long, steep drops from the road to the valleys below. Youssef chatted to a man beside him all the way.

It was nearly dark when we arrived at our destination of Timetda. Youssef’s friend, another Youssef, also got off, since his family home was there too. We walked across to an earth walled house, beside a spring that fed a pond for animals to drink at and an outlet for people to collect water from. Youssef I (our guide) had told us that we would be staying with his family so we assumed that this was his house. Youssef I told us that Youssef II had invited us for a cup of tea. We entered a little courtyard with buildings around it. An elderly couple was sitting in a little, dark, smoke filled room where the fire was being coaxed into life. We were introduced to them by Youssef II as his grandparents. Next we were taken into a large room where both Youssefs laid out carpets at one end and gave us cushions to sit on and blankets to wrap ourselves in. It was icy cold and even two blankets were not warming me up. A lady and her daughter brought in the tea. I think that she was the widow of an uncle but I am not sure. At this point Youssef I said that we would be staying here, and that it was the same as his family’s house. Youssef II was as student in Amsterdam, studying geology and languages. He worked as a guide and a driver in the holidays and would continue that work when he finished. He spoke English but we spoke French with him at first to include the other Youssef in the conversation. Youssef I said that it would be better if we spoke English so that he could learn it. Youssef II explained that the Rose Valley has excellent examples of different periods of geological history in the rocks, and that the ‘bricks’ we had seen, the tilted sections and the gorge were all of great interest to geologists. Each year tours of geology students come here. He said that there were many Moroccan students at his university in Amsterdam, including some girls.

The two Youssefs offered us a taste of the fig wine that they were drinking; a clear and strong alcohol that they downed in small swigs. They were both smoking kif (hashish), as Youssef I had been doing for much of the day. He had told us that it is good for the health and has no consequences of impairing your judgement such as alcohol does. It just helps you to relax. We had thought of all the studies in Australia that have led to drug testing as well as alcohol testing for drivers, since it does impair judgement. Youssef I is a taxi driver as well as a guide.

It was not quite the evening with a Berber family seeing the way of life that I had expected, since we were apart from the family in a room with just the two guides. I asked about the bread making that Youssef I had mentioned as being something we would see, but it had finished while we were having the tea. We did see the semi-circular earth oven that it was made in and the tray it would have sat on. The bread is round and flat but does have some yeast in it, and is stored in a plastic basket under cloths. A pot of couscous sat ready on a little stove.

The lady brought in an earthenware container full of hot coals to warm the room and Youssef I started to prepare a tajine for our meal. A tajine is the name of a shallow ceramic dish with a conical lid. It sits on a ledge on the pot of coals and is cooked from below, with the steam aiding the cooking. First onions were cooked in a little oil and then spices and salt were added. Meat went in next and was cooked for about a quarter of an hour, being turned over every now and then. The meat was then piled up to make the inner core of a pyramid of vegetables – carrot, potato, green pepper and tomato, which were added according to the length of time that they would take to cook. It seemed to take forever to prepare and even longer to cook, but time goes slowly when you are sitting about listening to other people talking in another language and feeling cold. We asked what the lady had been talking about with them as she used the bellows to heat up our coals. It had been about the two marriage proposals she had received during the past three days and that she had not yet chosen.

I asked Youssef II if there was somewhere that I could put my long johns on under my pants, and he took me by torch light into another room where the lady and her daughter sat around a fire. He shone the torch on me so that I could see what I was doing, and I am sure that he took me into the one warmer room, but it felt strange to be taking off my pants in the presence of others, particularly of a man we had not met, who also came in. It is the only time that I have felt embarrassed to have a spot light on me. Still, I was now so much warmer that it was worth it.

We ate some vegetables from the tajine and a couscous and vegetables dish that the lady had prepared. It was a very nice meal, and we had enjoyed the soft singing of some traditional Berber songs while it cooked. After more tea, it was time for bed, with the blankets and rugs being consolidated on one side of the floor for us to sleep on and under. We asked where the toilet was, and then it was time to sleep. I wore all my clothes, my hat, scarf, gloves and shawl and it was still a while before I warmed up in bed. Keith was cold all night and found sleeping on the floor uncomfortable for his back. I was not so uncomfortable except when I rolled over onto my injured thigh which had quite a few lacerations on it.

El Kalaa des Mgouna, Morocco, Friday January 9th

2009-01-14T12:32:00.001-08:00

We slept in a while and then lazed about having showers and typing. It had been a long time since we had had a morning with nothing to do but wait. We had breakfast at 10.30 – a leisurely meal of bread, cheese, jam, juice, tea and coffee. The Kasbah had been built using traditional materials and methods. It was away from other buildings and ringed by mountains. Monayeem had painted a design on the door himself, and efficiently ran every part of the business.

Our couch surfing host arrived a little late, having been on a chat line to a French friend until the wee small hours. He took us to meet his wife and children, since his father was out. His house is enormous, and was recently built once he and his brother each married and produced six children in ten years between them. The old part of the house is now used as a barn for a cow and sheep with lambs. From the rooftop terrace we could see the ruins of the original Kasbah of the village, which had had too many families in it, causing homes to be built outside its walls. Later it ceased to be used at all. The ruins of Kasbahs and mud brick buildings are very picturesque, as they seem to melt away rather than tumble down. Our host’s wife was friendly and gave us some tea and biscuits. We gave the family some apricots and almonds, and showed them photos of our home and family. The three little girls were very sweet, although quite shy at first.

We set off walking to town with our host pushing his motorbike until a taxi with room in it passed by. We were driven off and met our host again at the taxi rank in town. He then found us another taxi, which we all took to the Rose Valley. The taxi driver was called Yousef and was a family connection of our host’s. He was an expert on the Rose Valley, since he lived there, and took trekking tours into it. We stopped along the way to see two Kasbahs, one of which was wanted for transforming into a hotel by some French investors. The locals refused to sell it. Our host had been telling us that we shouldn’t go to Marakesh, that there was nothing much there and that it could be dangerous for us in view of the war. Yousef agreed and they both thought that more time in their area before finishing our travels in Casablanca would be best for us.

Yousef invited us all for a cup of tea at his house, so we ended up there. He showed us how he had been building on more sections to accommodate the tourists who came to explore the valley and go trekking with him. He showed us his book with comments in it and told us of clients who came year after year, and of some who gave him money so that he could continue with his building project. We thought that he was just making conversation, but he put a proposal to us that we go trekking with him for two days in the nearby mountains and gorge, staying overnight with a Berber family and seeing them going about their daily tasks. It was pretty much a hard sell and quite a high price. Our host went over things with him, I think, but we could not understand what was being said. Keith said that we would think about it during the day and Yousef said that if we did that, we may miss out since he would be picking up other tourists and they may take up the offer. We felt that we were being pressured, but it was the sort of thing we would really enjoy and would only take up one extra day. The price seemed high for Morocco, but not unreasonable for us. It was not something that we would ever normally do, and was really stretching our budget, but we did think that it was just the grabbing of the opportunity that was how we had hoped to travel. We were very careful to go over everything that we would be doing, where we would be staying, that all meals would be included, that we are vegetarian and don’t eat meat, chicken or fish, that transport from the Kasbah, and on the final morning to the bus station were included, and that no shopping was on the agenda. I also explained that while I could walk well on the flat and gentle hills, I was not a confident or capable climber.

We left with our host to walk back to Kalaa through the farms and villages. It was a really delightful walk, stepping along the little earth walls that divided the gardens and irrigation channels. Our host is a well educated man who teaches Arabic literature in a secondary school. He told us that the Berber religion, before the arrival of Islam, was a mixture of Jewish and African nature worship, and that the Buddhists that our young guide had told us about could not possibly have been here. He had married his wife after knowing her for three days, and most women have their interests centred on the home, children and animals once they are married. The figs were a legacy of the Arabs, and the Jews had developed a way to distil the figs to make alcohol. He drinks and smokes, as do many Moroccan Muslims. He said that the moderate Moroccan version of Islam does not require them to pray many times a day or to abstain from alcohol and smoking. The Kasbahs were fortified to keep other Berber groups out, but that Berbers were all peaceful. The attacks were made by Berbers desperate for food.

The gardens we walked beside were edged with olive trees and centifolia roses. The petals are harvested over a two month period and sold to a French perfume maker. These days the returns are so low that it is hardly worth harvesting them, however they are the basis of a massive tourist influx for the annual rose festival, so they do bring in revenue that way. The king has recently bought land and planted it with roses, which has led some people to hope that he might be planning to develop a Moroccan perfume industry that could pay better. At any rate, the roses grow simply from cuttings and so the number of plants could be increased quickly if needed.

We scrambled up the hill beside the old Kasbah and walked along the road from that point. It was quite late and cold, and so when a taxi passed, our host hailed it. Back in town, we continued on in the taxi while he collected his motor bike. Unfortunately our taxi driver sailed past our stop, and once he realised it, he told us that he would drop us off on the way back. Once again we thanked our ability to speak French sufficiently to have understood what was happening, because we seemed to drive on and on as night fell. At last the driver turned back and we arrived at our stop. He overcharged Keith, who queried him, but gave the correct change when our host intervened. Our host said it was a case of mistaken calculation ( 8 + 8 = 19).

Keith stayed in the downstairs room at our host’s house, where he was able to use the internet, and our host drove me back to the Kasbah on his motorbike. When we arrived, a Spanish couple, Paula and Ramon, and their guide, Ali, were warming themselves by the fire. They were delightful company and had just come from Marakesh which they had enjoyed visiting. I failed to type up all the days that I was behind on as we chatted and compared experiences. Ali used to be a props man on the movies, and had worked on Mummy 1 and Mummy 2 and other films that I had heard of, but gave it up because of the terrible rate of pay he received. Now he works for a travel company and takes small groups of travellers around Morocco. I didn’t feel quite so guilty at socialising instead of working when Keith arrived and confessed that he had spent a good deal of his time chatting to our host’s brother. Of course, we always prefer to socialise since it is one of the most enjoyable and educational aspects of travel, so neither of us were really feeling guilty at all. We had another delicious meal - soup, a spicy mix of vegetables topped with an egg mix and mandarins – and chatted on with Paula and Ramon. Ali popped in and out and Monayeem was a dignified host, now in western dress, making sure that all was went well.

We set our alarm for quite early, to allow for repacking our bags as we would only be taking our day packs trekking with us and needed to be ready for Yousef, who would come to pick us up at eight a.m.

Tinerhir to El Kalaa des Mgouna, Morocco, Thursday January 8th

2009-01-14T12:26:00.000-08:00

I woke relatively early and while Keith searched for a shower and toilet that worked, I did a little blogging. I was still typing when he went out to buy some bread. As Keith walked along, two men were in his path so he moved over so that they could pass. They moved back into his path and spoke to him for a minute, but he could only say that he didn’t understand several times and then they walked on.

Once we were on our way with our packs, we were clearly tourists and were quickly joined by a man in a purple turban. He walked along with us, asking us what we were doing and where we were going. When we were nearly at the town he handballed us to a friend of his in a striped djellaba, hooded coat and he followed us to the bus station. He tried to take over our ticket purchase, but the ticket seller was not having it. We left our big packs at the office and went with the stripy djellaba man to find a ‘grand taxi’, which is a car (usually an old Mercedes) that operates like a bus, with an equal share of the fare for each person. They do not leave until they are full, and full means with six paying passengers in addition to the driver. We chatted to a Moroccan lady beside us while we waited for another passenger. She was rudely told to get out when two tourists appeared. That filled our car up and the lady would have to wait for another one. Before we left she came back over to say ‘Goodbye’ to us. We were taking the taxi to the start of the Todra Gorge and planned to walk around there and then back the 15 km to Tinerhir in time to take our bus at four o’clock.

It was cold when we walked away from the taxi towards the gorge. This gorge is spectacular and easily accessible to cars and buses so is on the tourist route. You can stay in hotels at the start of the gorge and even at some right inside it. There are stalls of souvenirs and work by artisans along the way, but the vendors seemed to be making a slow start to the day and hardly any approached us. A sign said not to swim or bathe in the river to preserve the environment but on the opposite side of the road, down at the river bank, a woman was doing her family’s washing. At this point the gorge becomes quite narrow, with the gap between it deep in freezing shadow. We put on all the clothes, hats and scarves that we had with us and felt sorry for people who were lightly dressed.

One of many advertising boards mounted on the wall of the gorge, mostly for nearby hotels and tour companies.

The road has been damaged by erosion when the river floods, with large chunks of it having fallen off the edges. Now and then we were passed by laden donkeys and their drivers, reminding us that this country is home to Berber people, and not just an interesting natural site. Rocks seemed to balance precariously on the edges of the cliffs and now and then evidence of a landslide showed that the enormous boulders do in fact fall sometimes. The narrow part of the gorge did not go for more than a few hundred metres, but we walked on for a while as the gorge widened out and the views became less spectacular. Palm trees grew amongst the rocks at the water’s edge. After a bit more than a kilometre along the gorge, we turned back, to be sure of giving ourselves enough time to walk back to town. It was great to be out and walking and we were quite warm in the sunshine.

The walk back to Tinerhir was easy since it was mostly downhill. We walked through villages where children often asked us for pens, lollies or money, always in French. It is not an endearing aspect of life in poor tourist areas that so many of the children are begging. Adults just gave friendly greetings. The fertile flats beside the river are covered in date palms, olive trees and farm plots.Known as the palmeries, they are very pretty and a perfect backdrop to the earthy colours of the houses. Some villages seemed deserted; sometimes with a new one right beside it. An old man dismounted from his donkey to lead it to the river to drink, down an access path close to the road.

We ate our lunch on a bit of a ridge, a site chosen for being the only one we had seen that provided a bit of cover for going to the toilet. Even that was not safe since I had no sooner selected a spot to go than a Berber woman decided to walk up an invisible path on the mountain, right behind me. The cold wind ripped into us on our eerie and, although the views and the picnic were great, we were forced to walk on to stay warm. Eventually we were back in town, earlier than I had expected, and either we had walked very quickly or the distance was not quite as long as we had been told. We had a cup of tea and watched a tourist couple with a guide. The woman was asking lots of questions in broken French and her partner was completely out of it until she translated for him. We could hear that the guide was making suggestions and that the couple was trying to decide what to do. It was all very familiar to us.

We had planned to visit the municipal gardens right in the middle of Tinerhir, so it was a bit disappointing to find that the gate was locked. Not deterred, we walked right around them to a broken gate and went in. They could be such an asset and are in a wonderful position, but they are sadly neglected and dilapidated. The swing set must have broken long ago, so long ago that even the replacement ropes to hang swings from dangled frayed and useless. A man slept on a bench beside a dead fountain, amidst the beds of weeds and grass. So many men seem to stand or sit around doing nothing and we know that unemployment is high in Morocco, so it seemed a pity that no-one had organised a working bee to fix up the community garden. Of course, I am speaking in the light of my own cultural background that includes lots of volunteer good works for community benefit. I do not know what the response would be to such a suggestion here, or if there are other priorities, far more pressing than a garden, that are being addressed by volunteers. We are certainly looking in from the outside on such a short visit.

We bought what will probably be our last postcards for Mum and our grandsons, and I wrote them while we waited for the bus. The oldest and the youngest, without computer skills, still needed the old form of communication that gives you something in the hand to read and keep. Mum’s card featured a man pouring tea, with the tea being poured into glasses from a great height and splashing everywhere, as is regularly the practice. Frey and Yonah’s had a kasbah on it, and I wrote lots of information that their parents will have to explain to them.

It was not a very long bus trip and was made most interesting by a fellow passenger who told us about the Dades valley, where he lived. He wrote some words for us in Berber, and Holly’s name in both Berber and Arabic, and gave us his phone number in case we came to his valley.

The town of El Kalaa des Mgouna is not far from the Dades Valley, and we arrived just as dusk fell. There was no-one to meet us, but after a phone call, our couch surfing host appeared. He took us to a café for a cup of tea and a long and interesting chat. During it he asked us about Australia, explained the historical and political reasons why Morocco and Algeria don’t get on, and asked whether we had been keeping up with the news. We explained that we hadn’t, and asked if he could tell us what was happening with Israel and Palestine. It was awful to hear the full story, and we were appalled at what Israel was doing.

Our host had a motor bike, so he walked us back to the bus station where we took a small van type bus to his place, at a spot on the road about four kilometres out of town. We had no idea where we were going and relied on the driver entirely. Once we arrived there, our host, who had been following us, parked his motor bike and we all walked up a path on a bare hill in the moonlight. Eventually we came to a Kasbah that was a modern chambre d’hote (like a motel) built in the traditional style. We were ushered inside. We had no idea why we were there or who the man was that our host was talking to. At last our host turned to us and explained that he lives with his father, who is an old man. They have had many couch surfers before and all has gone well. However, this time, in view of the war in Palestine, the father considered that all western foreigners were in support of Israel, and he had refused to have any of them in his house. Our host then proposed that we stay at the Kasbah, and said that the manager was a member of his extended family. While our host had handled the situation delicately and had sussed out our opinions over a cup of tea, we were suddenly hit with a change of plans that could have been explained to us in an email the night before or at the bus station. We had not investigated any other accommodation, since we hadn’t known we would need any, and so we accepted the room offered, even though it was much dearer than what we usually sought. Looked at from our host’s point of view, he had a tricky situation and had organised some accommodation for us at less than the usual rate close to his home. Our host left, saying that he would be back the next day and that he hoped his father would have a change of heart. This made us think back to the strange behaviour of the men in Tinerhir who had said things to us – were they also seeing us as the enemy in support of Israel and against the Muslim Palestinians?

Monayeem, the man in charge of the Kasbah, couldn’t have been more considerate or friendly. He cooked us the most delicious soup and tajine, and lit the fire in the dining room, even though there were only the two of us. The next day he negotiated a lower price for us with the owner, telling him that we were ‘good types’.

Midelt to Tinerhir, Morocco, Wednesday January 7th

2009-01-14T12:07:00.000-08:00

We said ‘Goodbye’ to Mohamed at the shop and waited in the bus station for the 10.30 bus. There was some delay due to snow in the mountains, and soon Mohamed appeared with a man who was in charge of tickets. He introduced us and placed us in the man’s care, and went back to work. There were many people waiting, and one couple who had a sheep trussed up in some sacks had to let him out so that he could relieve himself, the wait was so long. The steaming liquid formed a puddle on the concrete floor and nobody batted an eye. While we waited, a ticket seller for another bus approached us and asked us where we were going. He ‘informed’ us that the bus direct to Tinerhir would not be coming because of heavy snow in the mountains, but we could go on his bus to Er Rashida and then take another bus from there. When our minder realised what was going on there was a harsh exchange of words and the ticket seller retreated. Shortly after, our bus arrived. It was very lucky that Mohamed had organised special care for us because the bus was virtually full when it arrived and we were lucky to get tickets

It was very cold as we drove along, but we were well prepared and wearing many layers. The views were of desolate, dry mountains with now and then a settlement in the middle of nowhere. When we came to towns, we wondered if there was a law about all non-earth buildings being in earth tones and all doors in a soft jade green. There is such a rule for wall colours, instituted by the tourism minister, to preserve the traditional landscapes and vistas of the country. Some towns had a plethora of flags flying – as many as one every ten metres along the road, collections of about ten at corners and other points, and more draped from houses and shops. We heard that towns expecting a visit from Mohammed VI, the king, have a clean up and put up the flags. Once out of the mountains we started to see groves of palm trees and twice we saw camels.

Arriving in Tinerhir, we declined assistance to find us a hotel and set off down the hill to one we had chosen from the guide book. There seemed to be an amazing amount of new building going on on the outskirts of town, where we found our hotel. The manager was a very friendly man so we decided to eat at the little café there. Choices for us are usually an omelette, a vegetable tajine or vegetable couscous. In small places you have to allow about an hour after ordering your dinner for it to arrive, and sometimes even longer if they have to go out to purchase the ingredients. We set a time for our meal and went out to have a look at the town.

At the bus station, we found out about travelling to El Kalaa des Mgouna the next day, and picked up a guide who apparently did not want any money. He was a delightful young man and we enjoyed our time seeing the old Kasbah and the Jewish quarter. As we entered the Kasbah, a woman despatched her youngest child, aged about three, to beg for money from us. Our young guide told us lots of interesting information, such as the need to maintain mud brick buildings every year and that 25% of Muslims in Morocco believe in God but do not feel bound by the restrictions on Islam. He led us to a Berber carpet shop where we had tea and looked at some beautiful carpets. I was happy about that since we learnt the meaning of the different symbols, but Keith would have preferred to use the daylight seeing other things. Our guide had taught himself English from books and the internet. We did give him a tip at the end, but it would have been possible to have walked away, since he had valued the English practice during our time together.

We called at the internet café to check if there had been an email from our next couch surfing host. When there wasn’t one, we rang to check that all was well. Keith had trouble understanding him in French, so put me on, but I had trouble too since he seemed to be talking about something other than our visit. I asked him to send us an email with what he was saying on it, and that we would check our emails after dinner. I explained that we could read French much better than understand it on the phone. While we were on the internet, an older man had entered and said things to us that we could not understand. He had been bustled out by other computer users and we thought that maybe he was a beggar.

There could have been nothing less atmospheric than the café we ate in, which had tiles on the floor, plastic tables and chairs and a large TV showing an English drama about art thefts. It was virtually empty. The meal was delicious, as all tajines seem to be. Upstairs I relaxed under a hot shower, but was then unable to turn the water off. Plumbing is a challenging area, it seems, in Morocco. Keith brought the manager up, but the problem had to be solved by turning the water off at the main tap on the terrace.

I did a little typing while Keith went off to check the email from our couch surfing host. There was no email waiting and since the last thing that the host had said was that he would meet us at the bus station, Keith came back to have an early night ready for our walk in the Todra Gorge tomorrow.

Midelt, Morocco, Tuesday January 6th

2009-01-14T11:30:00.000-08:00

Keith and Christine would love to hear from you with questions, comments, personal news and any news at all from

Australia

or wherever you are. We will reply to all emails! Please write to either windlechristine@gmail.com or windle.keith@gmail.com

Drisse did not arrive to pick us up at the appointed time, so Keith walked up to the shop to ask Mohamed what we should do. Meanwhile he had found out that Drisse had car troubles and had organised for another driver, Wahid, to take us. We drove past the Kasbah Myriem and towards the snowy mountains.

Our first stop was to see the Barrem Gorge. We climbed down from the road to look over the edge of the cliffs to the river running in a narrow gorge below. It was fascinating but I experienced the feeling of vertigo that puts me off looking down from high places. I enjoy gorges from the bottom, looking up. Keith was in his element, prancing along the cliff top to take photos from different angles.Not much grew up here, save the stunted wild rosemary plants that somehow survived in the red dirt between the rocks. Wahid stopped the car to collect some sprigs to make tea with, and to our amazement uprooted a whole plant, tore off a few branches and tossed the rest away. The taxi splashed its way across a ford and further up into the mountains, with a stretch of farms on each side of the river. At last we arrived at the village of Tatiouen, where some Franciscan sisters live and work. A young woman, the president of the local Association, which is concerned with social, educational and economic development of the village, had shared the taxi with us for the last couple of kilometres.

We were invited into the home of the sisters, and a delightful Spanish sister, whose name I unfortunately cannot recall, sat us down and talked to us about the village and her work there. Originally the Franciscans had lived in tents and moved with the nomads, providing education and health care and anything else within their power to the people. By the 1980s they became semi-settled, spending half the year in the village and half moving with the Berber nomads. A priest at that time arranged for the building of a hammam (bath house) in the village. Nowadays there are just three nuns (French, Polish and Spanish), who live all the year round in the village and the hammam has been converted into a dispensary. The nuns speak French amongst themselves and some can speak the Berber and Arabic, which are the community languages.

While progress is very slow and the community continues to live in dire poverty due to lack of employment and natural resources in the area, the sister we spoke to said that all children are now immunised, that there is immediate health care and referral to a doctor for more difficult cases, that malnutrition is not as bad as it once was and that people are clothed better. There are about 45 families living in the village, with only two flocks being able to be supported by the very sparse vegetation round about. The farms provide some work and food, but not all are owned by people in this village. Long ago people gathered wood on the mountains but it has all gone now. There is some seasonal employment coming from the government run tree planting programs. The nuns run a kindergarten, which we visited, and it provides the mothers with a chance to learn about early child hood education, and an opportunity to look for food or wood on the mountains without the children being with them, as well as educational and social opportunities for the children. In general, girls attend the primary school here until about ten years old and then stay home to work within the family. Boys may do the same or continue on with secondary education in Midelt. The teachers come out from Midelt each day, with a taxi trip to a certain point and walking the last hour, including fording the river on foot. On bad weather days it is not possible for them to come, and of course it is difficult to attract teachers to such a position.

The child care centre

The village is very poor. We think that these buildings are occupied and it's possible that one of them is the primary school.

A couple of years ago the river flooded and broke the dam wall just upstream of this village. Water and rocks surged down, and caused massive erosion and loss of some of the precious farm lands. Re-building was not immediate, and now that it is done, it is not adequate to prevent future floods or to provide hydro-electricity to the village. Sometimes the villagers feel that they are not a high priority for government projects.

After an enjoyable sit in the kindergarten with a lovely sister who was so sweet with the three little boys; the only ones of the usual twelve who were well enough to attend today. The extremely cold weather leaves the children very susceptible to many diseases. At the dispensary, we were embarrassed to be ushered in when there was clearly a greater need to attend to the line up of mothers with crying babies in the waiting room. They had all walked over from other villages. We were ushered in to meet Sister Barbara, a nursing sister and nun and a calm and gentle person who runs the medical services. She told us about her patient, a man with a heart condition who was now very ill with thyroid problems. She wrote a letter for him to take to the Kasbah Myriem at Midelt, where he would be able to see a doctor. The poor man looked so tired and unwell.

The patient travelled back in the taxi with us, so it was very handy that we had visited at just the right moment for him. Keith gave a donation towards the work that the sisters are doing. We thought of how amazing the sisters were, of how they saw everything as it was and yet were content to take a day at a time, a task at a time, to help the villagers achieve a better quality of life. There was an aura about the sisters who we met, patience, devotion and a beauty of nature that was really special.

Back in Midelt, we had lunch and then attempted to visit the museum but it was closed. We caught up with Mohamed and he took us to his father’s mineral shop. It was an absolute treasure house, with the most interesting and beautiful minerals in it. Some had been worked and made into items like clocks and others had been polished or left natural. The fossils were amazing, with some being very large indeed. Downstairs there were trays and trays of beautiful mineral specimens. The family sells minerals in many parts of the world and is opening an office in Australia. We decided to buy a little treasure each for our grandsons.

Mohamed went home to light the fire to warm the house, ready for our trip to the hammam. We went to the museum, to find that it was not really one at all. It had morphed into a cultural and conference centre, but it did still have some interesting old items and photos in it. A delightful young man let us in and took us around the exhibits of musical instruments and cooking vessels. The photos were very interesting, particularly one that showed women at the annual marriage market. According to the guide book, the market was started by the French and was really just the time to formalise the records of births, deaths and marriages, rather than a wholesale market of women. The Berber tribes lived in remote places and so, at an annual festival, the marriage aspect was added. Our young guide said that it was actually the occasion when marriages would be arranged, with the families agreeing over the three days of the festival, and the woman going off as a wife with the man’s family at the end. The women in the photo were veiled, and we were told that the man would not have seen his bride’s face, nor would she have seen his, before they were married.

Mohamed and Keith went off to the men’s hammam and I went off alone to the women’s. Mohamed had asked a man in the street to knock on the hammam door and when a lady opened it, he had asked her to take me into her care. The lady, Meriem, spoke French and was very friendly, and was to be my assistant throughout the whole process. I started to undress and place my clothes in a cubicle, but that was not the spot for me. It turned out that my spot would be on the attendant’s table, for a charge that included the entry price. Wearing only my knickers, I was ushered in to the hottest room where some ladies were sitting on mats soaping themselves. Everyone was very helpful and friendly, and I was soon using a brown gel instead of my cake of soap which was obviously considered to be sub standard. Next I moved over to the hot water section where Meriem, completely naked, scrubbed me with a glove and more soap. It was quite rough and very thorough. I had always thought that I would be very self conscious in a hammam but, since everyone is busy washing and there are all ages, shapes and sizes, having not much on was the last thing that I was thinking of. I was hoping that it would not be so hot that I would pass out, as can happen, but really the whole experience was very relaxing and resulted in a great feeling of well being at the end.

When I finished, Keith and Mohamed had not yet emerged so I waited outside. Keith’s experience had been different to mine since it had included a massage. The masseur was so rough that Keith had shouted out at different points as his limbs were dragged about and his neck was crunched. He had not been quite sure of what he should do when, and was firmly told by the masseur to change his knickers under his towel and not to stand around naked.

After a bit of typing and reading, we had tea at the restaurant. The two women there are lovely, and have cooked us delicious meals. We went off to the internet café where we were joined by Mohamed after he finished work. We slept very well, maybe due to our visits to the hammams earlier.

They told us that Midelt is Morocco's second coldest city. Without heating in the bedroom, we needed to wear almost every piece of clothing we owned to bed.

Midelt, Morocco, Monday, January 5th

2009-01-13T12:55:00.000-08:00

I woke to hear Mohamed leaving for work, and came out to find the breakfast all laid out ready for us. The bread here, in rounds, is delicious and it is hard to stop eating it. Keith had the guidebook map, which Mohamed had explained more fully to us, the sun was shining and we were warm as we walked along.We met the young man who had offered us the hotel at the bus station last night and he cheerfully greeted us. The town of Midelt is made of flat roofed blocks, with some buildings attached to others and some free standing, and looked to be what it is; a town that was founded by the French and is now home to Moroccan Muslims. A plain white church stood beside the road but was not open. The mosque nearby was well cared for and decorated carefully. A small community of Franciscan nuns lives in the area and there are also some monks living in the Kasbah Myriem, which was where we were heading. Lots of people were out and about, and many greeted us in French as we passed by.
The road followed a dip with kind of no-man’s land rural area before we reached the older of the two local Kasbahs. A young man joined us and offered to guide us around the two Kasbahs, but we said that we didn’t need a guide, and he wished us a good day and wandered off. Much of the older Kasbah, Atmoni, is in disrepair, with the weather having played havoc with the mud brick and mud rendered walls. We stepped over the piles of building materials that are being used to replace damaged sections and to rebuild others. The entry divided, with each path leading to a tunnel-like entrance. The idea of the Kasbah was to provide a fortified living area for a leader and a whole community, so there are all the buildings that would make up a village within its walls. Towers at the corners and the top level were for watching for enemies and for defence. Perhaps the dark, low entrances also served a defensive purpose, since an enemy who managed to enter would have to decide which way to go and would have to come out into the light where he could easily be attacked. A young man entered before us and went one way, while we went the other. He came out and went the same way as us, but we didn’t continue and went up a level to look out at the view. When we came back down, the man had retraced his steps again. Keith felt that he was perhaps following us and had an uneasy feeling about going into the Kasbah while he was around. In any case we had not left quite as early as we should have so we decided to visit the Kasbah Myriem first and come back here after that. Perhaps we still had our Fes suspicions of everyone, and the poor man was simply lost.At the entrance to the Kasbah Myriem, we saw a man leaving in a car. We do not know if he was one of the two monks who live there, who survived the kidnapping and murder of a group of seven Jesuit monks in Tibhirine in Algeria by Muslim fundamentalists in 1996. The man on the gate directed us around the other side to an entrance where we could visit the carpet and embroidery group. Started by the Franciscan sisters to provide the local women with education and work so that they could contribute to the family finances, it is now continued under the care of Madame Milouda. When we arrived a group of women were embroidering in the sunshine. Inside we met Madame Milouda who showed us around. She explained that the women were working in groups according to their experience. Some, clustered around the heater, had five to ten years, and the larger group in the little room with the teacher ranged from beginners to those with experience who were starting new areas of skill. The women worked in silence, which was because it took all their concentration to embroider the tiny cross stitches onto fine linen using traditional designs, with no markers or patterns to follow. Only beginners had paper patterns to assist them. There was a loom with a carpet in progress being made by two women, and other rugs and carpets around the room for sale. In the afternoons, many of the younger women stayed on to have classes in nutrition, cooking and health.The work was exquisite, and we bought a table cloth and a tea cloth. The prices are high, and so we were purchasing to support the program, as much as to own the lovely items. The little church at the monastery was simple and beautiful, with a semi circular stone wall behind the altar and a little nativity scene in front.We walked on up the road to a village not so far away, with snowy mountains creating a stunning background. A man was ploughing a small area with a horse drawn plough. The traffic was a mixture of cars, taxis and donkeys. In the village proper we saw a sign that led to the Association for the Care of Donkeys. As we walked back along the road, a car carrying Madame Milouda and some of the women tooted us and we waved. The workmen digging trenches near the older Kasbah stopped for a few words of greeting. We had no time to visit that Kasbah right now because we were to meet Mohamed at the restaurant, so we thought that at some other stage we might be back.
After lunch, Mohamed had organised an excursion for us to see the old mining areas. His friend, Drisse, picked us all up in his taxi and we drove out of town to Mibladen and El Ahouli. The land out of Midelt has the look of an ex-mining area, even in its natural state, with barren mountains and heavily eroded hills of stones and dirt. The mining areas look even more so, and they still have the houses and infra structure of the lead mining that was a mainstay of this area up until the 1980s. The price of lead plummeted in the 1970s with the introduction of new materials, such as plastics, but now that there is a shortage of lead, the prices are high. An attempt to revive the lead mines here has failed due to no people wanting the hard and dangerous life of a miner for small return. The original mines were run by Pennyroyal, a company which combined French, Belgian, Italian and Moroccan interests and expertise. It was closed temporarily during World War II because the workers were called up to fight, and when Italy entered the war, the Italian experts were considered to be enemy aliens and imprisoned. During the many years of running from the early 1920s, the mines were in the forefront of technological development and research. The mine at El Ahouli is deep in a narrow gorge, where the old houses, cinema, shops, school, workers’ residences, managers’ houses and all the rusting machinery and infrastructure remain as a ghost town. A few people live there, perhaps unofficially, but otherwise it is crumbling away at the whim of the weather.We climbed up onto the rail bridge over the river, and then entered the tunnel. Without a torch, and aided only by Mohamed’s phone and Keith’s camera light, we walked on a little way in the dark. The tunnel has no props in it and simply relies on its arched shape cut out of rock. On the other side, we entered a different tunnel, where the smell of oil was quite strong, but Mohamed said that it was the smell of lead, which is stronger in here because it is on the side that the wind does not enter. The miners suffered respiratory illnesses and some became mad from lead poisoning. There are other minerals associated with lead, such as silver, and these were mined for too. Moroccan minerals and fossils are on sale throughout the world.
We drove on and stopped at a remote village in the crater of a volcano. The earth buildings there at first looked uninhabited, so low and crumbling were many of them, but as we came nearer we saw that there were sheep in folds, children playing and women washing clothes in the icy water of the river. A narrow suspension bridge took us over to the other side where the ruins of the original ancient Kasbah stood. Mohamad had a friend here, but he was not around. Women were sitting in a line with their backs against a building, lapping up the warmth of the sun. One of them was a friend of Mohamed’s and she invited us all into her house. The ceiling was beautifully decorated, although hard to see in the gloom at first, as was a little cupboard on the wall with folk art designs on it. The room had rugs on the floor and cushions around the walls. The ladies were most amused by our presence, and brought a light for us to see the ceiling better. Keith took a photo of me with the ladies, which we will send to Mohamed for them.On the way back to Midelt, we stopped to look at the headquarters of the Pennyroyal Company with its grand building, swimming pool, tennis courts and houses that are clearly European in style. Mohamed showed us a book by Alan Debray in which he recounted the history of the mines from 1923 – 1975. It was certainly a community within a community, with a festival in the early 1950s being celebrated, with the school children wearing costumes sent from Paris and singing French songs. Contaminated mullock heaps present an ongoing unsolved problem.
Back at Mohamed’s place, we set ourselves up for a little relaxation and typing, while he went out to buy a few items on the shopping list so that I could cook the meal. Mohamed went to work, and when he returned, we were ready to eat and to spend an interesting evening talking about life and politics in Morocco.
We were a bit nervous when we came to this bridge, but despite appearances it turned out to be quite sound.

Fes to Midelt, Morocco, Sunday January 4th

2009-01-13T12:45:00.000-08:00

A thousand things happened in the night in the square below our window. Cats were the least of it, with an altercation at top volume and a long recitation from the mosque seeming to go for ever. I slept in, and luckily we only had packing ane couple of little tasks on the agenda before we took our bus at one p.m. We skipped breakfast in favour of a brunch later, but did have some fruit.

We were now confident Medina travellers and we knew where we wanted to go, having looked at some possible Christmas presents on other days. What a difference it makes to your vulnerability to touts if you are not browsing. Nevertheless I did take one up on looking at a fourteenth century ceiling, and while I did he told me that all his stock was acquired from village crafts people by barter. The ceiling was exquisite, and just showed that it is important not to judge a building by exterior appearance alone. A crowd had gathered just beyond the bridge that we had to cross to reach the shop we were heading for. We saw that we would not be going there today, for the river had burst the walls that confine it as it flows, full of rubbish but unseen, through the lowest part of the Medina. Water was gushing through a little square and through all the shops in the way before it re-entered its course at another wall breach. Boys waded through it wetting their pants, in the way that boys everywhere would.

The river us usually hidden behind a six foot wall, so Fes residents had a rare glimpse at their local waterway which looked to us more like a tip than a river. It is unlikely that the locals will be up in arms demanding a cleanup; dropping rubbish in the street, in the river; or just anywhere at all is routine in the parts of Morocco that we have visited.

Luckily there was a dry shop that had what we wanted, but it was unattended so we just waited. Perhaps the salesman was down at the river. Never had we shown interest in anything without a salesperson had immediately appeared to milk that interest. We wondered about honesty. Here there are so many items displayed outside the tiny shops and stalls. If the seller was occupied, or if a thief was clever, he could make off with all sorts of goods. Perhaps it doesn’t happen because stealing goods is a kind of dishonesty that doesn’t come in shades of grey, unlike conning people. Perhaps there are so many eyes from so many stall holders that it would be seen. I had been thinking about what you would want in the perfect society and whether it would be possible with people. It is intriguing to throw everything up in the air and start with no givens, only human nature.

We found a patisserie seller and bought a large bag of cakes. We wanted to call in to farewell Mouhcine and his boss, and to give them some morning tea. We ran into the boss in the street, and since he said that Mouhcine was at home, we gave him the bag of cakes for all the workers and asked him to say ‘Goodbye,’ to Mouhcine. Back at the hotel we had a quick brunch, packed up and walked to the bus station.

The bus took about five hours to reach Midelt. All this time it climbed higher and higher, through rugged mountains where only low alpine plants grew between the rocks and snow drifts. Fairly early on the conductor had handed out blankets to two passengers, and everyone else was rugged up in layers and wearing cloaks and hats. A lady in a caftan sat in such a way as to reveal the thickest woollen leggings in the world, keeping her nice and cosy. The terrain kept changing, with pine trees appearing for a short while. At one stage we had abrupt and high mountains and on the others an alpine plateau which alternated between being stony, covered in black rocks, covered in boulders, and covered in tussocks which were being grazed by sheep. Sometimes the road divided two completely different environments. It was a very interesting trip but we gradually turned to stone, particularly Keith who had left his coat in his big pack under the bus. Once again people got on and off in the middle of nowhere – although now and then we would see a group of dwellings away off in the distance.

When we arrived at the Midelt bus station, a boy asked us if we were looking for a hotel. He looked unconvinced when we said that we were being met by a friend, and after Keith phoned Mohamed to let him know that we had arrived, he approached us again. His face registered his surprise when Mohamed arrived and greeted us and we all walked off together. He must have heard the ‘We have a friend’ line from tourists before, and knew that it could be a fobbing-off ploy instead of the truth.

Mohamed took us to his brother’s shop, just above the bus station, which he was minding. He settled us in chairs in front of the heater and warmed us up with hot tea. He was serving now and then, but in between we chatted with him and with his friend, Mokhtar, who had called in to meet us. They were both so friendly. We forgot about the cold in the warmth of our welcome. They told us that students in Morocco do a first degree in a Moroccan University and then can do a Masters degree elsewhere. Mohamed had lived and studied in France and Mokhtar had studied in America. Moroccan universities teach in French and, unfortunately, some secondary education does not produce students with a high enough standard in French to go on to further study in it. I compared Australian standards of language attainment at the end of high school with the expectations here and thought that there would be very few students able to study at tertiary level in another language.

Mokhtar drove us back to Mahamad’s house, where we settled into our room. The three of us went out for dinner to a restaurant run by a cousin. We had met several cousins of Mohamed’s already while at the shop and Mokhtar had been declared an honorary cousin also, since they had grown up together as neighbours. Midelt is a large town but small enough to be a close knit community where everyone knows each other. It was established in the 1920s by the French, who were having problems ‘subduing’ the locals – there were problems generally since the French were dispossessing people of their lands and moving them off into other regions. No wonder their presence was not welcomed and partisans were resisting. This is ironic, given the French reaction to being occupied by the Germans during the Second World War, however it is in line with the many disastrous things done in the name of colonisation. The whole idea of being able to take another country and people as a colony, to do with as you please, and to reap lots of economic benefits from is an amazing one. In this region, the benefit of the colonial past would seem to be predominantly in the provision of infrastructure, and I would guess also in the introduction of the French education system, which is currently provided free at all levels here. Of course, I do not know what the education system would have been without the arrival of the French.

Mohamed produced some books for us to look at during our stay which may help us to learn more. He went through the possible options for interesting things to see and do in Midelt, but left it up to us to decide what we would do and when. A walk in the town seemed a good choice for the first morning. We decided to meet at lunch time and to go on an afternoon excursion to the mines.

Fes, Morocco, Saturday January 3rd

2009-01-13T12:29:00.000-08:00

Fes is a large city composed of three separate sections. The oldest section, Fes el Bali, simply evolved at a time when there was no need to consider transport other than mules in the major thoroughfares. This is where our hotel was and where we spent most of our time. It is an enormous maze of narrow streets and lanes, but there are a couple of major pathways, albeit with dog leg turns and options at every corner, so after a couple of forays, we did find our bearings. Every day, including today, we experienced touts trying to lure us into a carpet or craft showroom or to see the tanneries. The touts we met were not aggressive and it is just their job to ensure that people look at the goods so that they might buy them.
We were now ready for the challenge of Fes el Djedid which is Fes the New, although since it started in the 1270s, maybe not all that new. It was built in a hurry to be the seat of government for the Merenids, with taxes from olive presses at Meknes, and for the Mosque, taxes on the Jews and some Christian slave labour. This area has vast palace complexes and the present king has one which crosses the whole area and is guarded at grand gates by many soldiers. He mostly resides in Rabat, the capital.
The idea of building a new city a little away from the population provided a gap between the rulers and the people, suggesting that total loyalty might not always be forthcoming. In addition, at the beginning of the fourteenth century the Jews were forced to leave Fes el Bali and to live in a ghetto known as the Mellah, which lay between Fes el Bali and Fes el Djedid. They had few rights but were under the protection of the sultan, could be taxed heavily and could be politically exploited by the sultan in dealings with his people. When the French decided to move the capital to Rabat, this section of the city lost its purpose and became the red light district.
Our guide book is not so helpful with maps and gives long wordy descriptions that are hard to follow. We didn’t care where we went so we set off out of Fes el Bali and along beside a huge wall. Three boys were walking along, with the youngest, about three years, crying. A man passing by stopped and asked them what the matter was. I could tell by their actions that the middle sized on was explaining that the biggest one had kicked the little one. The man looked at the child’s knee, admonished the older boy, and gave the little one a mandarine to cheer him up.
Keen to try local cuisine, we bought a paper cone of crisps, only to find that even if they are a local speciality, their soggy nature belied their name. The gently falling drizzle on the little stall may have had something to do with this. We came to the huge initial gate, and then chose to follow the majority of people off to the right. The first section was full of shops for daily life, but gradually we were in the residential sections where the buildings were in even worse repair than those in Fes el Bali. Of course the outside does not always give a true picture of the inside of a building, but the children on the street were dirty and everything was pretty seedy and run down. We wandered on, thinking that we were at a different part of the map and the guide book description to where we really were.
At one stage three young boys told us that ‘It is closed, go that way,’ but failed to tell us what was closed. We walked on and they followed us, until an adult told them to leave us alone. Eventually the road we had taken looped around and we were back where we had started and the boys then ‘guided’ us to the palace. They stopped some way from the gates, assuring us that we could go in, and Keith gave them two coins to share between them. They were indignant and wanted more, but since we hadn’t asked them to guide us, and since what we gave them was in line with the guide book suggestions, we just thanked them and walked off. Of course the palace is closed to tourists. At least the man on the gate was able to point to where we were on the map, and we were able to retrace our steps to start again. On the way we saw the ‘helpful’ boys ensnaring some other tourists.
This time we took the gate to the left, and successfully matched our walk with the guide book description. Unlike the shops in the medina of Fes el Bali, here the customers would mostly be locals. There was the most wonderful array of fabric and caftan shops and others that sold to what must be wealthy customers.
For many of the caftans there were hand crafted slippers to match. All the morning it had been raining off and on but now it was raining steadily and our umbrellas were up. At the end of the main road, which was inconveniently wide and modern, which made it impossible to see all the stalls by walking in the middle, there were huge arches marking the entry to the Mellah.
The houses along the main Mellah road looked completely different from the Arab style houses everywhere else. They were narrow and had dark wood decorated balconies and lots of windows facing the street.
They were built much later than the original Mellah, which is an absolute tangle of streets and buildings with the lanes sometimes less than a metre wide. We were looking for the synagogue and found it down a narrow lane, almost by chance, as we were admiring some patisseries and thinking how it would be awkward to eat them in the rain. An old man let us in for a small fee, and gave us a tour of the synagogue, which he said was still in use. It was certainly in perfect condition with a gallery for women up above. We were shown the ancient Torah scrolls which are in a locked cupboard. They looked like heavy wooden curtain rods with fabric wrapped around them, and since they weren’t unrolled, we did not see any writing. They are precious so it would be crazy to be unrolling them for tourists. The guide pointed out each photo of Jewish cemeteries and buildings in other parts of Morocco, waiting for our response. We went upstairs to look at the cemeteries from the terrace, and they stretched for some distance a street or so away. They were closed since it was the Sabbath, as was the museum, so we were a little puzzled as to why we had been able to go in the Synagogue.
We were happy enough with our little tour and immediately saw that there had been signs leading us there from the main road, not that we had noticed them. Now we paused to read the information. A man came over and introduced himself as Jacob, a Jew born in this Mellah, and willing to show us around the area. Keith asked what he would be charging and he replied that he was just a helpful person and he only wanted a smile. He added that he used to be a policeman as we started off. We knew really that this was probably a bit of a con, and that the very friendly demeanour was to suck us in, but we chose to go along and take our chances. The tour was interesting and we were taken along ways we would never have dared to go by ourselves since they were narrow and dark and some looked like they were entries to people’s houses.
They also were very mazelike and had groups of youths in them, all friendly as we passed, but maybe the sight of them would have put us off had we been by ourselves. We saw houses where the upper storey balconies virtually crossed over each cutting out the light, windows with the design of half a Star of David in their decorative frames, a building with the remnants of the blue paint that was once characteristic of buildings here and a fine but dreadfully dilapidated house that once belonged to the Rabbi.
At this point Jacob said that he worked for the Jewish group that raises funds for the restoration of buildings such as the Rabbi’s house, and that people he takes on tours usually give a donation to the restoration fund. What a surprise! Of course we should have used a guide from the official Jewish Information Centre, but we hadn’t and here we were not sure whether to believe this story or not.
The last item on our itinerary was the old synagogue. From the outside there was little to distinguish the building from others, and in the doorway the presence of a young girl mopping the floor of what was obviously a family home did not give any clues either. Jacob assured us that this was the old synagogue and that the Muslim family who lived there now were his friends and that it was fine to go in. It would be 10 dh each. Here began a bizarre but interesting visit in which we were ushered in to sit down in the family room. It did look to me like an ex-synagogue, with a Torah cupboard similar to the one we had seen earlier in a similar position on the wall. There was no information forthcoming from Jacob, who was busy asking the mother to make us mint tea. The eldest son, a pastry chef, was resting on a couch probably having worked in the night, but he too had to put his shoes on and be friendly to us. We sensed that the family was a little surprised to have such visitors but were naturally kind and hospitable people. The sixteen year old son spoke excellent French so we were able to talk with him, and with others using him as an interpreter. Jacob suggested to me in English that we could give this poor family a lot of things, that they should have our address and our phone number and that we could help the eldest with his business and the mother with the costs of her children. He said that he himself helped to buy shoes for them. At no point did the family make any demands, and they were courteous and friendly, and interested to hear where we had come from. It was an awkward moment. I suggested that we take a photo of us together to remember the moment, and that we would send the family the photo if they had an email address. The son we had been talking to most had one, and that seemed to suffice.
Outside Jacob dropped his super friendly act as we asked him to take us back to the main street. He asked for a donation to his restoration fund and I said that we would make one - when we had finished. He asked for money for cigarettes and for coffee for himself – Keith said ‘No’. We were walking along in the rain, with Keith having lent Jacob his umbrella and using the hood of his coat to keep himself dry instead. We had no idea where we were, and in a narrow alley Jacob stopped and asked for a donation again. We said ‘At the main road.’ All these tactics were straight out of the warning section in our guide book, so we were prepared for them. What we were not prepared for was how he turned quite nasty, and when Keith made an extremely generous donation to a probably bogus restoration fund, he demanded money from me as well. He demanded money for himself on top of the donation and was intent on keeping our umbrella unless we gave him some. Maybe the umbrella bit was a misunderstanding of Keith’s intent when he lent it, but there was no misunderstanding his mood and manner. Keith, first having taken back his umbrella, said that if there had been a charge for the tour up front, when we asked explicitly what would be the cost, we would have decided on the cost whether to go or not. As it was, we had made a donation to a fund we had not been told about as a cost, so he should be happy. Keith also added people from our culture like to know the costs up front. ‘Jacob’ muttered behind us as we walked off.
We were able to forget about Jacob and have a laugh at how we had experienced all the things to avoid – kids, con men and touts – all in one morning. We had had an interesting time and seen things we wouldn’t have seen otherwise, however I would advise against going off with someone like ‘Jacob’ alone.
On our way back to Fes el Bali, we realised that it was too late to have lunch so we decided to have an early tea later. Now began another dive into the Medina, down the other side. The ambiance of the Medina was quite different to that of Fes el Djadid, and seemed welcoming and familiar to us. There is a hum here, the hum of speaking which is low and continuous and quite a contrast to the loud and dramatic spruiking that we are used to in the Victoria Market in Melbourne. Here patience and the polite personal approach are the ways to do business. We strolled along, noting tailors hand sewing braid over seams, coppersmiths tap tapping designs onto the decorative side panels of bellows, artisans chiselling out stone plaques for graves, patient sellers of pyramids of dried fruit and nuts, and of spices that are sculptured so that they don’t look dug into, and butcheries with attendant cats nibbling at piles of bones. The brilliant colours of carpets, scarves, spices, jewellery and the lovely caftans worn nonchalantly for every day wear by shoppers, created a feast for our eyes. At set times the sound of the call for prayer resonated across the whole city. A sudden clip clopping and call to be careful preceded the horses and donkeys which were driven fully laden through the streets, as people stepped smartly to the side. A poor lame donkey had a hard time making it up a steep slope with three men assisting and forcing it on. Smells changed every few steps with some so wonderful you wanted more and others so bad you hurried on. It had said in our guide book that Fes el Bali gave the chance to experience life as near to what it would have been like in the Middle Ages, and certainly it things had not changed much. The sight of a donkey pulling a small cart being used to transport a large television put an end to such romantic thoughts. Of course modern life is all around us, but it is a wonderful thing to be able to see traditional crafts being made not just for museums, traditional clothes being worn because they are so sensible and well adapted to the climate, traditional materials being used which are the ones to be found locally, and food from the area around being sold.
We were very early to eat, and so we were the sole diners in the only restaurant on our square that we had not tried. The waiter, Mohamed, was a delightful man. The Moroccan salad here was not just a delicious jumble of chopped ingredients. It had a pyramid of tomato and onion in the middle surrounded by quarters of potato, zucchini, eggplant mix and carrots, all carefully prepared and spiced. When he heard that a friend of mine was hoping that I would learn how to cook Moroccan style, he told me the secrets of the salad and offered to send me some recipes by email. He told us that the lady who does the cooking has thirty years of experience and we were able to see her and indicate our appreciation – something that can’t happen if there are lots of customers. It was relaxing and a lovely end to the day. It is important to remember to stack up the many kind greetings, friendly chats and experiences such as this against the few more dramatic bad ones. Our overall experience has been great here in Morocco, and we were very much looking forward to our next step; some couch surfing in Midelt.
This activity, set up in the large square, challenges paying participants to fish for a bottle of soft drink using a pole with a string with a small loop in the end.

Fes, Morocco, Friday January 2nd

2009-01-13T12:21:00.000-08:00

I was determined to make some inroads into the blog hole around the tenth of December, and the only way to do that was actually to allocated a bit of blogging time. I can do a day in a day at the end of everything, but more than that when I am tired is just not possible. So I sat typing away and Keith studied the guide book and found us a gorge to walk in, a long way south of here. We ate breakfast at the same time and when I had completed a day, we were ready to go out.

Being Friday, and the holy day when most people go to the mosque and the leader gives a talk, the Medina shopping areas would mostly be closed. Our plan was to visit the museum and then to climb the hill outside the city walls. The Museum is in a palace behind enormous walls. By the time we had circumnavigated the walls to find the entry, it was late in the morning and the thoughtful attendant there suggested that we come back in the afternoon when there would be more time.

Wandering back around the streets we came to an enormous open area with four little girls playing kicking a ball around on it. We had seen lots of children with their mothers but very few on their own, which had prompted Keith to ask Mouhcine yesterday where the children play. Those who can afford computers and televisions, and the number of satellite dishes suggests that many can, play at home and only poorer children are sent into the streets to play. Study is important and so teenagers are much occupied doing it. Languages taken at school are learnt to a very high standard, so would require a lot of work. On the other side of the road lots of young boys were kicking a ball around too, and adults were sitting about at the sides having a rest. Some men in gum boots was a strange sight. Footwear here is beautifully made and ranges from traditional slip on pointed shoes in bright yellow leather to more modern styles. Shoes have been, and still are a signifier of wealth and status. I read that when the Jewish refugees came with the Muslim refugees from Spain at the time of the Christian re-conquest, the Jews were made to live in an area where they were under the Sultan’s protection and control but not quite regular citizens. They lived in a ghetto called the Mellah, with their own laws and governors, but were called upon to assist the Sultan in defence and finance. Despite this, no Jew in Fes before the French colonisation was allowed to ride on an animal or to wear shoes outside the ghetto. Travel was restricted too but of all those restrictions, the no shoes rule would have been the most insulting and obvious to others. When Morocco became independent many poorer Jews left to live in Israel.

Since we were passing the bus station we called in to inquire about bus times to Midelt, where we would be going on Sunday to stay with a couch surfing host who likes history. The State run bus has only one service, in the evening, but another bus company has many buses, so we can go anytime. It looks like we will be in for another four or five hours of interesting travel with the locals.

We were not sure which of the forts and ruins up ahead were the ones we were looking for, so we zig zagged across the road and looked at them all. Eventually we came to a newish set of steps leading up to the ruins of the Merenid Tombs. On the way we paused to look back at the city, and so did a man carrying the large stripy bag that we have seen in just about every country. Inside he had beautiful blankets that his wife had woven using the wool from their ten sheep. The price was reasonable and negotiable, but if we bought everything that fell into this category that we liked, we would never fit it all on the plane. A French couple passed and the lady said that she had a blanket just like those and it had lasted and lasted. Still, we were not buying so we bid the man farewell. So far we have not felt hassled, with people offering their goods being polite and accepting a polite ‘Non, merci’. The only hassling we have seen has been done by restaurant waiters, who are on the street trying to snare customers, although even they are good humoured as long as they are not completely ignored. It is such a boon to be able to speak French, although English is always used if there is no response to the initial try. One man has an amazing New York accent when he speaks English, which sounds really funny.

The tombs are very dilapidated and no-one knows who they were built for. Once they were covered in white marble and decorations. All along the grass edges of the path and the cliff tops, and even on the tombs themselves, black dyed skins were stretched out drying.

The holes in the walls of the city and in the walls of buildings had intrigued us, with our guide telling us yesterday that they were for decorations. Since they are not regular, nor are they randomly placed, that does not seem to be quite right. I asked the couple we had seen earlier if they knew what the holes were for, and they were intrigued as well. The lady had taken a sabbatical year off and returned to work in August. It was very difficult for her, after her year of freedom, and ultimately she has decided to give up work. She has only twelve days work left and then she and her husband will have a greater quality of life, which they value more than money. In their fifties with a grown family, they wanted to spend more time together, which was impossible while they both worked.

The view over Fes was just what I imagined an old city to be like – various colours of creams and yellows, buildings with flat rooves of different heights and no lines to delineate streets. It was not exactly pretty in the way that Chefchaueon is, but like the back of an amazing textured creature resting in the valley, compact and mysterious. We could not see the bustling human element nor hear the continuous sounds of hammering on tin, hooves on stone and voices, nor see the colours of the carpets, fabrics, pottery and myriad of items for sale. Suddenly the voice of the Imam resonated around the city, echoing up to the tiny group on the hill and to others in the surrounding cemeteries. It was beautiful, haunting and exotic.

We took a short cut down a step path through a cemetery where people were visiting graves. We decided to try our luck taking the more difficult way back through the medina, entering through a different gate and hoping for the best. A few times people helpfully told us that the medina was not open today, but once we explained that we were only going back to our hotel, they were no longer concerned that we might be disappointed. On one street a man was making strange noises and waving his hands about, talking to Keith and grabbing his arm. Immediately others around in the street called to him to stop, which he did, and someone told us not to worry about him because he is crazy.

The narrow road we had taken was undergoing repairs, with deep holes for pipes leaving only about half a metre for us to thread our way along. Two kittens snuggled into each other on a sack in a doorway. The streets were virtually deserted until we reached the main thoroughfare where we had been walking yesterday. Some people were gathered around a poor cat with its back ripped off, and one man had put plastic bags on his hands to pick it up. The cats we have seen here have all been well fed, and looked well treated so we did not know what could have happened here. It was a very sad sight.

We bought lunch supplies, and my wish to have some fried eggplant and peppers from a street vendor I had seen yesterday was thwarted by it being Friday and the vendor not there.

After lunch we went to the museum. The Dar Batha Palace was built in 1913 as a place to receive foreign ambassadors but the style is traditional and looks much older. The doorways are beautifully decorated, but the painted woodwork is fading and on the pillars around the gardens has virtually been weathered away. It is like a courtyard with a terrace split in two by an enormous public garden with a glorious oak growing in it. I speculated that the garden and the oak were there and the rest was built around it, especially since the terrace has the shade of the oak over most of it.

Inside there were examples of calligraphy, illumination and miniature paintings with borders done in traditional style, with some being not all that old. It was a surprise really to be looking at items from the twentieth century and realising that the ancient skills and craftsmanship had been kept alive here. The displays of costumes included many belts in a variety of styles from richly embroidered wide bands to a narrower and surely uncomfortable metal belt in many small sections. Guns, swords, linen, clothing – everything was beautifully decorated. Carpets from different regions hung in a gallery, with some looking as if they would take a year to make. We had been told by our carpet salesman in Chefchaouen that in summer here carpets are placed in the floor upside down, with the walking dislodging dirt caught in the fibres and softening up the pile ready for turning over in winter. One of the carpets on display was hung in what we would call ‘the wrong way’ and there was a design on the back that would have made an attractive summer mat.

We enjoyed all the daily items and the display of musical instruments, but the winner for most intriguing went to a roller made of hedgehog skin, with the prickles sticking out, which I think might be a meat tenderiser.

After a walk in the gardens, we were inspired to try some of the patisseries that Morocco is famous for. Despite seeing a million and one cakes and pastries yesterday, I couldn’t see any today. At last we asked at the café over from our hotel and they produced a three layer chocolate and vanilla sponge cake with cream and syrup swirls on top. With a cup of mint tea for me and some coffee for Keith, it was perfect as a ‘pick me upper’. We met an English couple while in the café, who were driving around Morocco in their new white Land Rover. They had passed through many check points and commented on how polite and friendly all the police were. We told them of our friends’ bad experiences with Moroccan police while touring in their car and they were surprised. They actually made the comment that it was great here because the Moroccans were so trustworthy, not like some of the experiences that they had had in Spain, where people were more out for what they could get.

Back at the hotel I put a colour in my hair. This is difficult to do in a bedroom without a basin and in a hotel with a shared bathroom and only one shower on our floor. Nevertheless I have it down to a fine art, and with Keith there to act as assistant, all went well. Not that we could really tell in the end since the lighting was not good enough for us to notice the full effect. My main worry was that someone else would be in the shower at the crucial washing off moment and that my head would fry from overexposure to the chemicals in the dye. One of the jobs of the assistant is to suss out shower availability and non presence of other residents during my dash to the bathroom.

Keith went off to the internet café and I showered in water that was hot and plentiful, with a shower head that stayed up where it should.

It was pouring when we dashed across the street to the only enclosed café that we knew of. After dinner we chatted for a while with some New Zealanders who are now living and working in Scotland and England. Everyone we meet is doing exciting things and it is always interesting to hear of other travels for ideas for our own.

At our hotel, one of the managers was cooking up some tea on a kerosene stove beside the wash basins in the bathroom. He is always at the hotel and seems to be on duty twenty-four hours of every day. At night he sleeps under a pile of blankets at the end of the corridor, stashing them in a cubicle in the bathroom during the day. He has a little prayer mat that he uses at the end of the corridor as well. He is friendly and courteous, and although I would love to ask him about his life, we are always coming or going and he is busy.

Fes, Morocco, Thursday January 1st

2009-01-12T13:22:00.000-08:00

Our tour this morning got off to a bad start, since the guide didn’t turn up. After admiring the city skyline and the passing parade of donkeys and people going through the gate into the medina for about half an hour, a substitute arrived. He was a high school student of 18, studying maths, science and languages. A nice enough boy, his command of English and his knowledge of history and his own culture were simply not up to the task. After an hour of walking around with us pumping him for any information and with him not quite understanding our questions, or not knowing the answers but not being prepared to ever say that he didn’t understand or didn’t know, we decided that we should call it quits for his tour. He insisted that the French had arrived in Morocco in 1961 which was too much even for me, and Keith had lost patience with him way before that. He was most reluctant to be dismissed and said that he studied maths and not history, but that he was an expert in the medina. Keith asked him to show us only things that he could tell us a lot about and we agreed to continue.

What we needed in a guide was someone who would talk to us, someone able to see things through our tourist eyes and realise what was different and interesting to us. We had a man who could lead us places and point to the written historical information on the signs at some buildings, and that was all. Worse than that, he didn’t have an overview of life in modern Morocco and gave us misinformation, as we later found out. We followed where he led, with him often telling me where we were heading and me relaying it to Keith who was taking photos and who could not walk beside us due to the narrow streets.

There were some good points. He showed us the hand of Fatima hinges on doors that ward off the evil one. The best one was when we went into a nursery school where five children from three to five years sat at desks with slates, where they were practising writing English numbers. When we entered they stood up and sang a welcoming song in French that was sweet at first but went on and on and on. I think that they were singing the same thing in different languages and certainly people here are adept with languages. French is widely used with tourists and many people speak English and Spanish as well. That is on top of their own mother tongue, and the Arabic that they learn at school. We met waiters, fruit sellers and other salesmen who switched languages with ease for whoever they were serving. The little children had a curriculum which included literacy in English, French and Arabic, numeracy and, judging from the huge world map on the wall, some geography, as well as study of the Koran. Their teacher told us that she usually has twelve students. I looked at the writing on the slates and nodded and smiled for each child, as they sang on. At last we heard ‘Merci pour votre visite et aurevoir’ (Thankyou for your visit and goodbye) but as the teacher was explaining that the education system is the same as the French one, with three years of nursery school, six years at primary school, four years at college and two years at lycee, followed by University at 18 or 19 years, the song started again. We thanked everyone and left.

We saw mosques but we were not able to go in since, unlike in Egypt and Turkey, non Muslims may not enter here. Of course our guide did not know why that was.

We also visited Merdassas, which were great centres of learning and universities way before western universities were established.

Nowadays they are still universities for studies of Islam and culture, and the other areas are taught in universities all over the country. We paid to go into one, with only the courtyard and end porches being actually available to enter. It was very beautiful, with tiles and decorative plaster and stone work. It made a huge contrast to the crumbling buildings of the medina, where wooden boards prop up walls which are rendered in grey or a drab sandy colour. The medina is not beautiful when it is not bustling and full of life, and it is only the mosque and merdassa doors and entries that are richly and elaborately decorated.

No motorised vehicles are permitted in the medina and indeed it would be physically impossible to take them in. Donkeys and horses laden with goods are driven through the crowds with cries of ‘Attention!’ (Look out!) warning us to squeeze up against a stall or wall so that they can pass.

Some animals wear a nappy bag but others do not, making watching your step important. There were incredible numbers of stalls selling cakes and pastries, including lots of heavily creamed cakes that we would think of as for special occasions. Even though the streets and lanes were crowded, I could not imagine that there would be enough people in the whole city to eat all the cakes that we saw all over the medina. A sweet tooth must be common because we also saw sellers of home-made lollies, such as nougat and peanuts in toffee, with their laden stalls being swarmed over by bees. The sellers continued cutting and packaging their wares, taking no notice other than to check that a bee crawling over a piece of peanut brittle had not been included in a bag.

Our visit to the leather tanneries was very interesting. From the top floor of a leather goods shop we looked down at a complex of stone vats where leather in various stages of processing was being dragged in and out of liquids. One side had milky mixtures of pigeon droppings, where the hides are soaked and softened over seven days. The wool or hair is scraped off and kept for other uses. We had learnt from a carpet seller that there is dead wool, such as this taken from a dead animal, and live wool which is from shearing a live animal. Dead wool is not of such good quality and is used to make cheaper goods. A man stood on a roof top tossing wool from one pile to another, drying it. On the other side all the vats had reds and browns for dyeing, and an in-house guide told us that it took ten days for the dying process, and that each ten days the dyes in the vats were changed to different colours. The pigeon droppings are caustic so the workers wore protective clothing but the guide claimed that the dyes are all from plants, so the workers had bare legs, hands and feet. They moved the skins from vat to vat, walking on them to ensure they were all fully covered and looping them up with their feet to drag them on again. Other workers with yellow arms and legs were slopping saffron dye onto skins on a ledge.

Yellow was traditionally considered to be a royal colour because of the cost of producing it and the need for the dye to he applied by hand. A man was using a knife to slice off fat from skins that were already dyed pink while another removed wool. It was hard work and the smell rising to us was not pleasant, and must be a hundred times less so for the people working in it.

25 families, which have worked together for centuries, form a cooperative where various ones specialise in preparing the skins of different animals. The guide estimated that most would receive 250 Euros ($A500) a week to support a family of six. The job is passed on from father to son, along with the trade secrets and techniques. I wondered how many children questioned this as their life’s path and wished that they had been born to tailors or carpet makers.

We had read that if someone has given you a little tour, you give a tip, so Keith had this in mind for our in-house guide, especially since we would not be buying anything and sales are really why they are giving the tour. Our guide and I were down the stairs wondering why Keith took so long. It was because, before he could give a tip, the man had his hand out for money. Keith only had very small change, so he gave a large note which the man wanted to keep without giving change. Keith insisted on change, and afterwards discovered that his already very generous payment had been added to by the man short-changing him. When Keith told our guide that he should warn us if there was to be a payment so that we could then decide to go in or not, he said that there should have been no payment since it was free. He said that Keith should have checked with him, which was true but not something that he had thought of on the spur on the moment, with the idea that a voluntary tip would be appropriate. Something strange happened when we left, with the man saying to us that our guide was a very good one and knew lots about the city. I guessed that our guide had confided in him that we were demanding clients who wanted to know ridiculous things like what life was like for women in Fez, to which his answer had been that he was not a woman so he couldn’t say. When pressed by me about whether women worked away from home he said that they could be taxi drivers, as if plucking a job out of the air. Oh dear.

So we ploughed on, dissatisfied and ripped off. It is to our guide’s credit that he offered to reimburse Keith for the money taken at the tannery. Keith said that it was his own mistake and the tannery man’s trickery and not our guide’s fault, so he did not accept it. We thought that the herbalist where we were told about the origins and uses of some of the products and smelt them all was interesting, but Keith was disappointed because he had asked the guide if we would be seeing the creams and syrups being made and our guide had said ‘Yes’. It was not the guide’s fault that the palace we came to was now a restaurant and we could only catch a glimpse of the glories within unless we ordered food or drink. Really we now just wanted the tour to be over. All we needed was to return to the hotel so that we could change to a new one. Outside the palace our guide was talking to a Spanish couple who now came with us. After a hundred metres or so he pointed forward and said that it was straight ahead from there. He had asked me if we were happy with the tour and I said not entirely because of the lack of information and nothing on culture and history. We paid less than the amount the hotel man had suggested for a good tour. He had told us that if we weren’t happy we should pay nothing. It was simply a relief to be on our own, able to walk at our own pace and discuss what we were seeing.

Changing hotels was easy, and we now had a power point and the promise that the hot water could be used any time we wanted without special techniques or men in the cubicle with us. We ate at a little café on the square in the medina, enjoying watching everyone passing by. Nicole and Yango came over to talk to us. They had arrived at the bus station not long before us, and had believed a man who said that there were no rooms left in the city. They had slept in a filthy room in a house for 200 dr ($A40) and were leaving Fez already. Their plan had always been to go surfing on the coast so they were not too fussed, but the bad accommodation had hurried them away.

After lunch we went for our own tour of the medina. Really I think it is fine without a guide because there are clearly marked routes with coloured stars to help you so you don’t have to get lost unless you don’t care about it and want an adventure. We wandered about, lapping up the atmosphere and admiring the handicrafts but mostly avoiding going into shops. We passed through fruit and vegetable markets, shoe souks, metal workers souks, and rows and rows of mixed stalls. Many shops are just like a cave in the front of buildings with only room for a small array of goods and the sales person. Others are bigger and set up like western shops with display shelves. Everywhere people just waited patiently for someone to break out of the flowing stream of people and buy their eggs or beautiful ceramics. On some days there must be no sales for some vendors, there are so many stalls selling the same things.

We did allow a boy to take us to a house where weavers were working, because I was keen to find a gift. We met a charming man who spoke English and explained to us about the cactus silk, which he said comes from Australia and is produced from the cactus prickles for a short time in summer. There were several looms working and a man was spinning wool with ancient equipment. Another used an electric gadget for the same task. We bought a beautiful piece of fabric in wool and silk the colours of flames.

After many more wanderings we stopped to have a mint tea at the stall of a blue turbaned gentleman, just off the path but in the centre of the action of a medina street. This was what I had imagined Fes to be, with relaxing as well as learning being a priority to me at this end of our trip. A happy haze settled over us, ridding us of all the angst of the morning.

On our way back to the hotel we met the owner and the man who had explained everything at the weaving house. They invited us back for a cup of tea. This was a wonderful visit, with Mouhcine being everything you could ever want in someone to talk to about Morocco. In the course of an hour or so, he answered all our questions and explained all sorts of aspects of life. He was interested in Australia and in the changes that we have noted over our lifetimes.

He gave the examples of his aunt, a village woman, who had married her sixteen year old husband when she was twelve, and his sister, a city girl with a Masters degree, who wants to work in her profession and so does not want to marry yet, as contrasting experiences for women. Women do not generally work outside the home once they are married, and in Fez children are kept off the streets and play in the house. Children and wives respect and obey the man of the family. Education is important in the city and not so necessary in the villages where old traditions are more likely to be followed. The majority of women over forty wear caftans and head scarves, while younger women don’t always in Fez. Similarly younger men in Fez wear more western clothing and older ones wear the dejab, or caftan, although some young men also do too. Marriage age for men varies, and is related to having enough money to provide a house, all the items in it and to support a wife and family.

Sometimes women from other countries, such as Germany, come here looking for husbands, often after a divorce back home. Mouhcine knew of marriages across countries but they had not lasted and the men had returned to Morocco.

Mouhcine told us that the King, Mohamed VI, is a popular leader who really reigns in the old way, taking part in decisions. He appoints ministers, who carry out the projects that he proposes. He goes around the country meeting ordinary people and checking up on the projects that he has financed from the treasury. Some ministers are corrupt, and when he finds this he reprimands them but gives further funds directly to the workers. He has a young son who will succeed him and who will be a king with a regent if he is a child when he becomes king. Even if he is four years old he will have to sit in the place of the king for the discussions with the ministers. Later we learnt from Mohamed in Midelt that Morocco is a constitutional monarchy, in which there is a democratic vote every five years for the members of the two houses of parliament. The Prime Minister is the leader of the majority party. While the king can initiate projects and policies, they have to be passed by parliament before they are enacted. The age for voting is from 18 years, and not the vague ‘24 or 25 years’ that our 19 year old guide in Fez told us.

There are five languages found in different geographical areas but everyone speaks the Arabic that is taught at school, as well as their mother tongue. Nearly everyone has Berber heritage as do the people of other places such as Algeria, Libya, Western Egypt, Mauritania and Mali. The heritage is mixed due to marriages with other groups over the centuries. People in the Sahara are called Berber, but it refers really to the way that they have continued to live by the ancient Berber traditions. Our guide book says that some people claim to have pure Arabic heritage, being descendants of Mohammed.

Of course our conversation ranged over many more areas and in the end we felt that we had made an articulate and very thoughtful friend. He loves his country and has fears for the future of artisans who must rely on the whims of tourists for sales of their crafts. When we left, the boss made a lovely speech to us in French, saying that the next time we come to Morocco we must not stay at a hotel, but with him at his house. When we left at about 7.30 the spinners and weavers were still working on.

We quickly purchased our dinner supplies and returned to the hotel to eat and type, feeling as if we had experienced a long and very varied day. Someone was hammering nearby, tap tapping away as if he was the cobbler in the story of ‘The Cobbler and the Elves’, busy creating new shoes before the cobbler woke in the morning. It sounded more like hammering stone or metal. From the cafes below an incongruous mix of western music such as ‘Hotel California’ and many Cat Stevens numbers wafted up along with the clanging of cutlery and muted voices.

More views of the medina of Fes; a truly hectic and fascinating place

Above: one of the many gates in the wall through which people enter the medina. A gate nearby (below) had been restored a few years ago, but the new gigantic doors now lie rotting and damaged on the ground, with large quantities of rubbish also spoiling this site.

Satellite dishes embellish the otherwise medieval cityscape of Fes.Motor vehicles are not permitted in the old city, so horses and donkeys do the deliveries.

Chefchauon to Fez, Morocco, Wednesday January 31st

2009-01-12T13:18:00.000-08:00

The Kasbah is a lovely old castle with a central courtyard (now gardens), with turreted walls and buildings all around it. It is rendered in soft apricot and is thus a lovely mellow contrast to the blues and whites of the city buildings. We wandered around after paying our entry fee, visiting the gallery where all the paintings were of this area and were for sale, and climbing up the tower. From up high we had a good view onto the neighbouring buildings, of the city and of the countryside and mountains around. Not all the rooves of the buildings in the town are flat, forming terraces as is usual in Morocco, and the tiled ones are supposed to be due to the Spanish influence. The prison had manacles and leg irons which were pretty gruesome, and we read that Abdl el Krim, el Khattabi, the leader of the revolt against Spanish occupation, the man who declared a Republic of the Rif, was imprisoned. He had led the tribes in social reforms to stop blood feuds and to act in unity against the Spanish, swapped mineral mining rights for arms with Germany and South Africa, and started a Riffian State bank. It was the first nationalist movement in colonial north Africa. The French, seeing a threat to their own authority in their colonies, assisted the Spanish to overcome the Riffians and to capture Abdl el Krim at Tarquist. The Spanish took over but did not continue the reforms started during the Riff Republic, nor build infrastructure that could be a benefit of colonisation. They controlled the populace by dealing with the most difficult rebels; sending some off as migrant labour to Algeria and recruiting the warriors into the Spanish army. Franco used the Riffian troops to invade Andalusia in 1936, starting the Spanish Civil War.
The museum was unattended so we could wander around looking at the exhibits and it was here that we saw interesting photos of brides and grooms in traditional costumes from surrounding areas. Really the bride was more like a decorated package with many layers of drapery, so even during the wedding feasts she would have remained a mystery to the groom. Some of the clothes were also displayed. Other photos showed people in the square long ago and it was fascinating to see that the Kasbah was in a worse state eighty years ago and that the cloaks in those days were ended just above the knees. Carved wooden shelves, corner cupboards and wall decorations with the same effect as the icicles usually carved in stone, were on display. They are still produced today and it is one of the crafts that we have not seen much of as yet. I don’t think even I could rationalise bringing home an icicle cupboard in my backpack. A stroll around the gardens looking down into a hole, which showed that there was a lot more to the castle underground, finished a pleasant visit.
We had skipped breakfast in the interests of fitting in the Kasbah and a quick trip to the Internet café and post office, so now we had brunch back at the hotel and packed up. The sky’s blue beginning had changed to a dirty grey and there was a hint of misty rain about. I dressed in my full rain gear just in case, and we set off with all our luggage on the walk to the bus station. We met some Australians who had been at our hotel, and after a chat with them, went to sit outside to wait for our bus, which was late. Caroline and Frank arrived, really to sort out their bus tickets for the next day, but it was a lovely coincidence that we were still there, and that we could say ‘Goodbye’ to them. Sometimes travelling feels like being in a play, with the same characters turning up unexpectedly in different scenes.
When our bus did arrive, we were bustled on so that it did not lose any more time. The luggage charge was double our last trip but the man said that it was a long way to Fez. It certainly was and our bus seemed to have chosen a route that perhaps was direct but involved unmade mountain roads that were greasy with mud from lots of recent and current heavy rain. Our driver drove carefully enough, but black plastic sick bags were called for by some passengers near us. I couldn’t smell if they were used or not which was a blessing. The back of the bus was definitely the place to be, with a non-stop talker haranguing two fascinated boys and the man beside Keith smoking something through a wooden straw, until he changed to smoke something else in cigarette form and finally passed out. We often stopped in the middle of nowhere for passengers to alight or join us. In a stretch of gullied hills and rivers, the bus stopped apparently for no-one. Making his way down the road was a very elderly man in a jade green pointy hooded cloak and very thick misted up and streaming glasses, assisted by his stick and a younger companion. Each step was placed carefully at near right angles in the mud. Watching him was excruciating since it was raining and he seemed likely to fall. At last he made it to the bus and was helped on by his companion and the conductor.
The final passengers to join us were two women carrying a bucket of something that couldn’t be entrusted to the luggage area below, unlike their trussed up live turkey that was tossed in on top of everyone’s bags. Many of the areas we passed through had been cultivated mechanically, with peas, olives and broad beans being crops we recognised. Other paddocks of what looked like planted grass may have been wheat. Now and then we would see clumps of jonquils flowering. Everything was so incredibly wet, including the windows we looked through and eventually me, as it began to drip and splash inside the bus. We moved seats to a dry spot. We made another sudden arrival, with Fez, which seemed never to appear, suddenly materialising after very few warning buildings. The bus pulled into the bus station and we hopped out into a puddle. It started to drive off with our luggage still in it so Keith banged in the side and it stopped. Holding everything up out of the water, we staggered to the side of the road where a man told us that there were no rooms left in the whole of Fez except the one that he could arrange for us in his home.
We groaned and I told him that we were going to ring some of the hotels in the guide book. Inside the bus station, he repeated his dire warnings and offered us his room for 400 dm ($A80). Keith rang two places, with the first indeed being full but the second having a room for us. Our ‘friend’ came over and asked us if we had found anywhere, and when we said yes, asked where it was. We told him and he said that it was a very dirty place and asked the price. We didn’t know although it was in the cheapest category. He walked off saying that he wouldn’t try to help us again, as if that was a threat that would make us take up his offer now.
The rain had eased a little and so it was not too bad walking the short distance to the city gates from the bus station. It was dark, so that made it difficult to read the guide book to work out where to go. An English woman pointed us in the right direction and very soon a man approached us and asked us if we were the Australians who had rung his hotel from the bus station. We thought it was very kind of this man to come out to meet us, given the bad night and the difficulties in orienting yourself in a new city in the dark. He led us off a square into a lane where the hotel was and we booked in. A little tour up to the roof top terrace enabled him to point out some major features and a clean restaurant that he recommended. He was charming and very helpful, and offered to arrange for a good English speaking guide who would be able to tell us about history and culture for a trip into the enormous medina tomorrow morning. We agreed, leaving for dinner with the arrangement that we would leave with the guide at 8 am.
When we returned we asked for hot water; the arrangement, along with payment of $2 each, that had to be made to have a hot shower. I went in first, and when I turned on the hot water, the noise in the pipes sounded as if the whole building would fall down. It didn’t but the rose fell off the shower once there was more than a trickle going through and the water alternated between being boiling hot and cold. The man came up and advised me through the door, and eventually I let him in to see if he could put the rose back on and adjust the water. I hovered behind the door, naked, dripping and cold, while he made the adjustments and then I tried again. It was no better and the rose fell off in no time. No wonder he had sung the praises of the hammam (bath house) as a ‘must have’ experience while staying in Fez. Keith had an even less satisfying experience of a shower than I did, but with no visitors.
It was raining inside since the skylight to the terrace had not been closed; not something that Keith had expected as he walked across to the shared toilets in his socks. I was warned so I kept to the sides. The toilet was smelly, which can happen, but looked as though it would be impossible to clean, being super grotty and prone to blocking. Keith noticed that the wires up wall had been joined, and were bare at that point. The final black mark for us for this accommodation was the lack of a power point in the room, which would mean that once the computer battery and camera batteries were flat, we would have to take them to reception to be re-charged. Not so convenient for Keith, who often wakes at 6 a.m. to sort photos, if I have used up the battery typing until 11 p.m. the night before. We settled into bed and resolved to look for somewhere else tomorrow.
It was New Year’s Eve but we had not heard any noise of partying and even many of our fellow guests were home taking turns to battle the hot water pipes and keeping us awake. We didn’t see the New Year in for the first time in our adult years.
The view of Chefchaouen is remarkable not only for the blue colours but also for the contrasting preponderance of satellite dishes for TV reception.

Keith and Christine would love to hear from you with questions, comments, personal news and any news at all from Australia or wherever you are. We will reply to all emails! Please write to either windlechristine@gmail.com or windle.keith@gmail.com

Chefchaouen, Morocco, Tuesday December 30th

2009-01-12T12:54:00.000-08:00

We breakfasted at the same café we had had our dinner at and it was interesting to see that only tourists and café staff were on the go at 9.30. Stall holders were only beginning to think of setting up, which was reasonable considering how late they stay open at night. We each had a whole round loaf, cut in half and toasted, with orange juice, mint tea, cheese and jam.

It was amazing how much easier it was to find our way out of the medina in daylight without back packs, and we were able to see the landmarks that had escaped our notice the night before. We also saw that the street that we had been looking for was blocked off for renovations so that explained a little of our confusion. At the internet café there was a long queue of Moroccans waiting for a turn in the internet telephone booth. We read our emails and saw that two Moroccan couch surfers had invited us to stay. We asked the boy beside us where we could buy a Moroccan map so that we could plan how to fit everything into the next two and a bit weeks, and he told us two places. He spoke French.

At the first place the map was more expensive than our hotel bill, which seemed a little skewed for value so we decided to try elsewhere. As we were walking along, we could see lots of young people preparing for a demonstration march. Shortly after that we came upon another group and finally a third contingent, looking to be high school students marched along chanting and shouting. While we were buying a more reasonably priced map, I asked the sales assistant what the protest was about. He said that it was in the cause of the Palestinians. Another man said that the Israelis had killed children and Caroline thought that it may have related to an Israeli attack on young Palestinian soldiers. This was certainly an issue that united the community because in the evening the adults came out and demonstrated loudly for a long time. We needed to learn more.

While we were in the map shop, a man entered, lifted up a magazine with closed sections sealed with bands of paper, looked at it, put it down, picked it up again, and then harangued the old man serving. The shop keeper had seemed to tell him to put the magazine down, and then became quite irate and walked around his counter and bustled the man from the tiny shop, telling him off as he shooed him down the street. Here are our two interpretations of this event. Keith’s – that the man was reading rather than buying the magazine, and mine – that the man was expressing his disgust with the type of material that the shop was selling.

We worked our way back to the bus station so that we could sort out bus tickets to Fez and also so that we would be able to find it easily when laden with our heavy packs. There are two types of buses and we chose the cheaper one, which is a private bus company and used more often by the locals. On the way back to town we met our guide of last night while we were buying cheese and olives from a woman with a couple of buckets and a little table on the side of an alley in the medina. We had no common language but were going along reasonably well, but our guide helped anyway. He then asked if we would like to see his house, which is a factory, to take photos and we don’t have to pay for anything. He used a mixture of Spanish and English so it was a bit confusing, but we ended up in a house with an interior just like a miniature medina. Each room was full of beautiful hand crafted treasures, with carpets, fabrics, jewellery, wood carving and metal work making it really like an Aladdin’s cave. We looked around for a bit, but not intending to buy anything, did not want to show interest that would lead to a wasted effort for the salesmen. Certainly there would have been many, many things to my taste, but we had seen nothing else at that stage and no plans to buy for us.

We bought some extra fillings for our bread at a little fruit and vegetable stall on the square and went back to our room to eat our lunch. Having a picnic in the square would have been perfect for us but it is not customary for Moroccans to eat on the street, and so not appropriate for us to do so here. Everything except the olives was delicious, and I will know to taste before I buy a large quantity next time. We had a whole afternoon to explore and look around. Now and then we saw threads stretching from one corner to the next close to the wall, and people spinning them together with a little hand held contraption. The streets of the medina below our hotel had many stalls that were of everyday items and not particularly aimed at tourists. Many shops sold caftans and they are regular wear for women here, with silk braid on the front and along the seams. Men wear a version of the caftan too, although not in pretty fabrics, and their braid trimming is more subdued. The hooded cloak was on sale beside windcheaters and is just part of regular clothing and not tourist fare. The craft shops were everywhere, and while they would attract local buyers, I think that they would rely heavily on selling to tourists. Spice shops had powders of every colour of the rainbow in baskets, and rows of dried things that looked like mushrooms. The smells changed with every stall and with turn of the narrow lanes. It was hard to know where to go and where to look, there were so many options, so we simply gave up on trying to know where we were and turned corners randomly. Children seemed to be out and about all day, so we did not know when school was on, although we had seen children in pink smocks heading off in the morning and a mother escorting children and school bags at about ten past ten. We passed two little girls, walking along happily in front of their mothers with the youngest singing a song about Allah very tunefully at the top of her voice. Maybe due to the demonstrations the hours of attendance were different. Cats, the most beautiful cats, were everywhere, in every café, on walls, on doorsteps; just everywhere.

At last we came to a gnarled old olive tree with a beautiful woven fabric hanging up on display. As soon as I touched it a man invited me in to have a look at others. Inside and downstairs we were again in a series of display rooms, with the small shop look at the door giving a completely erroneous impression. A man was working at a loom weaving a lovely fabric using silk made from cactus fibres. Apparently no silk worm silk is produced in Morocco.

We looked at smaller pieces similar to the large one that I had liked outside. I really liked one and we discussed prices, but since I had no comparisons, I was still reluctant to buy. I explained that and said that I would look around and come back if we decided we liked this one best. The vendor said that people say that but never come back, and I thought that that could be the case for us too since we had no idea how we had got here or where we were at all. Still, the olive tree was pretty distinctive so we noted that.

Continuing on in nearly a straight line, we arrived at the river. It rushes out of the rocks and cascades down in a fury of white water until it is tamed to pass two washing rooms. These have roofs and channels of water running through them and stone scrubbing boards where many women were thrashing their clothes with vigour. They each wore a striped cloth around their middles which would have soaked up the water that slopped over them. At this spot, women have washed their clothes over the centuries, oblivious to all the people peering down at them from the walkways above.

On the near and steeper side of the mountain there were stone walls and prickly pears edging a kind of rough pathway amongst the stones. A woman was walking up and we thought that we would explore up there for a while. We met a couple of locals coming back the other way, but eventually it was just us and the woman in the lime green caftan with matching lime green slippers. She seemed to be carrying a couple of bags of shopping. She indicated to us to go with her, but we weren’t sure if that was what she meant so we stopped at a fork in the path. She gestured emphatically and she was definitely telling us to follow, so we did.

Up we went with the path becoming stonier and more zig-zaggy. She unlocked a gate in the prickly pear hedge, and we stepped through after her. Higher we went until we could see a little cave hut under a cliff, and once we were through another locked gate, we walked up a path to it.

The lady found a cork stump seat for me, as light as could be, and placed a red woven cloth on it. She told me to sit, after I had admired her hen and chickens. She indicated for Keith to sit on the rocks near me. She disappeared inside and I was alarmed when she came out, holding the hen that I had admired by its legs. She used it like a broom to sweep out some chickens for us to look at. I was alarmed because I really thought that she might be going to give me the hen, or worse still, kill it for me. She was making a fuss of me so I wasn’t sure what could be about to happen. Keith whispered to me that he was definitely not accepting a dead chook. Meanwhile the lady had driven out a rabbit for us to admire. I hoped she didn’t like me enough to give me a hen and a rabbit.

She had been teaching me the Arabic words for some things and we had been hopefully trying some Spanish to make some conversation. So far we had said that the mountain was beautiful, that Chefchauoen was beautiful, that the hen was beautiful and so was the rabbit. She must have thought that we were mad. Eventually she invited us in, and then we saw that this was not her home, but animal sheds where she kept chooks and rabbits and she had come up to feed them. I asked if the largest rabbit was the mother and she said it was. Her hand movements told us the fate of the father rabbit and since there was no rooster on the scene, we guessed that it was one night of fun and then the pot for all the males.

At this point we indicated that we would be going, and she held out her hand for some money. We were happy to give her some because it was interesting to see what the little mountain cave building was used for and also to have a little interaction with a local. In other ways of course it changed her behaviour into money making rather than friendliness, which was a pity and took away from the experience. Maybe reality lay somewhere between the two, with local expectations of money for all services not meaning that some of her actions were not motivated by good will to strangers.

We climbed back down and to the source of the river where there were buildings that may once have been a bath house. There were spacious pathways and terraces for promenading and relaxing, and they seemed in such contrast to the narrow streets and packed in houses of the town. The situation under the rocky hilltop and beside the river would not have allowed for wasted space in the old town anyway so it was a luxury to have given so much to the river side promenades. Crossing the river we climbed steps up the hill on the other side. We followed a rough path past tethered sheep and a couple of farm houses, across a creek and up to the top of the hill where there were the ruins of the Spanish mosque.

On top of the Spanish Mosque. It was hard to know who had been smoking what in this area.

We had read that people walking in the mountains can be stopped by the police because there is a crack down on tourists buying ‘kif’ (hashish) and encouraging the trade. There were Moroccans in ones and twos all along the route, all smoking things. Nearby there were occasional groups of tourists who had climbed up from the path to sit on rocks and admire the vista of the town and the mountains, also smoking things. The ruins absolutely reeked of smoke not related to tobacco, and a crowd of folks seemed to have got there and no further. It was quite difficult to climb up the minaret, with the last part having extremely steep steps rather like a ladder, and with two major opportunities to bang your head, both taken by me. The people who were up there when we started walking up the hill were still up there, and no doubt it would be some time before they would be in a fit state to climb down again. Of course all the police were deployed down in the lower town at the rolling demonstrations so this may have been an unusual day. We felt a little out of place and after admiring the view, and observing the people, climbed down.

The views were remarkable, with the blue and white town shining against the olive green and browns and greys of the mountain. In the distance a cloud obscured some mountains but a clear peak stood out above it. It is a very beautiful place, and has religious significance. It was closed off to Christians until the arrival of Spanish troops in 1920. Our guide book says that prior to that one man spent an hour here disguised as a rabbi, another came and was discovered and poisoned by the locals in 1892 and the third, William Summers, a journalist, just survived and escaped to write about his experiences in a book called ‘Land of an African Sultan’. The town of Chefchaouen was established in 1471 in an area that was sacred to Muslims. The tomb of Moulay Abdessalam Ben Mchich, the patron saint of the Djebali tribesmen and one of the four poles of Islam is here, and over the centuries pilgrimages and saints with supernatural powers were associated with this area. On top of that, the founder of the town, a descendant of the Prophet and a follower of the patron saint, established it as a base to attack the Christian Portuguese from. Muslims and Jews from Spain sought refuge here when the Catholic King and Queen conquered the Moorish kingdoms of Granada and Cordoba. So there was no love lost on the Christians. As a result of the arrival of the refugees, there is some common Andalusian heritage between the southern parts of Spain and northern Morocco, which explains why there seems to be a fair bit of Spanish influence here.

On the way back, wandering again in the medina, we stopped to look in another weaving shop to gain some perspective on the fabric that I had liked. An exuberant New Zealender was showing the salesmen a painting that she had bought elsewhere and asking them their opinions of whether she had a bargain. They said that she definitely had, and that the man who paints them could ask proper prices because his work is so good but he sells them for nothing just to get enough money to feed his drug habit. She told us that she had fun haggling in Fes and Marrakesh, and that it was all a great game. She was looking at lots of things, and so she had the men on their toes keeping up with her. We saw her later and she had bought two leather stools, and told us that she had only brought ten kilograms of luggage since she knew she would buy lots. We found out the price of a similar fabric to the one we had seen, and then looked for the olive tree to look at it again. We found it and bought the fabric and it is beautiful. Whether we bargained satisfactorily is not known, but we felt that the price was more than reasonable for the amount of work and its appeal to us. Unplanned purchase number 1.

Knowing where the olive tree was did not mean that we could return to the hotel in a hurry, although we did know that it was downhill somewhere. Following a general down and sideways direction, we were lured into a carpet and everything shop by a master salesman who assured us that it would be interesting to have a look and that he understood that we did not want to buy anything. He showed us some carpets under the pretext that it was an educational look at the traditional styles produced by the cooperative of villagers whose work is sold here. There were kilims (woven carpets) and knotted carpets, and some with both effects in the same piece. Traditionally the crafts were passed down in families and women spent their lives making carpets, which was reasonable since they would only be leaving the house twice in their lives, once to get married and once to be buried. The bride and groom would not have met until the wedding. The salesman said that the kilims or carpets that the bride took with her would be a useful guide for the groom as to the sort of wife he had, in terms of her weaving skills and also of her choice symbols and patterns. Carpets were then made throughout the marriage and became a kind of diary, with symbols known to the family woven in so that messages and family stories could be read. Daughters would use those family symbols as well as some traditional ones in carpets ready for their own marriages.

At this stage, with us fully engaged in this interesting history, the salesman asked which of the four carpets I liked the best. I was not committing myself but I had in mind that one of the smaller ones would make an excellent engagement present for Rohan and Kerry, and would relieve Kerry of the need to learn to make carpets for Ro to judge her by. As you will have guessed, we bought a small rug for Rohan and Kerry, one that could be read if only we knew how. Unplanned purchase number 2.

A lane of paintings left us wondering if their creator was the man with the drug habit, and Keith joked that to paint the many vistas of the medina when the stalls were closed you only needed blue and white paint. We seemed to be walking in circles and never finding the Kasbah, mosque and square which were our land marks. We did find Frank and Caroline so we joined them for a mint tea and an enjoyable relax. Frank set us on the path for our hotel and we planned to catch up for dinner. We were at the hotel for a little while and by the time we reached the square we could not see the others in any of the exposed parts of the restaurants. We gave up and went upstairs in a place where a cat sat on the seat beside Keith and a French family was eating. We chatted for a while and they gave us some recommendations for Fez. They had been to a village closer to the drug growing area and they had been quite alarmed at the erratic driving there, which they put down to all the smoking of the local product. They had seen no women and children on the streets, and said it was very strange apparently to have come to a land of men and older boys only. In some parts of Egypt, particularly in Siwa, we had been struck by the lack of females anywhere in public too.

The drummer who had added such atmosphere to the evening had finished playing and a brief altercation between two young men was over, with one of the protagonists literally being dragged away by his friends. Many hooded men had gone over and broken things up so the peace was very quickly restored. This shows how good it is to have a force of civic minded, seemingly film extras in continuous movement across major squares.

We still had another morning before we moved on, but Chefchauoen is certainly a place that would be great to chill out in and spend a week or so just soaking everything in. The people were friendly and not pushy, other than in the reasonable business of selling you things once in their shops, but even this was carried out with courtesy and gentleness.

The distant Atlas Mountains appear strangely above the clouds in the distance.

ALgeciras, Spain, to Chefchaouen, Morocco, Monday December 29th

2009-01-12T12:49:00.001-08:00

It was still raining and puddles like lakes had formed on the roadsides. Dressed in our full rain gear, we walked down to the port, taking detours to walk across the road rather than swim. After a false start at the fast boat office, we bought tickets for the slow boat to Tangier. That, in theory, was crazy since we could have taken a fast boat to Ceuta, which was closer to Chefchaouen, but the reason we did it was to be sure that the boat would go in this weather and because it was a simpler procedure at the other end. With few people travelling, the passport check was rigorous and we were asked many questions about where we had arrived from Australia, where we had been over the year and where we would finally depart from. The policeman asked us when we had been in Russia and pointed to some stamps in our passports. We said that we hadn’t been in Russia and then we couldn’t remember exactly where we had been on those dates to account for the stamps. They were actually for the Charles de Gaulle Airport exit and return when we went to Tanzania. For a moment I thought that our Shengen worries were coming home to roost but that was not an issue. Once we said that we would not be coming back to Spain, he was less concerned and waved us through. We only saw seven other passengers on the massive ferry that took us across and many, many more unoccupied staff.
The trip was uninteresting, with rain on the windows, grey sea and sky and a few other vessels providing the only light relief.
As we left the building at the Port of Tangier, a taxi driver attached himself to us. Keith said that we would be taking the bus, to which the driver replied that there was no bus office near the port and that he would drive us to the bus station four kilometres away. He followed us, and when, after changing some money, Keith asked another taxi driver about the bus station situation, he was livid. He made sarcastic comments like ‘Of course a taxi costs a million dollars’, and asked me what language we spoke in Australia. When I said English, he asked why I was speaking French, seeming to accuse me of being devious linguistically. It was a strange ploy because who would then want to go with him in his taxi? We walked off and found a bus station at the gates to the port, as shown on our map. The straight through bus to Chefchaouen had just left so, with instructions to the other bus station, we set off walking. Even with our packs it took only about twenty minutes and it gave us a chance to see a little of Tangier. That part could have been in any large European city with heavy traffic, however the second bus station was quite reminiscent of those in Turkey. Scouts checked where we wanted to go and scooped us up and over to their bus offices. There was a system of private bus companies with many serving the same routes. We bought our tickets and a large block of chocolate for lunch and we were set.
In Morocco you pay to have your luggage put under the bus, something that everyone did for themselves in Europe for free (except in the Balkans). We knew to get on the bus early since there were no seat allocations that we could read. It meant that we could observe the pre-departure entertainments of vendors coming onto the bus looking for sales from a captive audience. One handed out a little booklet to everyone except us, gave a sermon and then collected money or the religious tract. The man beside us kept the tract and read it in whispers for a lot of the journey. Others simply handed it back. Next was a man who spoke at length about the virtues of a small packet of orange ‘lollies’ which he produced from a black leather bag. Some of the vocabulary and many of the gestures indicated that these were cure-alls and that this was a snake oil salesman. A lady beside him gratefully purchased a bag. Further down the bus he hit a snag because a woman challenged him and they had a long argument that amused the other passengers. Our interpretation of what happened was that she must have said that she tried some once and they did nothing. He argued that she was at fault in how she took them, or that her problem was too big and she needed a doctor. He was speaking Arabic but he used some Spanish words and we definitely heard ‘doctor’ several times. The bus took off and they were still arguing, and it was only as we swung out of bus station that he raced to the front, addressed us all again, and leapt off. It was something that bonded all the passengers except the serious man beside me, since we were included in all the smiles and nods that flowed around the bus as the argument grew more heated.
The countryside near Tangier was not so interesting, but we soon came to rural areas with animals and the foothills of the mountains where the scenery was spectacular. We drove through rugged mountains with steep ravines and rivers gushing down to spread out in valleys. People watched sheep or goats in isolated areas, and horses and donkeys grazed near houses. The villages we stopped at were small and we saw stalls for pottery and vegetables set up on the ground, and a gravel works right beside the road. The bus was transporting large sacks of something lumpy and angular which had been loaded on at the side of the road earlier. One such sack was off loaded at the gravel works to no-one in particular and we knew that we were back in lands where we do not know the customs or usual practice. That is always an exciting feeling for me. We changed buses, something we did not know that we would do, but our fellow passengers and the conductor looked after us and made sure that we and our luggage were all aboard for the connecting trip.
The road to Chefchaouen approaches in such a way that the city is hidden until you are very close, and then it is a surprise to see it clinging to the side of the hill. We stopped above a drop down into a field where a woman and her children were sitting watching goats graze on what looked to be a bit of a tip. They didn’t react to the scenes of arriving passengers above and so I felt as if I was looking at an interesting photo, gazing down at them.
We walked up the steep road to the town proper and then along some roads wide enough for cars. We couldn’t see street names and so Keith asked two men for help. They just brushed him off and kept going and each time he just stood there looking very surprised and affronted. He was asking in French and we were to discover that Spanish was the more usual second language here, but he felt that they were just rude. Luckily a third man came along and, seeing us puzzling over our map, offered to help us. He spoke French. Once we had entered the medina through an arch way, we were in a maze of streets and lanes lined with stalls and shops. The map was an approximation for what we were experiencing and so it was not long before a young man asked us if we needed help. In the guide book it warns against taking this kind of help since the person will receive commission from the hotel for bringing you there. It seems a reasonable thing to me, given that it is tricky to find places and the prices are all so cheap at the medina pensions anyway. The pension we had selected in the book was full but while we were there inquiring, we met a Dutch couple, Frank and Caroline, and we were scooped up by their guide. Ten steps on our guide scooped us back and ushered us along a different lane, and then we all met at the next hotel, led their by our guides. That hotel only had one room, which Caroline said was not what they were looking for so we took it. We were just glad to have found a spot, since it was cold and just about dark. It was a family home, bought by the Grandfather of the current owner for 45 dh which is Au$9. Of course that was a long time ago and money was worth more then but even so, two storeys and a rooftop terrace for $A9 is not bad. We paid 100 dh (Au$20) for the night. Within three minutes I had been asked if I wanted to buy some good stuff to smoke and when Keith had paid for our room, the same guy came over and asked him if he was interested. I had said I didn’t want any immediately but Keith had not understood the question and so seemed to be very interested, wanting the man to explain more. I told Keith what he had been asked and the guy received a ‘no’ and went off.
All the buildings here have part or all of them painted blue, and most often an azure blue with a bit of mauve in it. It is very pretty and especially from afar on a hilltop, it looks quite spectacular. We climbed the stairs in the lane beside our hotel, went under a room built over the lane joining the houses together, turned along a dog leg, went up more steps and we were on the main square.
The evening was foggy, and the main square looked like a film set with the Kasbah (castle) on one side beside the mosque and men in pointed hooded cloaks walking, pausing, meditating or chatting in groups as if they were being filmed for Lord of the Rings.
The restaurants with Coca Cola walls and Pepsi chairs rather spoilt the effect, as did the myriad of tourists, but all the residents looked fantastic. A very pleasant boy served as both waiter and customer collector, and had the perfect personality for both. The food was cheap and we enjoyed a vegetable tajin, vegetables with couscous, Moroccan salad, fruit salad, mint tea and Moroccan biscuits all for Au$20. We caught up with Caroline and Frank again, and also met Yango and Nicole, from South Africa and Chile, who work on cruise ships from Antibes and were spending their earnings on travel. It was very pleasant chatting and watching the passing crowd, and so different to everywhere else we had been. There seemed to be a general strolling hour when women and children were also out and about from about seven to eight o’clock. We were looking forward to exploring more of the medina, which is the old village, and souk or stalls area, and to seeing the Moroccan crafts that we had read so much about.

Algeciras, Spain Sunday December 28th

2009-01-12T12:47:00.000-08:00

It was still raining steadily when I woke up and Keith had been choosing photos for days of the blog that I haven’t written. Usually I just write the days in sequence, no matter how far behind I am, but following Keith’s advice, I jumped a bit and now there is a hole. We had decided to stay an extra day in our cheap but nice hotel to have a relax (which means a day of blogging for me and a snooze and some internet time for Keith).
We followed our map rather unsuccessfully looking for the museum, with the lack of displayed street names being our major problem. However when we asked a man for help we were not too far away from Calle de Museo, a street that was not mentioned next to the museum as pictured on our map. Unfortunately the museum was closed, with Sunday being its only off day. After we sloshed our way through a park with channels of water running down all its dirt paths, we realised that our pants were quite wet. We should have had the sense to wear our plastic overpants, even if we were only going a little distance.
On the way back to the hotel we called at the ferry booking office and learnt that all the ferries had been cancelled for today because of the weather and that there was no guarantee that they would be sailing tomorrow. We would just have to check at seven in the morning. The weather may also change our plans if there are problems in driving in the mountains, since we were thinking of going to Chefchaouen which is in the foothills.
I spent the rest of the day in bed for warmth, reading and typing alternately. Keith went out and found some food in a little shop run by Asian people, since all the supermarkets are closed on Sundays. He heard the church bells playing ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’ while he was out. When he returned he had a bad headache which took some paracetamols and a sleep to overcome. He felt much better after a trip to the internet café where he had saved the emails onto a memory stick for me to read. Emails are better than chocolate for a traveller.
Once we had finished our picnic tea, and the day of being in bed to stay warm was nearly over, I went to bed properly and read about Morocco. Keith had a turn with the computer, selecting photos.

Gibraltar, Tuesday December 27th

2009-01-12T12:28:00.000-08:00

We made a reasonable start and only had a half hour wait at the Algeciras bus station for the bus to La Linea de la Concepcion, 20 kilometres away. We were certain that there were two English book shops in Gibraltarr and that we would be able to buy a guide to Morocco and work out some plans. The road took us past a fairly boring range of megastores with the bus stopping now and then. At one stop I heard a man ask for his fare in English, and smiled at him and said hello in a friendly fellow traveller way as he came past. He was Ran, an Israeli man, whose family was on their Christmas visit to relatives in Australia. Meanwhile he had taken a trip to Morocco, and was just about to fly home to England from Gibraltar. He spoke so glowingly of his experiences in Morocco and was even planning to return with his children next year. He offered us his guide book, refusing to take any money for it, saying that he would buy the up to date one for his trip next year. We hopped off together and walked through the border check, where they didn't even look in our passports, and where we later heard that a female traveller had shown her husband's passport photo by mistake and been waved through. The no man's land area is a little bleak, but we were soon onto a footpath that led across the runway of the Gibraltar airport. They stop the traffic going across when a plane is taking off.

The rock dominated all the views, and was high and rugged, but with plenty of vegetation on it. Arches brought us through to a square where Gibraltar central began, and to a multitude of signs for English fish and chips with big servings. We enjoyed a drink with Ran to hear more about his time in Morocco, and to take some notes. He was very pleasant company and we were so happy to have met someone who was full of positives and enthusiasm. After we parted from him, we realised that the only book shop we had seen was closed, so it was very lucky that we had his guide and didn't have to worry about searching for the second bookshop and hoping that it was open.

Prices for the tours up the rock seemed very high, but so did the cable car tickets. We had the most expensive chips we have ever eaten for lunch, since we paid in Euros in Gibraltar which has a currency of Gibraltan pounds and can accept English pounds as well. The exchange rate in shops for Euros is highway robbery and nothing like the current rate in banks. The chips cost 3.20 pounds, and since the rate now is about one pound to one Euro, we were shocked to have to pay Euros 5.50. We had paid about Au$11 for two miserable serves of chips.

Our next exchange rate shock was even greater when the cost of the cable car with admission to sites on the rock came to the equivalent of Au$98 because we only had Euros, but it would have been about Au$60 if we had had pounds! We decided to walk up the rock and to pay for entry to the sites when we got there.

Listening in to our discussion about the money and the distances on the rock were a South African couple who live in London. They asked us what we had found out and decided to walk too. We all set off in what must have appeared to be a mutiny to the ticket office sales girl who had seemed amazed that we had even questioned the exchange rate, let alone refused to be fleeced.

What a stroke of luck it was to have met Graham and Lorna, who were wonderful company for the whole afternoon. It was no stress to walk up the rock, and when we reached the Nature Reserve ticket office we were able to use our Visa card and buy a ticket just for the sites. It cost 16 pounds for both of us, so we saved more than Au$60 by walking and being able to use our card, gained some new friends and had a greater sense of the rock and its views and environments.

The rock is home to a colony of Barbary Apes, and Graham told us of the legend that Gibraltar will only be in British hands while the Barbary Apes live there. He added that he had read that Churchill didn't trust military strategies alone and had imported some more Barbary Apes to ensure this important strategic point was not lost. The Rock provides an outstanding lookout point for the Straits of Gibraltar, which is the narrow stretch of water between Africa and Europe. In the past watches have been kept on movements in the straits and many battles have been fought over ownership of Gibraltar. There have been 14 sieges of the Rock, castle and town of Gibraltar, and there are more than 70 kilometres of tunnels dug into the Rock. We could see the coast of Africa in the distance and it looked as though swimming across would not be out of the question for a good swimmer.

Our first view of the apes was very exciting. Many signs warned against feeding them and interfering or interacting with them, explaining that they bite. We had not realised that they were so used to cars and people that they virtually did as they pleased. Sitting on top of parked cars was common, and when one lady sat down away from her family who were admiring the apes, one went over, sat down beside her and reached into her pocket. It also examined her handbag strap and, given the warnings that the apes grab things and run off with them, she was crazy to just laugh. We didn’t see any major problem behaviour from people but we did see that ape babies were not responded to by their mothers when they cried. Of course the babies are so cute that they would be surrounded by people, and the mother would be nearby but didn’t come over when the little one chirruped its distress. That may be normal for Barbary Apes or it may be a learned behaviour in this setting. The apes are fed to ensure that they have a balanced diet. Apes groomed each other with the most intense concentration and apparent appreciation of the taste of whatever they were finding. Their bottoms looked dreadful, and were on display whenever they moved. The babies had the oldest looking wizened faces and it seemed that the apes looked younger as they aged. The Rock is clearly the domain of the Apes, and people and cars respect that, although we felt that some tour vehicles, not quite so respectful of human walkers, were travelling quite fast.

We learnt that the Barbary Apes are not apes but the only tailless monkeys. It is thought that no tail may be an adaptation to the cold. They are very social and all members of a group, including males, show a lot of concern for the young. That suggests that the behaviour that we observed stems from the adults having no concern for their babies in the presence of people. They were once common along the North African coast but are now in danger due to habitat loss and hunting.

In mythology the Rock of Gibraltar one of the pillars of Hercules, with the two pillars marking the limit of the ancient world. There is disagreement over the identity of the other ‘pillar’ in northern Africa. There is no forgetting that this Rock has a military history, with enormous cannons still in place and huge metal rings in the roads and rocks showing where ropes were used to haul the cannons up the hill.

We visited the cave of St Michael, which is a system of enormous limestone caves with many stalactites and stalagmites. A large cavern had been hollowed out in preparation for use as a hospital in the Second World War, but it was not needed and is now an auditorium. The caves were very beautiful, and lit in a subtle way that allowed you to see the formations without turning it into a technicolour Disney World. A stalagmite had fallen maybe a thousand years ago and was lying cemented by nature to the floor of the cave. In 1972 a piece was cut off the top end revealing a cross section of the stalagmite. I looked like a beautiful piece of marble, with several cores and swirls and patches around them. Scientists were able to tell when each part had been formed by the patterns. Another system of caves with a lake in it, lies below this one and was discovered in 1912 when there was blasting to provide another entry.

The cave has been used by the military at various times, with 500 Spanish troops hiding here before a surprise attack on the British in 1704 and a Moorish wall concealing the entry suggesting that it was used during the invasion of Spain in 711. The cave was known to the Ancients and was considered to be the gates of Hades and the entry to the Underworld. Two Neanderthal skulls and other items show that Gibraltar and the caves were used 40,000 years ago. A skull was found in Gibraltar eight years before the one found in the Neander Valley, but it was the West German find that gave the species its name.

We entered the Great Siege Tunnels which were used when the British were besieged by the Spanish from 1779 to 1783. As we walked down through the tunnels, we explored the small caverns that were dug out for cannons to fire from. Curtains of wet leather or rope hung over the front of the guns to ensure that sparks did not fly back in. Incredible amounts of gunpowder was kept and used here, so at times the noise, smell and dust in the air must have made the place unbearable. The tunnels were dug by soldiers from 1772, because civilians were ‘ill disciplined and likely to run away in times of danger’. These soldiers, tradesmen soldiers, later took on the title of The Royal Engineers. The digging out of these tunnels, by hand with the help of detonation and inserting wood into crevices and soaking it, was a major achievement.

When the siege ended in 1783 the tunnel was 370 feet long. The enemy commander, the Duc de Crillon, commented that they were ‘…worthy of the Romans’, and while it is a reasonable but exaggerated statement, I wondered in what circumstances the Duc was being shown through the tunnels and to what extent he was bound to flatter the English. Tunnelling continued and St George’s Hall, a battery site for seven guns was dug out. It was the site of a military dinner to commemorate the 200^th anniversary of the ‘sortie’, by which little euphemism I presume they mean the years of bloody fighting and loss that was the Great Siege. The mannequins of soldiers in action added to the atmosphere, especially the one behind a door grill who shouted out ‘Halt, who goes there?’ giving us a little fright. I think some history behind the siege would have added to this visit, and while there could be lots in the museum that we did not have time to visit, at least a summary would help visitors to understand more while here.

The exhibition ‘Gibraltar, a city under siege’ was in the ruins of some buildings that were originally built by the British as a powder magazine. The first walls had old graffiti all over them and a mannequin was depicted at work inscribing his name and a date in the 1700s.

Apparently being besieged led to many hours of boredom and the development of some artistic skills, as the picture of a boat showed. Lorna and Graham commented on the absolute deluge of graffiti in Spain today and we agreed that it is everywhere. In fact we would probably note its absence rather than its presence. Illness and disease led to more deaths than military encounters. Soldiers were allowed to have their wives with them, but rations were only allowed for five wives for a battalion of 85 – 100 men. The wives were the nurses, since there were no professional nurses in those days. This is an intriguing situation, since there were wives who survived ‘off the record’. How did they work out whose wife would be fed, and what were the ways for ‘off the record wives’ to make a living? Certainly one springs to mind in the presence of so many bored men, and it isn’t giving art lessons. The only acknowledged role of women was in nursing men back to health quickly to help the garrison to withstand the siege.

The lash was administered to impose discipline, with one drummer receiving 30,000 lashes in his first fourteen years on Gibraltar. At what point were those in charge going to decide that perhaps life as a drummer in the army was not the best match for this man? During the siege people’s homes were bombarded from both sides, and so they abandoned them and lived in shanty towns on the south side of the Rock, where disease and death became rife. Rations were scarce so to preserve flour soldiers were ordered not to use it to powder their hair. That sounds pretty extreme to me. Bread or hairstyles – it must have been a difficult decision. A cabbage cost 2½ days’ pay for a soldier, so the choice between hairstyle and food was probably an easy one. All the paving stones in the town streets were taken up so that a cannon ball would fall harmlessly onto dirt and not ricochet off causing further harm to buildings. Towers and steeples along with land marks of any sort were taken down by the English themselves to prevent the enemy using them for guidance for the bombardment.

This was a great exhibition for interesting details and also for the visuals, which included a dead couple loaded in a cart while their child cowered in a corner holding a cross and crying. The bodies had rigor mortis and lay stiffly with their knees unable to be bent so that their feet could not fit in the cart. I had to remind myself that they were mannequins, for whom rigor mortis is not an issue. Scurvy was a killer, and General Eliot ordered that everyone plant vegetables in order to prevent further disease which could weaken the English and force them into surrendering. The sign said that he was a vegetarian, which was unusual for the times, but no doubt it was the bigger life and death issues that led him to promote planting veggies.

We whizzed past the World War Two Tunnels entrance, which was closed, pausing only to feel the hot air coming up from some bunkers and to peer at the armoured vehicle parked in the tunnels. The clouds were gathering right above us and the rainy day promised looked like it could arrive any moment.

Our last stop was at the castle which had been originally built by the Moors and last rebuilt in 1333. Of course it was taken over and used by every successful invader. All that remains is its tower, and it was fairly spooky climbing up, knowing that so many others had been here before and not as tourists. A section had been allocated to bathing, and care had been taken with the details, such as the star shaped vents. We imagined that originally there would have been more ornamentation, given the Moorish buildings that we had seen.

This tower was the last resort in an attack, and the incredibly thick walls could give you a sense of security, even with canon balls flying around. We had wonderful views from all over the rock and the walk had been a very enjoyable one. We didn’t go right up to the top in view of the time and the clouds but it would be well within the capacity of reasonably fit walkers. We made our way down a myriad of stairs that led through some back streets. This was very quick and easy and saw us crossing the runway and waving our closed passports in no time at all. When we parted, we exchanged details and we hope that Lorna and Graham will visit when they are in Australia.

It was then that we realised that we had no idea where the bus station was, since we had been talking to Ran and had not paid attention earlier. A passer-by helped us out and we were soon in the bus being driven through the rain in the dark back to Algeciras. Many people hopped on at the megastore stop with enormous bags of goodies, bought at what I guess to be the after Christmas sales. The rain was not too bad when we alighted and walked to buy some bread, but once we were safe inside and up the beautiful stairs, it came pelting down. We indulged in some reading of the Rough Guide to Morocco; a little different to the format of the Lonely Planet Guides that we were used to, but just what we needed.

not London; Gibraltar