2013 World Trip Part 9

The next day had an entirely different feel to it. For probably the first time during the entire holiday, it didn’t feel like we had any pressing needs. There were no obligations, no schedules; there was literally nothing we felt like we had to do within a certain time. It was glorious. It was after a hefty sleep in that Ian and I reached the mutual decision that the day would be dubbed

               ‘The Write-Off Day’.

After soaking up the wi-fi, we very slowly began to plan the day ahead. Ian had been told the night before during our dinner date with Paul that he should make getting a padlock for his bag an absolute priority. This was based on some experiences the guys had gone through in the same country, so we decided there was probably some merit to be gained from heeding the warning. There was also a mosque here, a medina there; we were really very uninterested with the whole planning side of things.

During the planning stage of our journey, a curious thing happened. Ian was getting changed in the bathroom when I heard a muffled thump on our balcony window. When I walked out to investigate, I found an exhausted swallow, limping over to a puddle of water that had accumulated under our air-conditioner unit. His beak was agape and he was panting, obviously suffering heatstroke. The poor guy offered no resistance to us as we edged closer, despite him obviously being terrified. Poured more water into the puddle and left with the idea that this bird would either stay and die on the balcony or start feeling better and fly off. We named him Simon.

We headed downstairs with a very vague plan in mind in search of a map. This was beginning to become a necessary routine. After walking up to the concierge, he pointed out our position on the map, as well as some other places of interest. With a cheeky grin, he dropped his finger on the map over the ‘Old Medina’.

                ‘This?’ he began. ‘This not far. Maybe… Ten minutes walk.’ He said with a shrug and a hand gesture that informed us he totally just pulled that figure from his rectum.

                ‘This?’ he pointed at the ‘New Medina of Marrakesh. ‘Not far.’ He said, throwing his bottom lip out, knowingly. ‘Maybe… (he let the ‘e’ hang for the longest time before dropping the sound) ten minutes walk?’ I frowned, cottoning onto the fact that this guy might not ACTUALLY know how long it took to walk the distance. But he wasn’t done.

                ‘Maybe… Five minutes by car?’ He looked down at the map, and with a broad smile, turned back up to look at us.

                ‘Maybe… One minute by air?’ He left his grin on his lips waiting for us to get it. We left.

Instead of heeding another of Paul’s wise words the night before, we decided to go out for our walk during midday. The harsh sun beat a powerful reminder to always listen to Paul into any skin we left exposed. I forgot that we must’ve put on our ‘Please annoy us’ shirts and the multiple taxi drivers that hovered just outside the hotel’s gates descended to do just that as soon as we set foot out the door. Ignoring both them and the heat, we headed for the New Medina.

It wasn’t long before we came to a fixture in the ground emblazoned with advertising and sporting a giant digital display. It showed the time, the date and the temperature on a repeating cycle. It was a little after 12.30pm and the display showed that it was already 45°C. Great time for a walk.

We marched on, and after around twenty five minutes of second guessing where we were on the map, managed to make our way to the New Medina. By this stage we realized we hadn’t actually eaten since our pizza with Paul the night before and ducked into a local KFC to right that wrong. Half an hour later, we left full of grease, poorly cooked chicken and regret. We crossed the street (again, harder than it sounds) and ventured into the New Medina. We found it was really just a selection of stores that made it no different from Rundle Mall. Regardless, we had a mission and we began our hunt for Ian’s padlock.

We had no luck in the New Medina at all and as such, turned our sights to the Old Medina. We thought that surely SOMEONE would have to sell one in the mishmash of knick-knacks. Not wanting to get involved with the taxi drivers again, we decided to walk the distance. We passed some interesting sights – another mosque, though not as grand as the Hassan II. I was sweating more out than I was taking in and Ian didn’t look like he was doing any better. By this time, it was around 2.30pm and the mercury had hit around 51°C. We were not in a talking mood, we were becoming more and more dehydrated with every minute we spent in the sun and I was secretly wishing that we’d never left the hotel.

When we reached the Old Medina where we’d met Paul the night before, I was shocked. The difference between the two times couldn’t have been any more obvious. It was virtually empty compared to the evening before! I was ok with this as it meant that there were less people to hassle us. Don’t get me wrong, people still DID, there were just less of them. When we came up empty handed during our search of the stalls around the immediate edge of the medina, we decided to venture further into the labyrinth of stalls and streets. As we were searching for a padlock for Ian, he led the way. We walked through a never-ending twisting maze that became harder and harder for me to remember the way we came the further we went. Eventually we reached an area that I noticed had absolutely no tourists, just locals and they were unimpressed that we’d invaded – the looks on their faces said it all. I quietly got Ian’s attention and told him what I’d noticed and we made our way in the opposite direction as subtly as we could, so we didn’t draw any attention to ourselves.

We searched and searched but within the hour we were hot, lost and had found no sign of any baggage lock. After a quick chat, we decided to cut our losses and focus on leaving the medina rather than continue the search. I could tell this annoyed Ian and had I been in the same position, I’d have been annoyed too – his belongings were insecure in a foreign country with a less-than-favourable reputation, but I think we’d both had enough of walking and just wanted to collapse in our hotel’s amazing pool. We soon found however, that leaving the medina is easier said than done.

We’d gone and got ourselves TRULY lost. Not just a little bit, but all the way and it began to provoke dormant anxieties in me. Every corner we turned revealed only MORE corners to turn. Even in the back streets, people still hounded us for money. One clever waiter walked in front of us; arms open wide, giving us his best toothy grin.

                ‘Please! Please! Come! You eat, you drink! Sit! Sit!’ We waved the guy off but were genuinely as polite as we could be by that stage.

                ‘No thanks, no thanks.’ This obviously irked the man more than I thought it was going to. His voice climbed several octaves higher and he began speaking to us in the derogatory tone that a child uses to bully another.

                ‘NO THANKS! NO THANKS!’ He had a unique approach of convincing us to return. We waited until we were well around the next corner to burst out laughing, to ensure we didn’t antagonize the guy any further. A few twists and turns we realized there was some method in all this madness and fixed to the walls above our heads were bright red and blue signs with areas and numbers under them. The aim being, you follow the trail the signs laid out, the numbers decrease until you reach where you need to be. We tracked one for at least half an hour before a kid of around 13-14 years old stopped us in our tracks.

                ‘You. You lost. Come, follow me.’ Brutal honesty. At that point, it was necessary. We followed the boy, but I felt I had to come clean to him. I had no cash on me. I had absolutely no way to pay this kid for helping us. He either didn’t understand or didn’t hear because he shook his head and waved us on. It seemed he was going to help us regardless which was something we were did not expect here in the least. We followed graciously and the boy pointed us in the direction of the Old Medina. We’d made it. However, despite our constant warnings before (and not entirely unexpectedly), the boy held out his hands.

                ‘Money, money. You pay me.’

I genuinely felt terrible. Here was one person in the country that had genuinely done us a service and we could pay the guy (Ian coming clean to me that he had nothing smaller than 200 Dirham notes and didn’t feel like parting with them). However, people that had sent us on wild goose chasses had received our cash. It didn’t seem right and I apologized profusely, though it did little to mask the look of disgust on the kid’s face and in a way, he was justified in doing so. Ian and continued on in the direction the kid had pointed and sure enough, we made our way into the Medina. We haggled half-heartedly with taxi driver scum before finally piling into one and falling into a sweaty, exhausted pile back in our rooms. We learned a few valuable lessons that day; the most important being ‘Always listen to Paul’.

Eventually, we picked ourselves up and dropped ourselves in the hotel pool. It was a very short-lived experience, with neither of us having any energy to swim properly. We made the most of the time that we had in that wet paradise however, until the DJ at the bar began repeating the same song – a clubby rendition of ‘Miss you’ by the Rolling Stones. It was on the third repeat that we realized the DJ was either in a coma or stuck in a loop himself, either way we toweled off and headed up to our room to get ready for dinner. Rather than braving the streets of Marrakesh again, we decided instead to see what delights the hotel’s restaurant had to offer, having spied the menu the night before.

There were two areas available to get out culinary fill; the bar or the restaurant downstairs. The restaurant opened at 7pm and rather than get shafted like we did in Casablanca by being too late, we decided to make it down there dead on time. The employees, however had other ideas and the doors were locked when we ventured down. Undeterred, we asked the staff at the bar about the situation who simply assured us that

                ‘Yes, the restaurant IS open.’ Feeling confused, I asked them to investigate and obliged; more due to my pestering than any sense of respect for their customers. The look on their faces as three of them each tried to open a locked door by pushing on it one after the other was priceless.

                ‘But it says here it opens at seven!’ said one guy to another, positively shocked. I was sure this was the exact point I’d tried to make initially, but I must’ve been mistaken somehow. Either way, the three men at the door with us each convinced themselves that the door wasn’t open (genius) and that the bar was (again, genius). We were ushered back into the bar and told to wait for an hour. Not entirely keen to do so, I decided we’d just eat in the bar and we ordered whatever meals were the most legible. After forcing them down, we gave far-too-over-enthusiastic reviews of the meal to our equally-over-enthusiastic waiter and retreated to the room.

It was a few minutes after we returned to our refuge that I remembered our friend on the balcony from earlier. Curious, I pushed open the door to see if he was still there. The puddle was empty. More disappointed than I let on to Ian, I came back inside as he went to check for himself. Within two seconds, he’d located the bird – clinging to the back between the wall and the unit. He looked a little better than when we’d initially left him, but not by much. We checked him over and couldn’t see any obvious fractures in his wings or legs. We simply couldn’t figure out why he’d hung around for so long. However it was obvious he wasn’t going to leave unless coerced. Realizing this, I took it upon myself to re-introduce Simon to the world. After the longest period of ‘Should I? Shouldn’t I?’ I eventually picked the little guy up and with the gentlest persuasion, dropped him off our balcony.

I was terrified that Simon would be too exhausted to fly, but he fly he did. I don’t think my heart could’ve handled the emotional turmoil if I’d killed him, but I would’ve had to have lived with my actions. Our excitement over for the night, I turned back inside and shot off a few emails. One of which went to Hassan – our tour guide that was to pick us up to venture out further into Morocco and eventually… the Sahara.

The night rolled on like it tends to do and after we’d gathered our belongings (with a thorough double-check thanks to ‘the incident’ in Casablanca) we zipped up our bags and headed down to the foyer to meet Hassan. Prior to leaving Australia, we’d booked the tour through the Sahara with Hassan’s company ‘Sahara Magic’. He’d been emailing me in the days prior to meeting him asking what room I was staying in at the ‘El Andalous’.This made me quite wary of him (why would you need to know a person’s room?) however all fears were laid to rest almost instantly upon meeting the guy. He stood about 5”10, with a shiny bald head and a pleasant smile. His dark skin held a collection of scars, and the longer we stayed with him, the more we noticed. He never told us about them and we never asked, though it did raise a few questions about his past.

He casually strolled outside, beckoning for us to follow him once all of the normal greetings were exchanged. He gave off a genuinely friendly vibe and we knew we were in good hands. We found the vehicle that would basically be our home for the next few days and I was incredibly surprised. It was a brand new Toyota Prado; it couldn’t have been more than a year old. I was expecting and almost hoping for an old rust-bucket with no air-conditioning and no suspension. I was not complaining with what I received.

We pulled out of Marrakesh, bidding it a very quick farewell while Hassan described our route for the next few days. On the first day, we’d travel east, through the mountains and stay somewhere within them that night. The next day we’d push on further south-east and nip into Algeria for a cheeky view of the Sahara where we’d camp. The day after that, we’d drive north until we hit Fes. Hassan seemed to have everything under control, so I sat back and let a pool of sweat accumulate at the base of my back.

Hassan wasn’t very chatty on day 1, asking us every now and then:

                ‘Matt-yoo. You OK?!’ to which I’d spring out of the coma I’d slipped into and shout an enthusiastic response. Satisfied, he’d ask Ian next.

                ‘Unn! You OK?!’ and Ian would reply in much the same way I did. We repeated this cycle basically the entire first day. Barely two hours into the journey, we’d already left Marrakesh far behind. Mountains simply rose out of the flat ground all around us and with skillful (if heart-stopping) expertise, Hassan guided us around the twists and turns now posed to us by the altitude. We pulled into a road side café for a spot of light lunch. It didn’t look much from the outside but the view from the rear of the shop was AMAZING. Behind the shop was an area to sit and enjoy your meal and drink in a breathtaking view. 

This was the first time (of many during our time together) it hit me that Hassan was REALLY good at his job. He’d found this random place on the recommendation of other tourists or locals and taken people there since. It was good for his business and obviously good for the café.

Sitting there wolfing down my cheese omelette, I couldn’t help but be stunned at where I’d found myself. Breakfast on a cliff. We were perched at the top of a valley and could see for miles and miles in either direction. A few cheeky photos later, and we were away again.

Hassan threw on some African-infused tunes and we phased out as the 4x4 soldiered on through the terrain which was rapidly changing. The higher we climbed, the different our surroundings became. At the base it was a lot greener, as that’s where the moisture would collect. The higher we got, the foliage lessened but we were treated to fantastic rock formations and little towns tucked away inside them. I couldn’t help but laugh at some of the towns. The mud buildings looked like they were yet to be exposed to civilization, except for the satellite dishes that adorned each and every roof. Might not have clean drinking water, but at least they could watch ‘The Bold and the Beautiful’ every afternoon.

It didn’t feel like we’d been travelling for very long at all, but we stopped again to check out another little store. Hassan guaranteed us that we’d find it interesting. It was a store that made and sold products using the oil of ‘Argan’ nuts. Hassan was particularly proud of this store due to the fact that a woman ran it, which he told us was quite impressive out in the Moroccan sticks.

It was dark inside as we entered, but our eyes soon adjusted and settled on a lady coming towards us with arms full of warm greetings and smiles. She was incredibly nice and showed us not only what they made with the nuts, but the process they go through to harvest the oil. 

We sat and listened to stories about grinding the nuts, I got to ‘help’ (I played with a stone contraption that was a mortar and pestle at heart) and before long she was showing us what the store sold. While we were perusing these, a lady from outside began wailing and moaning. Our gracious female host departed and promptly pointed the crying lady in a direction. I couldn’t understand what she was saying to the lady but the message was fairly clear:

Get your SHIT together!

To her credit, she did. The wailing ceased and she was back within minutes at the mortar and pestle, getting back to business. Ian and I bought a few small things to be polite, made our farewells and jumped back into the 4x4 where Hassan was waiting with a smile on his face.

                ‘She was beautiful, no?’ I had to agree. The lady had 90% of her body covered, but she had gorgeous eyes and seemed incredibly nice. Hassan was pleased with my response and promptly issued me a proposal.

                ‘You come to live here in Morocco and marry and come work for me.’ I told him I’d think about it.

The mountains began to spread out and the foliage began to thin slightly. The environment started hinting at a more arid landscape as we pulled once more into a car park a few hours later. We were treated to a few local merchants trying to pawn their wares, but more importantly, a fantastic vista. We were looking at a valley and in the middle sprouted a little island of sorts. On the island lay Ait Ben Haddou, a fortified city made of bricks and mud. It was oddly recognizable and strikingly beautiful. A young lad joined us in the car and Hassan informed us that now we’d seen the place from afar, we were going to see it up close and the kid (named Mohammed) would be our guide.

We followed Mohammed once Hassan had driven us closer. He took us through a dry river bed and led us up to the imposing walls. We found out they were made of little more than dirt, water, manure and hay. We began our trek up through the twisting stairs and he explained that while in the past this had been an important city, now it hosted two hotels and had been the setting of many movies. I knew now why the place looked so familiar – it’d been used in films like ‘Gladiator’ and ‘Prince of Persia’. 

We ducked into a small building where another teenage boy around the same age as Mohammed was creating works of art that were plastered all over the walls. He’d paint desert-themed images with vibrant colours, then hold the picture over a flame. The paper would darken, making the image stand out against the colours he’d chosen. It was awesome to watch.

We kept walking and soon we’d reached the top of the hill. Like Mohammed had been saying the entire way up, what lay at the top of the hill wasn’t that impressive. There was a small building with very little in the way of decoration or anything that made it stand out. The scenery however spoke a different story. We were treated to a 360° view of the valley and Mohammed pointed the direction we’d be going to reach the Sahara. First things first though, we needed lunch.

Mohammed guided us for what seemed like the longest time but twenty five minutes later, we were off the hill, out of Ait Ben Haddou and sitting in an awesome little restaurant chowing down on some pizza with a local flair. After we finished, we momentarily lost Hassan. Once we found him, we lost the 4 wheel drive. Wits gathered, we all sheepishly jumped into the vehicle and pushed on, bidding farewell to Mohammed.

We drove for hours, stopped for coffee and kept going. I saw my first and only few Moroccan rain drops when we got back in the car. Hassan seemed quite puzzled that I didn’t expect to see rain falling in North-Eastern Africa. Pushing on, Hassan took us back down through more valleys, stopping at a few impressive lookouts when he noticed them. Hassan (and we) were loosening up now and conversation was beginning to flow a little easier, though still a little fractured due to the language barrier. Hassan spoke amazing English however, so this problem barely ever came up. We were passing through what I thought was yet another random hillside town when Hassan came to what would be the final stop for the day.

                ‘This is where we stay tonight!’

The place was called ‘Auberge Chez Pierre’ and like most other things on the holiday thus far, completely defied expectations. I hadn’t fully understood the plan initially and thought that we’d be camping on the side of a mountain. I was ready for that. I was excited for that. When I saw where we’d ACTUALLY be staying, I nearly had an aneurism. (A good aneurism, not a bad one – if there IS such a thing.) The entire hotel was built on the side of the valley. To get to our room required scaling 5 or 6 staircases. On the way to our bunks for the night I passed a pool. A POOL! AT THE TOP OF A HOTEL ON THE SIDE OF A VALLEY WALL! I couldn’t believe this place. Once more, I felt incredibly lucky and not for the first time that trip – incredibly spoiled. We were left alone in our room by the hotel attendants who told us that dinner started at 8.30pm near the reception we’d walked past to get to our rooms. It was two seconds after that Ian and I were in the pool. 

The water was FREEZING but refreshing and had beautiful views of the valley running each way. The mountains that lay across from us were dotted with goats, rocks and a little goat herders hut. You couldn’t wipe the smile off my face if you tried. We picked ourselves out of the pool and lounged nearby until the sun had sufficiently warmed our bones. Two families joined us at this time; one German, one French. We decided to clean ourselves up for dinner and we ended up rejoining the lot of them when it was being served. It was a good thing we went down at the allocated time. Dinner wasn’t served from a menu. Lots of little ‘mystery dishes’ were brought out over the course of a few hours, each of them more delicious than the last. The sun had set long before the final course was taken away and two young lads sat down in front of us with African drums. Together, they proceeded to drum and sing long into the night. Ian and I left politely after watching, impressed, for half an hour. There’s nothing quite like drifting off to sleep to African drumming.

AND SO ENDS PART 9!!! And I'm just about to return to Australia... Huh... Ah well, stay tuned if you've liked this so far!!! 



Follow the link to part 10:
http://ponderingoblong.blogspot.com.au/2013/08/2013-world-trip-part-10-delayed-much.html