2013 World Trip Part 11

JUST A WORD OF ADVICE: THE FIRST PART OF THIS JOURNAL IS PRETTY WORDY WITH NO PICS TO BREAK IT UP. WE HATED FES THAT MUCH, WE TOOK AS LITTLE PHOTOS AS POSSIBLE. STICK WITH IT THOUGH. THERE'S A GOOD AUDIENCE.

The next day we’d made up our minds before we even left our beds. Another write-off day. When we’d researched the city the day before, there was nothing that really interested us enough to waste time, money and effort getting to. We were fed up with the hostile people and the people trying to threaten us if we didn’t buy exactly what they were selling. We searched once more for places of interest and found ‘Jardin Jnan Sbil’ – a garden that was around 5km away from the hotel. After searching ‘Trip Advisor’ for advice, we got the impression that the gardens were a quiet, well-kept area. Considering that was the complete opposite of what we’d seen in Fes thus far, we decided to make it a must-see destination. But first, we had to fill our bellies. We didn’t want to risk pissing off the locals by visiting one of their restaurants so we decided to spite them by visiting a place made FOR lazy Caucasians BY lazy Caucasians. McDonalds.

We made the half-hour trek to the fast-food restaurant and risked our lives by crossing the roads to get access to the infamous ‘Golden Arches’. Huffing and panting, we pushed through the doors. The place was packed. We waded through the sea of irritable Moroccans who’d been made even more so by the army of children that had invaded the building. Ian ordered first and fought his way valiantly through the crowd to find a table for us. While I was being served, an angry woman behind me began mouthing off to the lady behind the counter for not serving her fast enough. The employee simply rolled her eyes in response. I couldn’t help but feel that given that there were more people inside McDonalds than out, she was doing a stellar job. Once I’d received my meal, I headed in the direction I saw Ian go last. He was nowhere to be seen. The only thing I could see were hundreds of pairs of angry, judgmental, Moroccan eyes glaring back at me. Up until then, I didn’t believe it was possible to lose a person that was so pale he was almost a walking beacon, but somehow I’d managed to do just that. After a few awkward moments dodging children as if they were ballistic missiles, I saw the mess of blonde hair that belonged to Ian and launched at it.

As I sat down, an elderly couple staggered past us, obviously searching for seats themselves. By that stage, I honestly thought they were more likely to throw the chair at me than be appreciative if I gave mine up, so I buried my face in my food. It was horrible, but that was to be expected. After checking our bearings on the map, we decided to make the trek to the gardens we’d spied before. We fought our way to the exit. As soon as our butts had left the seats, an angry pack of people were falling over each other to get to them. We pushed our way back out into the heat before the madness descended into a full-blown riot.

The trip to where the map said the gardens were was actually quite simple; a ‘straight-right-straight’ scenario. It was the distance and timing we’d misjudged. Once again, we found ourselves walking in direct sunlight during the hottest part of the day with absolutely no shade to take refuge in and not a cloud in the sky. The sun spared no mercy on us, yet on we walked. We were walking past a compound with tall, mud brick walls. Certain bricks had been left out to create a lattice-like effect along the length of the wall and interestingly enough, the local birds had taken a liking to them. As we walked past them, we saw that many birds had turned them into nests and were poking their heads out to the street, keeping an eye on things. We’d been walking for half an hour when ahead of us two young boys – neither of which would have been older than 13 – approached us.

                ‘Look out,’ I said. ‘Hoodlums.’ It was meant as a joke, but almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth, the boys suddenly veered over to the wall and began grabbing at a bird that had nested there. The poor thing obviously put up a good fight, scratching and nipping the little thugs, because they pulled their hands away a few times shaking them in pain. The fight was in vain however, as before long one of the kids had it in his hand. Ian and I watched in complete disbelief as the little hell-spawn took the poor bird in back over to the road and readied his hand to throw it. He timed it perfectly; with all his might he launched his feathered victim directly into the path of an oncoming car. It had no time to react and fly away. It was struck by the car and run over. Disgusted, we walked past the two boys as they laughed while the bird used its last few seconds of life to flap around on the road in an attempt to escape. Ian later remarked that that one moment basically undid the care we’d taken of our friend Simon earlier in Marrakesh and I couldn’t help but agree.

Our minds had been made up about Fes since we’d left Hassan, and incidents such as the one we were walking away from weren’t helping. Fes was without a doubt the worst place we’d visited up until that point and would end up being the worst place we visited over the duration of the trip. It became the standard that we judged other cities by:

                ‘At least it isn’t Fes.’

We continued to walk for another forty minutes but now we had absolutely no interest in seeing the gardens, regardless of how peaceful or tranquil they were. I didn’t care if the gardens held the fountain of youth, I just wanted more than anything to leave that city. We came to an intersection and checked the map again. According to the map, all we had to do was follow the road to our right and we’d be there. We did just that and found ourselves not in a relaxing garden, but instead in a closed off community. We couldn’t have stood out any more unless we’d had blinking lights and fireworks tied to us and we drew stares from every angle. I couldn’t stand it anymore.

                ‘Right! That’s it! Fuck it! Let’s go back to the hotel!’ Ian wearily agreed. I have two thoughts about that moment. Either:

1.       We were literally right around the corner from the gardens or

2.       They simply didn’t exist at all.

In any case, we were hot, tired and fed up with the disgusting displays we’d seen from people of all ages in the city. We wanted to hole up in the security and solace of our cool hotel room and wait out the time until we made our escape via train to Rabat the next morning. We made our way back out to the road we’d walked along and made the decision to take a taxi back to the hotel. The walk back wouldn’t have killed us, but we weren’t in the mood to wander around in 50°C heat for a further hour and a half. We crossed the road and began to attempt to hail a taxi as it zipped past. Doing so apparently caught a lonely man’s attention and he ran across the road to join us. I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the road, trying hard not to lose my temper with the man as he pestered us to come back to his house to ‘drink tea and play music’. He was relentless. I would have been impressive had I not been so pissed off at the time; that the man had the energy he did to annoy us in that heat. We finally managed to hail a cab and before we could say or do anything, the man had jumped in the front passenger seat and waved at us emphatically to get into the car with him. Ian and I rolled eyes in unison and slowly got in.

We told the driver to take us to the hotel and our new friend did his best to make conversation. He asked us where we were from and made a guess that it was America. We were in no mood to divulge attention to the parasite that had leeched onto us and instead we just agreed. Soon, his eyes fell onto Ian’s wrist bands. He wanted one. His logic was sound; Ian had two so therefore, he could have one. When it became clear that simply saying no to the man wasn’t going to work, I made up some half-hearted story about how one was for Ian and he was taking one back for his Mum. For some reason, this worked and for the briefest of moments, the man shut his mouth. We arrived at the hotel and pooled together whatever loose change we could find in our pockets to pay. Of course, this set off our new friend’s verbal diarrhoea once more and he now started asking for money. We dropped what coins we had into the taxi driver’s hand and let the two of them duke it out over the difference.

We just about ran into the hotel to escape the man – he’d already invited himself in to use the hotel’s pool on our behalf. It was only after we’d made sure that he hadn’t followed us as we locked the door to our hotel room that I felt like we could really relax. Very little was said between the two of us for the next few hours as we both let our tempers (and temperatures) settle. We’d barely been out of the hotel for a few hours and I’d nearly exploded. I think it was safe to say we wouldn’t be returning to Fes any time soon. We dined at the hotel’s restaurant that night; it was nothing special but the staff were polite. For that reason alone, it was the best place we visited the entire time we were in Fes.

The next morning we leisurely made our way to the train station with plenty of time to spare – but not so much that we made ourselves prey to the vultures that lurked around, picking out tourists. We’d wisely made the choice to travel first class this time and save ourselves another ordeal like the one from Casablanca to Marrakesh. The trip to Rabat was meant to last 4 hours so I most likely would have thrown an old lady from her seat than have stood in a corridor of a crowded train again. I wasn’t expecting much from Morocco’s version of ‘First Class’, especially not on rails but I was surprised when we found ourselves in a neat, spacious cabin with a few other quite characters. I used the journey to get back to the arduous business of training my Pokemon because if I didn’t do it, quite frankly no-one would. I dozed in patches as we raced through Morocco toward the capital city. I was happier with every metre we were further from Fes, but I grew equally more anxious with the ordeals that Rabat would bring.

I strained my eyes for a sign I could understand as the train began to slow a few hours later. I searched anywhere for a sign we’d reached Rabat to silence my hidden anxieties about accidentally getting off in the wrong city and being potentially stranded. I didn’t voice these opinions with Ian because we were stressed enough already. A cool wave of calm washed over me as I saw what I was looking for, but this was instantly replaced with the morbid feeling of what was to come. Again it hit me how disappointed I was with this part of the trip. That being said, it was only the cities that had actually cast a negative light on Morocco for us. The country (what little we’d seen) was incredible – full of friendly people and gorgeous scenery. I gathered my things and prepared for the inevitable hostility we were bound to face in Rabat but before we exposed ourselves to that, we had other urgent issues to attend to: coffee.

The terminal was actually incredibly clean and tidy, a stark contrast from most other buildings we’d seen in the Moroccan cities. It threw us for a second, the notion of civility after arriving from Fes. It wasn’t long until that we were seated in a café, sipping our coffees and munching on croissants that we’d become accustomed to on the journey. With our stomachs lined, we headed first for the ticket counter to purchase our train ticket to Tangier the next day and then to an ATM to restock our dwindling cash reserves. After I’d made my withdrawal, Ian made one wrong key-stroke at the machine which annoyed a man behind us to no end. So much so, he actually walked us through the intricacies of the ATM regardless of how hard we tried to explain to the man that we actually did understand these complex mish-mashes of technology and electricity. Wallets full, we made our way outside with our ‘don’t-fuck-with-us’ tourist game faces on. Two steps out of the building, we realized we could have left those constipated expressions back inside. The city – or at least our immediate surroundings – were beautiful. Well-manicured gardens, a substantial lack of people yelling at each other; it was all a bit overwhelming. We were guided – rather than pushed – towards a genuinely friendly taxi driver who was probably the last honest person in Morocco.

The broken English conversation stopped and started as it tended to do; the man spoke far better French than English and lapsed into it frequently, leaving us to smile and nod knowingly. I was incredibly surprised to see that the taxi had a meter – the first I’d seen in the country. It was strange, feeling happy to see a taxi meter, but I think we were just happy to see a little guarantee we wouldn’t be ripped off. The journey was short, only taking 5 minutes during which the driver tried his best to point out the interesting parts of the city. We ended up tipping the smiling man which if his reaction was anything to go by – made his day, if not his entire LIFE. We headed inside the hotel and booked in, filling out the usual forms. Things started getting weird when the lady behind the desk took our passports and told us they’d bring them back up to our rooms; that we could head straight up.

                ‘Umm… Why?’ I asked skeptically. She offered some hasty explanation that really didn’t make much sense so Ian and I decided we’d wait in the lobby until she’d finished whatever scam she was running. Five minutes later our precious, expensive identification booklets were back in our hands and we were taken up to our room by one of the staff members. I didn’t like it when they took my bag – not because I didn’t trust them with my things (which, if I’m being honest, I really didn’t) but because they were HEAVY. I didn’t realize that clothes could BE so heavy. I felt bad for these people who must have expected to be able to whisk our baggage away only to struggle the entire journey with our 20kg monstrosities. After we’d made it to the room, our assistant smiled widely at us despite his arms hanging limply at his sides and wheezing as if his lungs were going to fall out of his chest. He left the room when I tipped him, most likely to collapse somewhere due to exhaustion. It was only when the door closed that I risked jinxing the whole situation.

                ‘This place…’ I began hesitantly. ‘It’s really not that bad!’ The room was tidy and HUGE, we had a view down one of Rabat’s busy roads next to the old medina and we’d made it from the train station to the hotel without being hassled once. Things were looking up. We didn’t want to risk another ‘Marrakesh’ scenario so we almost instantly decided to avoid the medina directly opposite the hotel. We collapsed onto our beds and drew out a brief plan for the day. It was already midday, so we were slightly limited with what we’d be able to see and do – we were leaving the next day. We settled on seeing the Hassan Tower which wasn’t far from where we were staying. We packed lightly – something we were only just learning to do – and left the hotel. As we walked, I couldn’t help but notice the stares that we WEREN’T drawing from everyone. For once in Morocco, nobody seemed to care that two Caucasian blokes DARED visit their country. It was refreshing enough to let our guards down a little and not feel threatened.

The trip took about twenty minutes by foot and wasn’t too confusing (we were able to follow the ‘straight-right-straight’ directions we’d laid out earlier). We saw the Tower and from afar, I couldn’t help but recognize the similarities it held with a brick stood up on its end. This tower was far less flamboyant, less ornate than other towers we’d seen throughout Morocco, but it was more imposing, more intimidating than the rest. It was surrounded by a garden that shocked us again – it was incredibly well designed and well kept.   

We walked through the gates being sure to avoid taking photos of the ‘guards’ at the entrance – they were two men dressed in silly outfits, they didn’t look tactically equipped to even guard a banana – lest we be pestered by them for ‘donations’.

Rising from the ground around the temple were unfinished columns of circular stones stacked on top of each other. 

The story goes that the tower (or minaret) was intended to be the world’s largest when construction began way back in 1195. The workers all took a permanent lunch break in 1199 when the Sultan Yaqub al-Mansur was drawn off the mortal coil. Regardless, the area still looked pretty impressive. Tourists like us were littered throughout the area and we caught sight of a guy probably no older than 18 pulling off some impressive break dance moves. He was throwing himself into the air and performing near-impossible spins and catching himself right-way-up just at the last minute. 

Once our photos had been taken, the awe wore off and we headed back in the direction of our hotel to see what else Rabat had to offer. We wandered back to the building and decided to take a random road and see what happened. We found ourselves in a coffee house that was dark inside but served delicious caffeinated beverages so I let it slide. It was obviously a place for the local men to seek refuge from whatever they wanted so as soon as we’d finished our drinks we were out the door so we didn’t disturb the peace too much. Almost directly opposite the shop was a park which we wandered through for no other reason than we just wanted to kill some time in Rabat. It was nice to be able to walk around and NOT be hassled every five seconds by anyone. The park wasn’t overly impressive; its lawns lay unkempt and overgrown, the playground rusting, but the locals didn’t seem to mind. The atmosphere was refreshingly kind and calm despite the fact that we saw police pull up to evict a person who’d set up a stall at the park’s entrance. We walked with no particular destination in mind and it was only when we decided to walk under a steel-framed walkway that---

                *WHACK!*

---my head connected with said steel frame with such force I almost knocked my sunglasses off my head and I saw stars. I hadn’t been looking where I was going and as such, my depth perception had failed me bitterly (and painfully). The crunch of my skull connecting with the unforgiving steel sounded absolutely sickening to me and judging by the look of sheer horror on Ian’s face, it sounded the same if not worse to him.

Dazed, I staggered back to the hotel. Ian accompanied me but with a normal, steady gait having been clever enough to avoid cranial injuries on our walk. Our stomachs soon guided us to a nearby hamburger joint where we wolfed down some of the most delicious chicken burgers and hot chips that we’d had in a LONG time. Sated for the time being, we went back to the room to organise the rest of our travels.

Whilst catching up with Paul all the way back in Marrakesh, he’d warned us about Tangier. He’d told us that in the three months he’d spent travelling up to that point that the worst place he’d visited was Tangier and he’d only been there for around an hour or two. At that point we hadn’t really been exposed to how horrible and wearing Moroccan cities could be so we didn’t heed his warning. It wasn’t until the ‘Fes’ experience that we really started getting the idea of what he’d been saying. If it was worse than Fes – which if the warnings all over the internet had been saying were true – then we weren’t interested in staying any longer there than absolutely necessary. This annoyed me to no end because we’d actually booked to stay there for two nights. The only reason I’d made us do this was because I’d seen Jason Bourne whip up a frenzy in Tangier in ‘The Bourne Ultimatum’ and wanted to be where he’d been if for no other reason than to say I’d done it. Now, older and wiser, I just didn’t care. We sent a few emails back and forth to our saviors – Andrea Mirra and the ladies at Montina Travel – and after a few mouse clicks we were no longer staying in Tangier, we would be staying in Gibraltar, just south of Spain.

It was dark by the time we’d finished messing with our travel details and our stomachs started rumbling again.

                ‘Pizza.’ They called. ‘Bring us pizza.’ So we set out in search of what our stomachs yearned. We found a place right next to the hotel and due to the fact that it was actually 10pm which was when the store closed, kept the place open for longer than it needed to be whilst they cooked us what were in the end, fabulous pizzas. To add insult to injury, we only had large bills of Dirham, so the staff had to spend even longer than necessary trying to give us the right amount of change back. To make it even WORSE we forgot to tip them so we must have come off as the biggest dicks of all time. Regardless, we took our fresh pizzas back to our room where we settled into our beds where we ate, drank and watched a film  that should be essential viewing for everyone: ‘Pokemon 3: The Movie – Spell of the Unown’. 

AND THAT'S ANOTHER ONE DOWN! The journals are still coming, if slightly delayed. And by slightly, I mean heaps. I WILL finish them, I promise. If not for the sole, selfish reason that I REALLY want to write down as much as I can remember NOW so that FUTURE me can read this again and go 'Huh. Yeah that DID happen.'

As always, hope you enjoyed. Until next time...

Follow the link to Part 12: http://ponderingoblong.blogspot.com.au/2013/11/2013-world-trip-part-12-yes-journals.html

2013 World Trip Part 10 (Delayed much?)

Breakfast the following morning was served with an incredible view of the valley. Hassan was very liberal with our schedule, informing us that we really didn’t have to be anywhere by any particular time that day. As such, we were back in the pool straight after eating which – if I’m not mistaken – is exactly what the experts say to do. After packing our belongings and shoving them into the back of the Prado, we settled the bill, bade farewell to the man who ran the incredible hotel – also named Hassan – and took off.

We wound our way back the way we’d come the day before. I wasn’t opposed to the backtracking – the scenery was beautiful. For the most part, we were at the bottom of the valley as we travelled so the road was skirted by thick green foliage and peppered with all kinds of flowers. The drive was a lot longer than Hassan gave it credit for and I began to wonder if taking our time that morning was indeed a wise idea after all. Hassan went through his usual practice of asking how we were every twenty minutes and I began to feel a little bad that I couldn’t give him a different answer than ‘sweaty’ each time. As we cruised by breath-taking vistas, Hassan explained that his plan for the day was to visit a gorge for an hour, travel to his home town and then finally push on out to the Sahara. We couldn’t argue, nor did we want to (it would be counter-productive seeing as it was what we’d paid for) and drank in the scenery as we enjoyed the ride.

The 4x4 stopped a few hours later in a car park skirted with sheer rock faces and Hassan informed us that we’d reached the gorge. He let us out of the vehicle and told us that he would meet us in an hour and to basically get lost until then. Heeding his words, we decided to explore the area. The Prado drove away from us on a road that ran alongside a bubbling, shallow creek. Around us were cliffs that reached up towards the sky and bathed us from the midday sun. We headed in the direction that Hassan had come and saw vendors lining the road selling more trinkets made by the local people of wherever. We followed the road as it seemed to disappear into the gorge and found Hassan sitting in the stream, smoking. Acknowledging this as completely normal Moroccan behavior, we moved on.

Ian and I followed the road through the gorge and out into the world again on the other side. The difference in heat was incredible. It was nice and cool in the shade of the gorge; stepping out into direct sunlight again was a harsh reminder that it existed. We followed the road discussing the big topics in life: if Pokemon existed in real life, who would be your team of 6 and why? We continued both along the road and with the conversation for longer than we should have before we were forced to acknowledge two other people on the road walking in our direction. Being the only four people on the road at that time, we stopped for a chat. There was a man and a woman; Hassan – of course he was – and Rose. Rose was a middle aged woman from the UK and had been travelling around Morocco for six months. She had been there before and it was by far her longest stay there. Rose looked like she’d been out in the sun for a bit too long and Mohammed was a bit too enthusiastic about the fact that we were Australian, so we bid them farewell and kept walking. We ignored their warning that there was really nothing to see in the direction we were headed and half an hour later, realized they were right. It was around that time that Hassan raced up to us in his shiny, black Toyota Prado and we realized just how long we’d been gone.

                ‘Where WERE you?!’ began Hassan like an angry parent. ‘I thought you lost! You were gone too long! I asked everyone!’

                 ‘Sorry man!’ I shrugged. ‘There’s only really one way to go and you SAID to go and explore so…’

                ‘Yes I said that, but you were gone so long!’

Sheepishly, we clambered back into the Prado and raced off to have lunch. As was Hassan’s style, we found a cool, out of the way place dug into the hills. We dined in faux luxury in a tent made of blankets and decorated with cushions and lounges. There we stayed for at least an hour before a smell of marijuana wafted past our noses from inside and Hassan stumbled out to tell us it was time to go. We were making the final push to the Sahara.

The drive was long, I’m not gonna lie. Not a great deal happened, with the exception of one small detour. We found ourselves in a small town called Rissani. As we approached the outskirts, Hassan humbly told us this was his home town. Originally, he’d been born in Fes, but had moved here later in life. He asked us if we’d like to meet his family. And that is how, half an hour later, Ian and I found ourselves sharing tea and nuts with Hassan’s family – none of whom spoke any English.

We sat on the cold, concrete floor of his family’s house, sipping our tea and trying to have a conversation through universal terms and large, exuberant hand gestures, but eventually gave up. One after the other, we all ended up watching Hassan’s new born nephew giggle and squirm in his mother’s arms. It was the most awesome moment, all finding a mutual connection through this child despite the language and cultural barriers. A few cups later, we said our goodbyes and headed back out towards the Sahara once again. It probably meant nothing to Hassan, but I felt honored that he invited total strangers into his own house – if even only for half an hour.

The buildings became fewer and fewer and before long, we turned off the bitumen completely. It was then we had our first glimpse at a dune, towering over the land in the distance. A few signs littered around our immediate area notified us that not only were we more in Algeria now than we were in Morocco, but that we were also on the official Paris Dakar Rally track. That explained why it was so incredibly shit to drive on. About three kilometers inland, we came upon a small, white car. It was the kind of car I imagine they’d cram clowns into in those weird circus acts. Three men stood around the car, scratching their heads. We pulled over and Hassan stepped out to investigate. Paranoid Matt came out and told Ian all about how we were obviously going to be kidnapped, but soon Hassan returned.

                ‘Stupid people,’ he muttered as he collected a few bottles of water from the rear of the car. ‘They come out HERE in THAT car and are surprised when it breaks down!’ And with that he trotted off to give the men the water. He returned, shaking his head.

                ‘I give them water. A man says he is calling his brother to pick them up. Stupid people. I have done all I can do.’ And with a quick wave, we left the men to their fate. We never saw them – or their car – again. Probably because they got picked up by that man’s brother. The dunes grew closer and soon we were racing along beside them. The sun had begun to set as we pulled in at a rather flash looking hotel given that we were right next to the freaking Sahara in the middle of nowhere. We were introduced to our new guide – Mohammed (surprise) and our new travel companions.

The two camels looked positively thrilled that they would be carrying us through the dunes and to compensate them, we gave them names. As I’d named a lizard in Cambodia (Gary) and the bird in Morocco (Simon), I thought it only appropriate that Ian name these two wonderful beasts. We left Hassan at the hotel for the night as Mohammed led Kenneth, Beatrice, Ian and I into the swirling dunes.

A harsh wind kicked up and I was glad that we’d acquired turbans en route. The sand peppered any exposed skin like a thousand invisible needles – though I know it could have been a lot worse. The camels plodded along at a steady pace and Mohammed stopped every now and then to copy Hassan’s practice of asking us if we were alright. I'm not sure what he would have done if we weren’t. After what felt like twenty minutes but in actual fact was close to an hour, we crested a dune and caught sight of the group of tents we’d be staying in that night.

We dismounted the camels and left them to their own devices and walked off to explore the surrounds. The sun was virtually non-existent, having disappeared behind the wall of sand kicked up by the wind long ago. What was left was a murky, grey ambient light. Hassan’s warning rang in our heads as the two of us explored the dunes – we were not to get so far away that we couldn’t see the camp. To do so could mean death. It really wasn’t long until nearly all light was gone and we understood just how easy it was to get turned around out there. We made friends with some nearby goats who ran off in response and headed back to camp. Within minutes of us plonking our sandy butts back in our tent, Mohammed brought in a feast of tagine chicken, bread and melon for desert. It was incredible; here we were in the middle of the Sahara and yet we were eating like kings. Dinner had barely touched the sides of my stomach before sleep beckoned. I crawled onto my mattress and drifted off to the sound of wind angrily shaking the tent only to be woken a few hours later by Mohammed. He talked in his sleep. That’s weird enough in English. In Arabic it’s just damn scary. Plus he was laughing. Convinced I was going to be killed by the clearly insane, sleeping Mohammed, I drifted back to sleep.

I lurched back to reality a few hours later, alive and well. Mohammed was gone. Ian wasn’t so that was good. We still had all our organs, so that was even better. We stumbled out into the early morning sunlight – after checking my watch, I found the time only to be nudging the 7.30am mark. Mohammed burst out of a tent clapping his hands and rushing us to get packed.

                ‘We go! We go!’ And he stumbled over to Beatty and Ken to prepare for the wander back to base. Ian and I were still wiping the dirt from our eyes before we realized that we were back on the four-legged beasties and hobbling over the sand dunes. It was only then that we truly saw the hulking natural behemoths in their full glory. On the journey into the dunes the wind had been kicking up the sand, so we were more interested with preserving our pretty little faces than taking in the scenery. Now, the wind had blown itself out and we were able to take it all in. 

The hour long trip back was almost completely silent as Ian and I drank it all in. Beatty slowly bobbed over the sand with Ken in hot pursuit – more due to the fact that he was tied to Beatty’s ass than any competitive notion. The dunes began to dissolve away under the feet of the camels and soon, the shiny Prado was in sight again. Once we’d dismounted at the hotel, we made a point to buy some trinkets Mohammed had laid out for us. He said he had made them all and I wasn’t about to argue that point when he’d just guided us through an incredible experience, regardless of the fact that he was selling Ian a rock. I didn’t know Mohammed could make rocks.

Hassan came from nowhere and directed us to one of the empty rooms of the hotel for us to shower and freshen up. I couldn’t believe that after two days of driving our stinking carcasses around Morocco, he wanted us clean now. Surely he would have adapted to our stench by then. Regardless, we obliged and after filling our bellies with a mixture of yoghurt, bread and coffee, we sped off in the Prado in the direction we’d originally come. Hassan asked us with disinterest how our night was and we gave the obligatory answers. It just so happened that those answers were the truth – we had both loved our night ‘camping’ in the Sahara. Hassan asked us incredibly politely if we would be able to pick his cousin up and take him to Fes, to which we agreed. He had been studying English for a media course and was due for exams. The man was incredibly friendly and kept Hassan entertained with conversation in his own language where we could not, so everybody was happy.

Hassan had travelled the roads from the Sahara to Fes many times so we felt safe knowing that one way or another, we should potentially make it there. En route, we asked about the Arabic phrases that adorned the hillsides. At some stage, people around the country had painted rocks white, lugged them up hills and arranged them into many different arrangements that obviously meant different things. Driving past them, I thought to myself how they sort of looked like Moroccan ‘Hollywood’ signs. Hassan’s cousin answered that they might all be different, but they shared similar messages.

                ‘Usually,’ he began, ‘they mean “God, King and Country”. God is the most important, so that is always written first. Following that is usually King and Country, but God is always first.’

We drove for a few hours before pulling in to a small town that looked like it had evolved from a pit stop. There were little more than a few buildings along the roadside and opposite the town were more hillside Arabic messages. They were following us. While Hassan went to get petrol for the mighty Prado, his cousin took us over to a butcher.

                ‘We will try “Kofta”.’ he told us. ‘It is meat, is good. We will get maybe one kilo.’ I had no idea what this was, but in the spirit of trying new things I went along with it. I wandered off to explore the area while Ian stayed to watch the Kofta get prepared. He later told me they selected a bit of meat from the butcher who later ground it up and mixed it with herbs, spices and egg. Then the butcher/ cook took that mixture and made one large, solid patty on a large tray (about the size of an A4 cooling rack if that makes any sense) and placed the mass of meat above an open flame to let it sizzle for a while. When it was brought over to us, it was served with the local bread that accompanied every meal in Morocco, onion and tomato. The deal was that you tore off a chunk of the bread and pinched together a chunk of the large beef patty, along with the vegetables. It was delicious. I cannot DESCRIBE how delicious it was. Out of all the meals we had overseas, that is certainly one that still stands out in my mind. It was so simple but mind-blowingly good. Having been rejoined by Hassan, the four of us polished off the Kofta in no time and soon, we were back on the road.

The scenery changed countless times as we passed through the country. The barren rocky hills were eventually replaced with fertile, green, grassy valleys inhabited by nomadic farmers which in turn was replaced by an incredibly well-kept, French-looking town. Hassan explained that this place was used by the very rich folk of Europe and America as a summer vacation spot. The area – pretty though it was – didn’t really appeal to me. It was TOO manicured, TOO fake and after travelling around the country and seeing what the rest looked like, it just seemed completely out of place.

Later, Hassan guided the Toyota through a lush cedar forest and he told us that we weren’t far from Fes. I was slightly surprised when he pulled the car over to stop then, thinking that unless Fes was a city made up entirely of tree houses, we hadn’t yet reached our destination. Hassan simply gave a shrug.

                ‘Monkeys.’ Like that explained everything. We came to a stop and Hassan pointed in the direction of a cluster of other cars.

                ‘Monkeys.’ Right. Good. Monkeys.

We’d barely made it ten metres from the car when a blur of legs and fur darted from the grass we were walking through and launched itself into a nearby tree.

                ‘Huh!’ I scoffed. ‘Monkey!’ I have no idea – and still don’t to this day – why I was surprised by this. Hassan had given us fair warning. The little monkey was keeping a close eye on our movements. It was fair enough too. We were shifty characters. We only spent a few minutes walking through the area finding scores of monkeys – young and old – playing on the ground and then bouncing up into the trees with relative ease. After harassing them with our video cameras for a little while, we waved goodbye to the monkeys and returned – disheartened – to the 4x4. The monkeys had not waved in return.

It was around half an hour later we hit the outskirts of Fes and I instantly remembered that the cities of Morocco remained my least favourite parts of the country. The suicidal traffic returned with gusto; people on motorbikes darting between cars with reckless disregard for their own lives, hatchbacks playing ‘chicken’ with buses, it was vehicular insanity. Hassan chuckled and slowly made his way further into the city, satisfied with the knowledge that if anyone hit his Toyota, they’d come off worse than we would simply due to the Prado being substantially larger than most of the other vehicles on the roads.

We pulled up at the front of our hotel for our stay in Fes and with more reluctance than either Ian or I realized, bid farewell to our guide for the last three days and his cousin. Our time with Hassan had been incredible and we were actually slightly sad to see him go. Hassan however had places to be and took off into the traffic basically as soon as we’d taken our things out of the car. We hadn’t even made it through the gate of the hotel (conveniently situated directly opposite the train station we’d need in a few days) before we were harassed by the locals. If what they were saying was anything to go by, they were all incredibly concerned with our holiday and only wished the best for us. They were offering everything from tours to women and anything in between and they were PERSISTANT. Tempers rising, we darted inside the hotel.

After checking in, we made our way to our room. The key jiggled in the lock and we crossed the threshold, eager to check out our new home for the next few days.

‘Um…’ It became glaringly apparent that there was something missing in the room, something essential. ‘Uhh… ok? You stay here,’ I told Ian. ‘I’ll go downstairs and talk to the concierge.’ Leaving my things with Ian, I returned to the front desk where the tubby concierge was having the longest conversation in history. Three years later, he managed to find time in his busy schedule and decided to acknowledge me.

                ‘Yes?’ he inquired, obviously disinterestedly.

                ‘Yeah man, we just checked in---’ I started before being interrupted.

                ‘Yes, I know. I was here.’ Said the man, accentuating his sentence with a well-practiced roll of his eyes.

                ‘---very good. We’ve just got up to the room and um… yeah, there’s no bed? So uh… could we… have one?’ The man lurched back in his chair like I’d slapped him. A satisfying look of confusion and horror was painted on his face for a moment before he regained his composure and began fumbling around with the clutter on his desk. After poking at seemingly random objects for a while, he produced two new keys and announced that we were to check into a different room. I returned to Ian, collected my things and took one look at the dusty area where a bed had once been. The linen lay sadly discarded in the corner. We high-tailed it upstairs and found our new room. We were satisfied to see that this one came fully furnished and began planning our stay as was our routine now.

We decided that first; we would head to the train station and get the tickets for our trip to Rabat, the capital of Morocco. Following that, we’d head back to the hotel and basically write off the rest of the day, having seen nothing that particularly piqued our interest on the journey into Fes. I didn’t particularly trust the staff at the hotel and decided to place the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door as we left. Not finding one however, I realized I had to visit my friend at the front desk to get this problem fixed as well. He was positively thrilled to see me again and once I’d explained the situation, he called over a security guard standing nearby and waved us both away as though he’d solved the problem. The guard then escorted me back to my room as he didn’t seem to understand any English. He used his insightful detective skills to decipher the incoherent babble that flowed from my mouth as I jabbed at the nude door handle before zipping off, never to be seen again. When we stepped back out into the corridor, a brand new sign was hanging from the handle. I left a polite message for the staff in our room should they misunderstand the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door and with that, we made our way to the station.

As soon as we stepped outside, we were pounced on once more by the incredibly concerned locals. They hadn’t forgotten us it seemed and they’d come up with new specials just for us! Honoured, we politely told them we’d think long and hard about the new bargains they’d presented us with and would come up with an answer at a later date. The train station was actually quite beautiful with a giant, ornate, arched entrance surrounded with floral mosaics. It was an interesting architectural blend of old-meeting-new. We saw a ticket machine with no-one around and made our way straight for it. That must have been the sign that everyone had been waiting for and within seconds, ten or twelve people swarmed to the area. I politely took my place in the queue but it wasn’t long before I realized that queues in Morocco were simply ideas and not instigated in any way. After a few minutes of fighting to maintain my position, I decided I’d make my way over to the ticket office and try my luck there. We made our way around the maze-like line and eventually were called to talk to the clerk. We’d barely told the guy behind the desk before a man shoved me out of the way and began telling the man we were talking to where he’d like to go. Grabbing the man by the shirt, I shoved him back and growled at him through gritted teeth:

                ‘NO.’ I pointed at him, so he knew I meant business. I’m fairly sure his look of anger was disguising his fear. I was furious. ‘WE were here first mate, so you can FUCK OFF back to the line.’ It was then that I realized he was accompanied by a few of his friends. I was faced with the very real prospect that I was about to get in a fight in a train station in the middle of Morocco. The man began yelling Arabic babble at both me and the clerk behind the desk who – to his credit – explained to the man that Ian and I had been talking to him first and that he’d have to wait. This only aggravated the guy further. His eyes were full of nothing but disgust for me and I couldn’t help but notice his body language was throwing out a superiority vibe. He must have been thinking something like how dare we be served before him, being tourists – Caucasian ones at that. At that point I very honestly didn’t care if the situation crumbled into a fist fight – having never been in one before. The people in the cities of Morocco were hostile, arrogant and had been pissing me off since I arrived. If the guy wanted a fight, I’d happily oblige. However, the ‘security guard’ decided he’d better do the job he’d been hired to do and lazily intervened. He guided the man and his friends back to the queue and we were left to book our tickets to Rabat. The clerk offered us an apologetic shrug and we made sure to get out of the station as quickly as possible before any further hostilities arose.

From the train station, we decided to stock up on ‘groceries’ (water, chocolate, chips) and made a quick detour to some shops before running back to our room. By that stage, my tolerance with being persistently pestered by the locals was wearing quite thin. Honestly, up until that point, I’d thought that I was a fairly tolerant guy but I guess I’d taken for granted things like personal space and manners. The cities of Morocco had provided quite an eye-opening experience.

I can’t remember much more from that day apart from heading downstairs a little later for dinner. We thought we’d risk venturing out once more to see what kind of restaurants Fes had to offer in our immediate vicinity. It turned out that we were in the wrong place for fine dining so we found the place with the most understandable menu and where the staff didn’t look like they were going to murder us immediately. We tucked into a mean chicken tagine and some of the best hot chips we’d had in Morocco. After some manky-looking feral cats tried to guilt some food out of us, we made our exit and retired to the safety of the hotel room. We watched a few thrilling episodes of ‘Avatar: The Last Airbender’ before our bodies told us that it was time that we switched off and recharged.

ANOTHER INSTALLMENT COMPLETE! It was a long'un I know, but I'm not writing as much as I used to. Also, I'm home now. I'll try my pretties! I'll try!!

Follow this link to Part 11: http://ponderingoblong.blogspot.com.au/2013/08/2013-world-trip-part-11.html