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