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