Fez - MOROCCO
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 Yet again the loud Arabic sounds of the Medina awoke me along with the Spaniard or Moroccan that passed our door spitting our monstrous loogies. Hotel Cascade isn't for the faint-hearted and we emerged wondering if we had picked up some horrid disease from its primitive selection of washrooms. This morning we entered the medina with local knowledge and headed to the haberdashery stalls to obtain a present for Dave's mum. Although his prices were above the obscene and we flat-out refused to even bargain with the demon. At 11am a mad taxi driver took us to the station and before long the train to Meknes arrived. Second class was full of compartments furnished with eight plush orange vinyl seats. When managed to obtain an empty one were later a brother and sister team joined us, who we travelling east to sell freshly squeezed olive oil in old old flask. The journey was filled with ever-changing farming landscapes outside and difficult conversation with our new Moroccan friends inside. The station at Meknes had no remarkable features, but contained an aura of self-sufficiency. The people that alighted the train were locals in western dress travelling to and from work and not a tout was in sight. The station's hall was filled with a multitude of people and an old man, speaking only Arabic, passed by trying to sell small furs. It was quite refreshing taking that first step out of the station and into the sunlight framing the new city - one not so dependant on tourism. Only 500m away lay the Hotel Majestic - and majestic it was compared to the simplicities of our hotel in Fes. The rooms were comfortable and the shared showers were hot. After relaxing for an hour we set out by 2pm to savour the delights of the old city and then towards the bus station to see the Roman ruins of Volubilis, some 40km away. The new town was filled with wide boulevards where cars would hectically swerve in and out of traffic. Trees lines the street and the pavements lay cracked like the aftermath of an earthquake, a common symbol of development in modern Morocco. Perhaps pipes had been laid and the workers had forgotten or couldn't be bothered to clean up the mess. Even in this modern metropolis our standards widely differ. What bowled me over the most was a huge blue motorway sign to Rabat and for one moment I could be excused for thinking that we weren't in such an undeveloped country. It couldn't be more in contrast with the Morocco we've spent the past few days in. The cluttered old city began a few moments after crossing the bridge over the dry Bou Fekrane river, where plant-life had overrun this once water filled paradise. Most of the old city was filled with decrepid buildings from this century and others from times past. Business men, idle youths, veiled women, and westernised young ladies filled the streets, where, after ascending a hill, past the smoking fumes of diesel engines, stood the imperial city and, through a porthole, the magnificent gate of Bab el-Mansour, gleaming with stucco work and painted tiles. Although we were in a rush to make the Roman ruins before sunset the Mausoleum of Moulay Ismail beckoned. Not a single mosque in Muslim Morocco will allow non-Muslims to enter and, as Ismail is considered one of the greatest Moroccans (who moved the capital to Meknes) foreigners are allowed into the beautifully tiled sanctuary and can see the tomb themselves, although only from a distance, not being allowed within the actual mosque walls. Unfortunately it was closed and we retreated in a frenzy, brushing off some carpet salesmen, making our way past the souq to what we thought was the bus station. In typical Moroccan fashion not a sign or piece of information regarding buses could be found. Finally we were able to speak to a driver who pointed us in the right direction. It was the main bus station that we were looking for and he gave us a short cut to take through two crumbling arches and then to our left. This took us past what could be considered the edge of the suburbs, where colourful apartment blocks would be adorned with ragged items of clothing and bed-linen flopping in the breeze. Below our feet in the gutter lay the rubbish of times past and the smell of rotten food was never too far away. The arches were of crumbling ochre tones but their welcoming arms only offered the stench of urine and stained walls below its magnificence. To our right lay a rubbish tip right in the heart of the city, where all generations were riffling through - truly a sad vision. On the left the town's relatively wealthy get in and out of grand taxis - women with colourful dresses and veiled faces by the sides of men in leather jackets. The bus station was an enclosed dirt mound and along the entrance mingled men in stalls selling food and drivers shouting out the names of their destinations at high speed - "AgadirAgadirAgadirAgadir" one cried and we were truly in awe of his tongue-tying ability. It turned out that our bus was there and four men ushered us on after we bought our tickets. After an uncomfortable forty minutes in a squashed compartment of a smelly bus Dave went out to check when it was leaving. "We go at four", said the driver, which adds up to an hour of waiting. Of course he was waiting to fill his bus and they neglected to tell us we'd have an hours wait. After all, things move slowly over here. We were forced to abandon our plans due to the dwindling light and sadly we began to make our way back, for we now had to spend another day here. The positive was that we now had time to visit the mausoleum, which turned out to be the highlight of the day. We even spent a good half-an-hour in the tiled sanctuary on bamboo mats, taking in the quiet and calming atmosphere. Just outside the mausoleum lies the walls surrounding the royal palace and the long looming gate of Bab er-Rih. A few others were also partaking in the perfect sunset stroll. The gate was the most interesting as it was at least ten metres wide and the interior was hidden by the darkness of the late afternoon. In the corner flickered some movement, perhaps the limbs of a homeless person hiding from the world outside. The crumbling ochre coloured walls loomed on both side and at one point lies the entrance to the palace, guarded by men with large machine guns. At the end of our walk was the high crumbling walls of an old granary and to it right was the former reservoir of the sultans, now a public area framed by nice little art-nouveau fences and lamp posts. Here in the raging pink sunset mingled young couples and teenage children on bikes. It felt so unusual seeing couple arm-in-arm and enjoying the "paradise" that life itself offers, rather than hiding behind closed doors and minds. We umm-ed and ahh-ed about dinner, the choice between a restaurant hidden in the medina (you call to say you're coming and they send someone to show you the way) or the pizzeria by our hotel, frequented by the Meknes trendy set. The pizza place sounded pretty appealing and I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into its western delights. After tracking it down we entered into a world of white-washed walls and timber beam roof. In the corner were the Americans we'd seen before in Fes. We pulled up a chair behind them and before we knew it we were sinking beers and talking about times spent, everyone has so many stories to tell. This was a licensed place and the 19% tax it was worth enjoying a glass of lager and a few pieces of western tradition. It was a shame to leave but tomorrow it's off to Volubilis and then into the depths of the medina. Goodnight. |