Moroccan Travelogue, Part 3

Thursday, March 20, 2003

M2 began my guided tour of Fèz by putting me in a taxi and taking us to Borj Sud, which is an old lookout tower on top of a hill outside of the medina on the south side of the city. From there, I could see all of the old city.

Next, the taxi dropped us off at Bab Ftouh, which is essentially the rear gate to the medina. Staring from there, we reversed the typical tourist route, winding our way through the medina to Bab Boujeloud. Along the way, we saw the portal of al-Andalusiyyin Mosque. The original mosque was built in the 9th century, but the existing portal dates from the 13th century. We saw the al-Attarine Madrassa, built in the 14th century. Nearby, was the Qarauine Mosque. Founded in 857, it was the most influential school of Muslim thought for centuries. Today, it is one of the largest mosques in North Africa.

I let M2 know when I started getting hungry and this time I made it very clear to him what I wanted. He took me to a pastry shop jammed with locals in the heart of the medina. We each had a type of pastry that is very common in Morocco. It is odd that so many places sell it, including street vendors, because it looks like an elegant dessert that one would find only in expensive restaurants. It is made up of multiple layers of flaky crust and vanilla filling and topped with vanilla and chocolate frosting applied in a laced design. You can get them for as little as 2 dirham a piece. We washed them down with Almond milk, which is one of the things I wanted to try after reading about it in my guidebook. M2 told me it's Arabic name (sounds like "LOOSE") so that I would be able to order it on my own in the future. Together, the pastry and the Almond milk was wonderful. I probably enjoyed it even more than the meal at the fancy restaurant from the night before. This was the reason I had hired a guide. I was so delighted that I paid for M2's food, but I think he considered it too little, too late.

We visited a number of fondouqs, which are old inns now used as factories. One of them was a cloth fondouq, where I got to watch men operating looms while a horde of German tourists stared at them.

Morocco is known for its leather goods, so M2 made sure to take me to that part of the medina where the tanneries are found. A manager of one of the leather shops took me to an upper-story from where I was able to view the workers engage in the tanning process. In a large courtyard, I could see round vats of different colors of dye into which men were dunking various animal skins. There were also vats of pigeon excrement used to soften the leather. Men stand up to their knees in the stuff all day long. Children throughout the city raise pigeons in little cages because they are able to sell the birds to restaurants and the poop to the tanneries.

M2 had told me with pride that he is a licensed guide and that he doesn't get a cut from sales made at the shops we would be visiting, but that assurance turned out to be hollow as I watched him become increasingly depressed as he took me from shop to shop without ever seeing the inside of my wallet. Once he finally realized I'm not the spendthrift type of American he knows and loves, he continued the tour of shops, but with a changed demeanor. We would enter a shop and, upon spotting M2, the owner would approach me all full of smiles and chatter. M2, however, would go sit down in a corner with this hangdog look that reminded me of Myron McCormick's character of Sgt. King from No Time for Sergeants. He knew by now what the eventual outcome would be--I would keep my money and the shop owner would lose his smile.

One of the last shops we visited was in the spice souq (market) near the al-Attarine mosque. (Attarine is Arabic for "spice.") The shop sells spices, perfumes, and natural medicines. The owner, a wide man with a shiny head, told me that Moroccans are as likely to visit shops like his in search of cures for their ailments as they are to visit Western-style doctors. He told me that he has cures for everything but cancer. When he showed me a picture of Bill Clinton visiting his shop, I asked him whether Clinton had asked for help with any maladies. He had a ready response: "Yes. He asked for something to help him with Monica Lewinsky." He then punched the air with his fist, giving the international sign for boom-boom.

When I told him I wanted to buy some Moroccan curry powder--which is supposedly unique among curry powders--his smile broadened and M2 perked up for a fleeting moment. "How much do you want? Five packets? Ten?" When I told him I wanted only one small packet for 25 dirham, his excitement dissipated. (It wasn't until after I had returned home that I noticed that he wrapped my spice in a page torn from a French magazine showing a photograph of victims hanging from the windows of the burning World Trade Center. That must be a little bonus he gives to all of his American customers.)

Our tour of Fèz ended at--where else?--a carpet store. This one was worth visiting, however. It was in an old Berber home that had been restored with the help of UNESCO. It is now leased to some sort of carpet-making syndicate. It's beautiful enough to charge admission, but they don't. Although the place was jammed with tourists, the manager approached me personally because of M2. He assured me that unlike in other carpet stores, he would not try to talk me into buying a carpet if I wasn't interested. I told him I wasn't. However, a few minutes later, he returned and insisted upon showing me at least one carpet. He rolled it out and I think my comment was, "Mmh." I then returned to sipping my free glass of hot tea. The manager gave up, but M2--although he knew better--made one feeble attempt to put me in the buying mood by telling me that I can show Moroccans that I appreciate them and their country by buying something in their shops. That's when I told him, "Not all Americans have money to throw around like Michael Douglas." He assured me that he knew that, but clearly he was disappointed in me. He had already transformed into a sullen, tight-lipped guide. No longer volunteering tidbits of Moroccan history and anecdotes, I had to question him if I wanted any information about what we were seeing.

It was 1:30. M2 had agreed to serve as my guide for the entire day, but since I had seen all of the sites on my list--and because I told him that I didn't want to visit any more shops--he told me there was nothing more he could show me. I paid him the 120 dirham we had agreed upon the day before, plus a tip of 20 dirham for unknowingly providing me with much amusement. He left me at Bab Boujeloud and said good-bye.

I decided to exit the medina and hike up to Borj Nord, which is an old lookout tower on a hillside on the north edge of the city. From there, I was able to see the reverse angle of the view of the city I had seen earlier in the morning. To describe it as picturesque would be an understatement. It was definitely worth the walk. M2 had tried to tell me that I should take a taxi because it was too far to walk and was in a dangerous area, so I was glad the old granny wasn't with me anymore. There was a 5-star resort across the street, so how dangerous could it have been?

On my way back to the hotel, I decided to stop at an Internet café. As soon as I got on-line, my stomach tightened. The war with Iraq had started. In fact, the war had been in progress for over a day and I hadn't even known. Why hadn't M2 told me? I suddenly felt like a rabbi at an Eid banquet. I looked around me and saw that most people were reading war news. One of the computers was playing the audio feed of an Arabic translation of Donald Rumsfeld giving a press conference. At that moment, I wished I was back in the ugly Spanish port city of Algeciras. Talk about bad timing.

All of the news sites had painfully slow response times, but I read what news I could get about the war. I heard someone speaking English, so I looked behind me. Sitting with their backs to me, were Jeff and Marty! I didn't even know they were in Fèz. It's a pretty big city and, of course, there are dozens of Internet cafes. It's amazing that we had found each other again. Talk about good timing.

They hadn't seen me, so I stood up behind them and asked, "So, do you think we need to get out of here?" They seemed a bit startled, but recognized me right away. I was afraid they'd think I was stalking them. This was the third time I had popped up out of nowhere. They smiled and laughed at my greeting, although I hadn't been entirely joking. They shrugged off the idea of fleeing Morocco. I had seriously been considering it, but now I was afraid of looking like a big weenie if I ran scared and they didn't.

We left the Internet café together and returned to our hotel. (That's right--we had somehow managed to check into the same hotel.) They invited me to go with them to Borj Nord, but since I had just returned from there, I bowed out. Hours later, when they returned, they talked about the almost mystical experience of being at Borj Nord at sunset and hearing dozens of muezzins all across Fèz simultaneously issuing the call to prayer. I had to burst their bubble by informing them that those calls to prayer are actually taped recordings played over loudspeakers. I knew that's the way it was in Albania and M1 had confirmed to me that it's the same in Morocco.

After dark, we left the hotel and went walking. We stopped at a spice shop so that Jeff could buy some saffron. A man in his late 30's who had already been standing on the sidewalk in front of the shop started talking to us. He was very clean-cut and wore a nice sports jacket. I assumed he was a faux guide, but it turned out that he merely wanted to practice his English.

He did, however, enlighten us on the subject of faux guides. In the course of a rant against the Moroccan government, he told us that he was risking imprisonment merely by talking to us. The reason for this was that the police would assume he was soliciting us as a faux guide. The government outlaws faux guides in order to protect the licensing revenue it derives from the official guides. This explains why official guides charge 120 dirham, whereas faux guides charge only 50. The stated reason for outlawing faux guides, however, is that Western tourists are put off by being approached by faux guides and the government doesn't want tourists' image of Morocco to be of a person with his hand out. In explaining this, the man astutely pointed out the irony of the Moroccan government saying this while at the same time going to the American government with its hand out, asking for foreign aid.

After making more criticisms of the king and the Moroccan government, the man told us that he was not Moroccan. "Oh?" we asked, "where are you from?" "I'm from earth," he replied. He was so disgusted with the government that he didn't want to be identified as Moroccan. He told us that he hates Bush--which I had already learned is a standard greeting when a Moroccan speaks with an American--and considers him to be a thief, but at least Bush doesn't steal from his own people like the Moroccan government does. Without any prompting, the earthling went on to tell us that he had previously been a school teacher, but had become so overwrought from being forced by the government to teach things he knew to be false, that he quit. I don't know what he does now, but he showed us a Japanese language book and explained that he was teaching himself Japanese so that he could communicate with Japanese tourists (yes, in Morocco). Based on that, I'm guessing that he makes money off of tourists in some way or another, even though he never asked us for anything. Of course, it's certainly possible that he merely wants to acquire the ability to tell Japanese tourists how rotten the Moroccan government is.

During our dialogue with the earthling, he would occasionally say something that sounded familiar to me, but I couldn't quite place. When he said, "Here in Morocco, we are living in a fish bowl; we see the same thing year after year," I was certain of it, but Marty beat me to it. "Hey! That's Pink Floyd!" The earthling got excited: "Pink Floyd! Yes! Yes!" That's right--the earthling was communicating with us through Pink Floyd lyrics. A little bit later, although it made no sense whatsoever, he told us that, "In Morocco, we are living in the haze of middle age." Again, I recognized it as Pink Floyd, although it would require a bit of research to determine which album it was from. By the time we got away from the guy, he was completely incoherent.

We spent the rest of the evening sampling different sweets we purchased from outdoor vendors and ducking under awnings during several cloudbursts. The earthling suddenly reappeared and I thought that now he would reveal the angle he was working; instead, he merely wanted to assure us (for the 2nd or 3rd time) that he likes Americans. He then spouted some more gibberish that I couldn't understand and walked away. Marty cried out, "We'll see you on the dark side of the moon!" But he was already out of earshot.

Friday, March 21, 2003

I was very proud of myself for having been wise enough to pack a roll of toilet paper. (Jeff and Marty hadn't been as foresighted.) So when I got to the communal toilet that morning and spotted my toilet paper that I had absentmindedly left behind the day before, I almost wept. A once thick roll of comfort had been reduced to a thin spool of maybe five sheets. Consequently, I discovered that the Economist magazine is good for more than just swatting mosquitoes.

I left the hotel early and walked to the train station. (I had already paid for my two-night stay, but only after the manager unsuccessfully claimed I owed for three nights.) As I walked the length of the train, I spotted Jeff and Marty waving to me from inside one of the cars. That would be the last of our coincidental encounters. We were riding on the same train, but we were getting off at different destinations. I didn't even share a cabin with them.

My destination was Marrakech, which was as deep into Morocco as I intended to go. It would be an eight-hour train ride that would take me to the foot of the High Atlas mountains. Although the Sahara lies a bit further south, as I neared Marrakech, I at least got a glimpse of the Morocco I had envisioned. The terrain became more arid and in the distance, I would see the occasional kasbah, which is a fortress-like structure for one family that is made of mud and straw. I saw a few isolated little villages that were just clumps of flat-topped mud homes. There was obviously no electricity and they looked so primitive that I wouldn't have thought they were inhabited had I not seen people walking around. It was a very different Morocco.

Marrakech was founded by the Almoravid dynasty in 1062. Today, it is the most touristed city in Morocco, which might explain why it is also the cleanest city I visited. I think it is well maintained because it is a valuable tourist draw. Outside of the medina walls, the neat, straight streets and desert terrain reminded me a bit of Scottsdale, but without the strip-centers.

As I made my way to the medina, I passed the 12th-century Koutoubia Mosque and its giant minaret. It's the oldest surviving example of the art of the Almohads and supposedly influenced Islamic architecture for centuries. Recent restoration has been so thorough that that the minaret looks like it could have been built last year.

I checked into Hotel Ali. According to my guidebook, this hotel will let you sleep on the roof for $2, but I decided to really live it up and get a room with a roof; it even had a private shower. On the downside, it smelled like someone had peed in the corner. Also, the window opened directly onto the stairwell, for some bizarre reason. The light in the stairwell had an automatic shut-off timer, so all night long, as people walked up and down the stairs, the light would pop on and off. It was like sleeping inside Rosie O'Donnell's refrigerator.

At dusk, I exited the hotel directly onto Djemâa el-Fna, billed as one of the world's most exotic squares. Thousands of people participate in this bazaar everyday, starting around noon and not ending until after midnight. My guidebook described it as a must-see and, judging by the number of tourists, everyone else's guidebook must say the same thing. Everyone I've talked to who have been there seemed to have really enjoyed it, but I was disappointed. I had envisioned something that would transport me back in time--if not to the 15th century, then at least back to Indiana Jones. But instead of a dusty medina market filled with camels and men in turbans and fez hats, I found a big patch of asphalt and a human mass, half of which was tourists, and the other half of which was hustlers feeding off of the tourists.

There was a haze in the air from the dozen or so outdoor restaurants belching smoke from their grills and a monotonous drumming coming from two or three men with drums posing as musicians. As I waded through the crowd, I would come upon clumps of people circled around various sorts of entertainment. It might be a storyteller, a fortuneteller, or little boys (and sometimes girls) pummeling each other with boxing gloves. However, the moment a white face appears within the circle of spectators, a hat gets shoved in front of it in demand for payment for the entertainment. This was very irritating. I wouldn't have time to determine what I was looking at before I would be confronted with a hat. I would refuse to pay, the solicitor would become irate, and I would walk away.

Of course, there were snake charmers, but I've seen snakes on the side of the highway filled with more charm than the torpid adders being shoved in tourists' faces. I went no where near them, not because I was afraid of the snakes, but because I was afraid of the "charmer" striking for my wallet. While staying at a distance of at least 15 yards, they still spotted me and started holding up the snakes and waving me over. I ducked my head and slithered away.

I looked over the outdoor restaurants until I spotted one listing pastilla on its menu. That's one more Moroccan food I had wanted to try. It's a combination of pigeon or chicken, onions, almonds, eggs, butter, cinnamon, and sugar inside a pastry shell. It was a strange combination, but it was pretty good. I also had some little grilled sausages. I would have tried some of the other offerings, but it was less than appetizing watching the workers continuously reshaping the cooked foods into massive pyramids with their grubby hands.

Sitting beside me was a young Frenchman eager to talk. I enjoy hating the French just as much as the next guy, but only in the abstract. The truth is that every Frenchman I've ever met has been really nice and this one was no exception. His English wasn't the best, but it was good enough for us to communicate and for him to help me place my order.

When he found out I was from the U.S., he asked, "Aren't you afraid to be here?" I would get that question quite often over the next few days and I would always find it to be less than reassuring. It had already occurred to me that despite being in a sea of tourists, I hadn't seen a single American since I left Fèz. I've done enough travelling to know that isn't normal. It was a bit eerie to think that all of my countrymen had fled Morocco. I had noticed several Brits in Marrakesh, however. That didn't seem fair. Britain is part of the "coalition of the willing" in Iraq, so why should they feel any more safe than Americans?

Long after he had finished his meal, Frenchie remained seated and continued talking. A big dopey grin never left his face and he seemed absolutely fascinated by every aspect of Djemâa el-Fna that I found distasteful. I had already had enough of Marrakesh, so I was stunned to learn that he had spent his full weeklong vacation there. Worse that that, he revealed that he had spent most of it sitting right there at the same outdoor restaurant. Indeed, he had become their Norm Peterson. All of the workers seemed to know him and they would ask him to help translate whenever a customer sat down who knew only English or German. I asked him whether he had tried any other restaurant. "No." Had he tried other menu items? "No."

The competition among the various restaurants was very intense, and as tourists would pass near our restaurant tent, the workers would yell out to them, slap the bench I was sitting on, and even grab the tourists by their arms and try to pull them in. I was appalled, but Frenchie thought it was great entertainment. When I got out my money to pay my bill, one of the workers looked at Frenchie and said, "Parlez, parlez." Frenchie explained that they wanted us to stay and talk so that they wouldn't have too many empty seats. He then let me in on the secret he had discovered: as long as they are short on customers, they will let us stay there all night drinking free tea. Apparently, that's how he spent his evenings in Morocco. I humored him and stayed for another half-hour before I'd finally had enough. The French must be a lonely people.