Marrakech: Shopping, Shopping, Eating

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Atlas Mountains: Berber Country

We did a road trip through the Atlas Mountains.  Dad wanted to see the Berber people.  Camels and monkeys made up the wildlife in the area.  Plenty of waterfalls down the side of the mountain, often gushing over the roads.  If not for the 4-wheel drive of the car service, it would have been quite sketchy to travel.  I was amazed at the little cottages that were built in the crevices of the mountains.  Many connected to the only paved road via rope bridges like the one above.
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Efran: Maroc Swiss Alps, Yodel If You Can!

Here is a surreal destination. I had heard Dad mention that we were going to a town called Efran, and every local who heard this nodded knowingly, saying "Ah, Maroc-Suisse!".

I had no idea what this meant until we pulled into the snow-covered town of Efran.  The place was indeed mountainous, and appropriate for skiing (as much as a remote African town could be I suppose).  What I didn't expect was an entire town where the buildings looked like Swiss chalets.  

After many days of watching djellaba-covered locals walking through Medieval streets and crumbling stone riads, I did not expect a destination that looked like Disneyland's idea of Europe's favorite neutrals.

Apparently, this was where wealthy Moroccans came to ski, and investors had put a lot of money into trying to make it the next Telluride.  Judging by the quiet streets, I don't think they have achieved what they wanted yet.

Volubilis and Moulay Idriss

No luggage yet, the airline had informed Rani that it will arrive in Fes tomorrow.  Another day in Mom’s sweats, mismatched scarf and yoga shoes.

Early in the morning, a hired grande-taxi took us to the Roman ruins of Volubilis.  This was once a thriving city built over a previous Carthaginian settlement in 3^rd century BC.  The Romans left around 3^rd century AD.  The area was also destroyed heavily by earthquakes in the 4^th century and in 1755.    We were the first visitors to arrive at the site, giving us a lot of freedom to explore in our own fashion.

Columns of every order were visible here, and I struggled to remember the names of each one from art history… (Corinthinan, Doric, Ionic…?) 

Mud covered most of the grounds, so it was easier to travel through the site along the walls of the ruins.  We learned later that that was forbidden, but the caretakers did not seem to enforce it.  Dad’s conduct was even worse; he jumped right into the detailed and delicate mosaics of the ruins.  He insisted the rope barring entry was meant for tourists entering from the other side of the mosaic only…. (we can’t take him anywhere).

The site, with soaring arches against the beautiful Moroccan countryside appeared to be well preserved considering the climate.

After leaving the Roman ruins, we took a quick drive to the small, sacred town of Moulay Idriss.  This town was founded by the great-grandson of Muhammad and is a location of religious pilgrimage for many Moroccans.

Unfortunately, at this point, my stomach began to seek refuge from persecution from the demons of either food/water poisoning or delayed stomach flu. 

Our guide and driver led us up through narrow streets towards the main mosque and mausoleum of the mountainside town.  Outside of the mosque, and elderly clerk with a gentle smile greeted us and agreed to take us through a tour. 

Rabat: Funky Cold Medina

We left the tower to explore the Medina of Rabat. The initially sparsely populated, narrow streets of medina offered fruit, shoes, and various types of bread cooked on large griddles. Stray cats lurked or fought in the streets to the entertainment of feline friend, my Studly Hubby.

In the main part of the markets, were souks (stalls, shops) where local residents would buy fabrics, clothing, spices electronics. The more exotic food offerings in the medina included hooves and goat heads. Some souks had obvious appeal to tourists carrying lamps, hookahs, hand stitched slippers, hand- painted pottery and richly hued leathers.

The merchants at this market were low-key and did not harass or pressure sales. This would be in stark contrast of the markets we would see in other cities. A stroll through the casbah near the medina led us to a Moorish cafe overlooking the water. The cafe consisted mainly of locals enjoying the Moroccan signature mint tea. A freelance pastry peddler would come by the table with a large selection of cookies.

Another long walk through the streets, we were exhausted and hungry. Mom, Dad, Hubby and I went to look for a restaurant for dinner after leaving the Medina. It was harder than we thought. Moroccans as a culture don’t eat out for dinner that often, but after years of French occupation, patisseries and cafes were abundant. A cafe latte and croissant were easily found when a good tagine was not.

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Meknes: Taxis, Turtles & Hammams

In the morning, after another chaotic trip through the train station, we took the two hour ride to the city of Meknes.

My sister Clara’s friend Jamila has an uncle from this town who will be serving as our guide.  He is a charming gentleman who goes by the name “Rani” and met us as the train station.  We found a large taxi that transported all of us to the Riad including the mountain of luggage.

Morocco generally has two types of taxis.  The petit-taxis, are little blue cars that transport a maximum of three passengers.  The grande-taxis, Mercedes that are 25 years old or more, transport as many and as much as it can possibly fit.  Grande-taxis are also licensed to take you to other cities while the smaller ones are not.  We hired a grande-taxi to transport Rani, Adam, Mom and Dad and myself with all of the luggage (bungee-strapped into the overfilled trunk) to go to the Riad Fellousia.

Rabat: Planes, Trains and Jackie Chan

Upon arrival at Casablanca Mohammed airport, I discovered that my luggage never made it on the plane. Through the limited English of the luggage officer and the limited French on my part, we came to the conclusion that Royal Air Maroc has no ing clue where my suitcase is. Their level of concern ranked little beyond that either.

My parents were already waiting outside the gate to greet us after their flight from Mali. As we were catching a train to the next town of Rabat, we couldn’t stay and argue with the airline officials that much longer and had to wait until the next day to call with a tracking number. We were catching a train to the next town of Rabat.

Little did I know that my parents would carry with them five large suitcases in addition to several smaller bags. I had been equally uninformed that Adam and I were expected to assist in carrying these from train to train in this North African country. One of these suitcases contained a fifteen pound sacred salt slab, a gift from a tribal chief in Mali.

The trains are quite comfortable, and convenient. First class cars are only ten percent more expensive than the regular cars are worth it for the comfort, privacy and extra storage space.

Less convenient, are the unmarked trains and low key announcements on the train itself. It was easy to miss the intended stop or know which end of the train you want. A family of obvious tourists dragging a total of eleven bags up and down a carved tile platform multiple times was a source of hilarious audible and visual entertainment for the locals.

After checking into the surprisingly chic Scheherazade Mercure hotel on a quiet side street in Rabat, Adam and I crashed for a much needed nap. We woke up in the afternoon to grab a quick lunch at a diner down the street.

The diner had a rack of roasting chickens, yellow from the liberal use of turmeric, cumin and a bunch of other spices common to the country. A whole chicken (including innards in sauce), plate of soupy rice and capers, fries and giant disks of bread were 80 dirhams ($ 10 US). It was hearty, tasty and more than the four of us could eat. We received exceptionally gracious service, which we felt was unusual, beyond the normally nice service that was typical. My father discovered the reason later, when a waiter ran up to him, shook his hand and called him “Jackie Chan”.

After lunch, my family and I walked towards Hassan Tower. It was a historical site of a red sandstone minaret of an incomplete mosque. It was originally intended by sultan Yacoub al-Mansourto be the world’s largest in 1199, but he died during construction. Locals were taking leisurely strolls in this quiet courtyard.

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