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 3rd century BC. The Romans left around 3rd century AD. The area was also destroyed heavily by earthquakes in the 4th 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.
He clearly had a great love for his work and pride for the structures that he took care of. It was very clear that a lot of thought had been put into his little tour. He was very specific about where he wanted each person to stand in order to view each point of his discussion. The great minaret, a large, elaborately tiled green tower inscribed with phrases from the Qur’an in mosaic was the only one of its kind in the world. The tour guide announced very formally exactly where each of us needed to stand for viewing point A and B for viewing this minaret.
Alas, bien sur, the clerk only spoke heavily accented French. French is the second language for most people here after Moroccan Arabic. Most educated or more cosmopolitan residents speak it pretty well. English, is an extreme rarity in these parts.
While basic, conversational French was fine for me. Accented French detailing the complexities of Islamic faith and architecture proved quite a challenge. Having Adam, Mom and Dad waiting for me to translate each part of the tour through stomach cramps was one of the most exhausting parts of the trip so far.
On the big terrace of the town, the clerk pointed out the green and white buildings of the central structures of the village. The largest and most grand, is the tomb of Moulay Idriss. He described how there were five buildings representing the five pillars of Islam, or duties each Muslim needed to follow. Four other buildings represented other four other elements and were also significant, but I could not understand exactly why. Green and white were the colors of Islam. This is of course, was what I interpreted in his quick, enthusiastic speech and may have been completely incorrect.
On the second terrace, the clerk spoke again of the speech and paused. He then looked at me, offended and exclaimed in French, “You already forgot?” I quickly realized he was giving me a pop quiz of everything he just described during the tour, so I scrambled to repeat back everything I could remember. I must have passed, as he nodded, and did not throw my family and me out for disrespecting his religion.
After his tour, we got back into the crowded taxi and drove back to Meknes to have lunch at Rani’s home.
His home was shared with his mother on the second floor, while his family, (wife and two children) lived upstairs. His mother’s floor consisted of a living room set with seating for up to thirty people. She was clearly a lover of floral motifs, and synthetic flower arrangements dominated all surfaces where floral printed furniture did not. A small, demure woman, she quickly proved to be quite capable at navigating the complex wiring of her DVD player and television. We were treated to the wedding videos of Clara’s friend Jamila while Rani and his wife prepared lunch.
They prepared a large elaborate lunch of couscous, grilled chicken, breads and salads. It was much more than we could eat. With their generous hospitality they kept insisting we eat more. I hope we did not insult them by not eating enough. Of course, my stomach cramps had already hit full force before this point and being a good guest was that much more difficult.
The general way of Moroccan eating is to take a small piece of bread, hold it with your forefinger and middle finger, and using your thumb to scoop the tagine to the bread. Food is served family-style and you are supposed to eat what is exactly in front of you. One eats with your right hand, (never your left) and one should never use a linen napkin to wipe your mouth.
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