Bonjour!
This whole blogging-about-Morocco thing is a lot harder than I anticipated it being, especially as so much has been happening lately in Ghana. So sorry for the absence(s) and here we go:
The night before Elena and I left Meknes we called the Youth Hostel in Fes we planned to stay in to reserve beds. The man I talked with spoke perfect English (yay!) and said no problem to us getting beds (yay again!) and then...told us something like this: "Don't talk to anyone on the train. If anyone asks, you have been in Morocco for 1 month, and you are only staying in Fes for 1 night. Don't let anyone help you with your bags, there are a lot of professional thieves around. Don't trust anyone at all." I got off the phone slightly afraid. Fes here we come! (Oh god.)
Elena and I got to the train station in Meknes on the morning of New Year's Eve ready to FIGHT for seats on the train. We also gave dirty looks to anyone who looked our way. We were gonna get seats and we weren't gonna trust anyone Moroccan in the process, goddammit.We were all tense and ridiculous and told this Russian couple that it would be really crowded and to get ready. When the train arrived I literally pushed an old lady out of the way to get in the door. (A 40 pound backpack can come in handy sometimes...) We got seats! So did everyone else. Because this train, unlike the one we had taken 4 days before was NOT the most crowded train in the whole world. We were then slightly embarrassed about the whole "old lady" incident.
The ride from Meknes to Fes was only about 45 minutes, so we got to the train station around 11 in the morning. Game faces ON. Since we had backpacks, offers to help with our luggage were minimal. That did not stop a million really gross taxi drivers trying to charge us like a million dollars to get to the hostel. Finally we settled on only paying twice as much as we should for the ride, and got to the hostel, where we met the two scariest men in charge of our well-being and lodging ever.
I don't remember either of their names, but they were more-than-likely: Ali, Hassan, Abdul, or Mohammed...they were both in their early 40s (I would guess), and all they liked to do was kick us out of the hostel for hours at a time (out from 10 to 12, out from 2 to 6), make sure we got a good nights sleep (must be back in by 10), and tell us how scary and dangerous Fes was, especially for girls, and that if we wanted to do anything we would have to book an Official Guide through the hostel. Money making scheme anyone???? They kind of sucked.
After hearing the second of what was to become MANY lectures on safety (if you are so worried about my safety, why are you kicking me out of the hostel ALL DAY??), we went to go drop our stuff off in the dorm. There we met a girl from Quebec who was traveling for 6 months with her boyfriend. She told us her name at least 6 times, but it was really hard to pronounce...and I can honestly tell you that I NEVER had any idea what it was. From now on she will be called Mary. So Mary told us about what she had been up to, travelling Europe mainly, with a pop down to Morocco for a week or so. She still had at least 3 months left...but was sadly running out of money, and so would soon start looking for work in France. (Oh to speak FRENCH!) She was very nice and invited us to the New Year's Eve "Party" that would be held at the hostel after we all had to come back in at 10pm. She told us where we could buy some beers (Islamic country= little alcohol) and we left her to go explore Fes. We were a little apprehensive...but then again, we had no choice.
We wandered around the Ville Nouvelle ( where the hostel was located) because the Medina was REALLY far away, and we had already relented to the creepy schemers and had agreed to have an official guide take us around the Medina (which is HUGE and very labyrinth-like) the next morning. So we got lunch in this cute cafe in a park nearby, and wandered around, window shopping, at scarf stores. It makes sense, but I was still surprised and delighted to see entire stores devoted only to scarves! Very fun (and practical too!)
Around 7 that night we were so cold we couldn't feel our hands or feet (Fes is both further inland than Meknes, and also closer to the Atlas Mountains making it the 2nd coldest city we visited), so we went to the "Alcohol Store" and got a few tall cans of Heineken (which turned out to be really bad) and some snacks for the fiesta. No one else was back yet (most likely because they possessed warm coats...) so we got in our beds and tried to get warm until people came back.
Around 9 we had all gathered (outside. sigh.) around this table with our various boozes and had fun drinking and talking about grown up things like foreign policy and the importance of travel to the growing international community (justifying unlimited money used on travel? maybe.) We also talked about the importance of language and why Americans usually don't speak any second languages, and I was kind of relieved when one of our fellow hostelers made the point that America is so big, that there is less need to speak any language other than English. While I think that language should be stressed much more than it is in the States, it was nice not to just have an "Everyone hates America" talk.
Later in the evening, and much closer to midnight, this group of Belgian men came into the hostel after a day out. Most likely the fact that they were all both male and over 60 made the creepy wardens less strict on the "back by 10" policy, oh well. These men were nice...if not a little strange, and also drunk, and very actively rolled a joint in front of me (I declined their offer) but the craziest thing about them was their Ghanaian driver! Yes, a man who had been born and raised in Ghana and had relocated to Belgium, just happened to be in the same youth hostel in Fes, Morocco, as Elena and I. (The world is so freakin' small)
We attempted to speak Twi with him (in a somewhat desperate attempt-on my part at least-to prove to all these multi-lingual European/Canadians that we are at least making the effort to speak a language other than English) but our new Ghanaian friend was not as friendly as those we have met and become friends with in Ghana. After rolling a joint of his own though, he became much nicer.
The next day, New Year's Day, we met Ozdean (this is phonetic spelling, obviously) our OFFICIAL guide who would be taking us around the huge and somewhat intimidating Medina of Fes. This whole tour thing was a scam, seeing as we had to pay for our taxi to the place and then had to go to all these craft shops to see scarves being woven, leather being tanned (not sure that is proper English usage...) jewelry being made, etc. And, of course, after all of these fun displays and free pictures, there was immense pressure to buy. Ozdean always seemed to disappear for long periods of time when we were getting hassled.
Despite the buying pressure, we did learn a lot about how the Medinas in Morocco are set up. For every bakery, hammam and drinking fountain there is a different district of the city. We also got to take some pretty sweet pictures of people doing their thing making various crafts which was nice. After the 3 hour tour, we had to take this really expensive van-thing back to the hostel, because we could not get a taxi to save our lives, and then payed Ozdean too much and a tip because even though we were a little bitter about the whole experience we still have manners.
The next day, we adventured back to the Medina to do shopping of our own without the pressure of a guide. We were a little worried about getting hopelessly lost, but were determined. We might have missed out on a lot of stuff as we decided to stick to two very long and windy paths which us took us through the craft part of the medina (a different and much less touristy part than the day before) but we did not get lost and we were still able to buy some really cool gifts. We then grabbed lunch (vegetarian cous cous and tajine!) and then wandered a little further.
While we were wandering, it occurred to us that our next stop, Chefchaouen, was literally in the Atlas Mountains and would, somehow, be colder than Fes. (We knew if but could not really fathom it...) and it might be in our best interest to purchase some long underwear to wear below our jeans and thin sweatshirts. This would also be a helpful purchase because after around 12 days of not washing any of our clothes and wearing the majority of them every day our jeans especially were starting to sag. Long-johns could be the answer to that problem as well. This is how we had the best retail experience of our lives.
Okay...maybe not best, but funniest.
So, Elena and I spot a booth-like-thing selling many different colors of wool long-johns. I immediately pick out a pair of steel gray ones, because in my head, I will admit, I only ever think of myself wearing steel gray long-johns were I to wear them at all. Elena, surprisingly, also had picked out steel gray in her mind, and was somewhat disappointed to see that I had taken the only pair.
Enter the salesman. He was a short, thin Moroccan man, who I would guess to be in his mid-to-late 50s. He walked with a stoop, and had completely gray hair. He also spoke English, in the way most merchants in Morocco (or at least Fes) did, really only knowing phrases like "good deal", "global price" (what could that possibly mean?), and "make me a good price". Anyway, so this man comes up to us, and we eventually get it across that we both want hideous steel gray wool pants. He finds Elena some with blue and green embroidery on the bottom of the leg before the elastic cuffing. (hot.) We are immediately wary of this development, as he will most likely try and charge us like 100Dh more for embroidery, but when we ask about this he is surprisingly good natured.
Man: "You see? These have decoration!"
Me: "How much for these decorations?"
Man: (looking slightly offended) "Decorations are free! Decorations are free!"
Me and Elena: "Hey! Okay."
Man: "So you will take 2?"
Me: "How much for both?" (buying in bulk is always the smarter option)
Man"Give me 100Dh." (approx. $15)
Elena: "ummmm....how about 70?"
Man: WHOA!!!!!!!!! (I mean he screamed this at us. Elena and I could do nothing but try not to burst into uncontrollable laughter.)
small pause
Man: "Give me 80."
In complete, painful silence, Elena and I bring forth the 80Dh, and take away our pants. When we are about 20 feet from the man and his booth, we burst into the laughter that had been welling up for the last 75 seconds. Then Elena said: "I think that 'whoa!' was worth an extra 10Dh." I had to agree.
The next day, after spending a small fortune on gifts/warm weather clothes, we boarded a bus to go to Chefchaouen, a small hippy-village in the mountains. Absolutely everyone we had talked to thus far insured us that Chef was the best stop in Morocco. After a 5 hour nausea-inducing bus ride I was hoping everyone was right.
I love you.
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