Morocco Chapter 3: Meknes

Chah-laaaay!

The use of the phrase "Chah-lay" (most likely spelled "Charlie") is one that Ghanaians use to express excitement, among other things. With the prominence of the Cup of Nations this phrase has been used like nobodies business and I have decided to take it up, there is no better way to create habit than by repetition...so I'm doing my best to use it often, even though that often results in giggles...and blatantly being made fun of.

Okay, back to the Moroccan Madness. After leaving the youth hostel in Rabat, we walked back to the train station and boarded a train going to Meknes, a city just south of the much more famous Fes and reputed for being much more laid back and much less touristy. The train ride was supposed to be about 3 hours. 3 hours didn't seem like very long, except for the fact that when we boarded the train, so did every other person in Morocco...and the two of us, along with many many Moroccan riders were forced to wander aimlessly throughout the train, car after car, trying in vain to find a seat, and succeeding in hitting everyone me passed in the head, or arm or leg or hand or whatever with our huge backpacks. We are talking 35 lbs of (largely useless) clothes, sleeping bags, bath products, and Luna bars. So...it is pretty likely we were hated on a lot in the first 40 minutes or so of the ride.

Finally we stopped in between cars where we hung out with all the chain smokers who had most likely chosen to stand out the middle of two rocking train cars to insure they could light one cigarette with the other for the duration of their ride. Yum. Eventually, after about an hour of this, Elena found us two seats in this closed off compartment with 6 people in it, and just barely enough room for 2 white idiots and really no room for their bags of crap, but everyone was nice and accommodating and we eventually fit.

In this car was a couple from Malaysia, two Moroccan brothers, and a slightly older Moroccan guy and a Moroccan woman. The woman spoke only Arabic, so we didn't get to talk to her at all, the one man spoke quite a bit of English, the brothers a modest amount (much more than I speak French...if that means anything) and the Malaysian couple (as Malaysia was a British colony) spoke perfect English and quite a bit of French too.

So...Elena and I are ridiculous, and having read about recent anti-Western violence (specifically against Americans) we decided to tell everyone we were from Canada. (Note, we looked up Anti-American sentiments, but NOT weather, therefore were freezing our asses off pretty much all the time. Smart girls.) Anyway, so when the Malaysian woman, who will be known from now on as MW, asked us where we were from we said Canada, BC to be specific. I have been to BC literally once. I spent about 3 days in Vancouver on a choir trip in 12th grade, and while I loved it, I don't actually know anything about it. To our great dismay, this couple, who were quite the travelers had been to BC and began to quiz us about it. Crap.

We made ourselves look like complete ass-holes because we kept referring to the US dollar when talking about money (the Canadian dollar is currently worth more now), admitted to spoke more Spanish than French (seriously) and looked for the slightest provocation to talk about Ghana instead of Canada. (Example: When asked about the weather in BC our response was something like this: "Ya...Canada is really cold right now, because its winter. Nothing like Ghana where it is really really hot and so humid! You wouldn't even believe it." Actually they would...because they are from Malaysia.) The real low-point of the lie was when they asked us about this donut chain that is all over Canada. According to them, there are drive up donut houses and they are virtually everywhere. We made up the most incredibly transparent lie about not knowing about it because we don't eat donuts of something. It was terrible. This embarrassment was recently magnified when we asked our friend Tristan, who is from Canada (unlike Elena and I) about these donuts and he answered that they were most likely talking about this chain (that I don't remember the name of now...) that is literally more prominent in Canada than McDonalds is in the US. I may be the worst fake-Canadian ever.

After the incredibly awkward ride, where not only did we practically prove that we were lying about our nationality, but Elena and the MW engaged in this ridiculous "who's-developing country-is better" competition where both just talked about Ghana and Malaysia respectively and pretended to be interested in the other's but really just wanted to hear themselves talk. (I wanted to kill them both after the debate about prominence of indigenous languages.) We got off the train, said bye to the (really cute) Moroccan brothers, and set off in search of our youth hostel.

We took a petit taxi to the hostel, and after the taxi rolled away, we realized that the door to the hostel was firmly locked. The hours on the door gave the impression that the hostel should in fact be open...and this hostel was kind of in the middle of nowhere, so we shrugged and decided we would have to get a taxi to the Medina, and look for a cheap hotel. Out of nowhere, this young woman pops up and miraculously spoke English. She told us that the hostel would open at 3. It was 2 right then, so we decided to sit on the stoop and eat a Cliff bar and wait for someone to show up.

About 40 minutes later a man pulled up right in front of us. He looked at us with some puzzlement, and we beamed back at him. He did not exit the car to let us into the hostel, but instead pulled out his cell phone to make a call. After about 2 minutes he got out of the car and approached us, speaking French. (see previous blog entry) After a few minutes of this our blank expressions notified him of our ignorance, and he began to speak to us in English. His name was Hassan, and he was a former employee of the hostel and had just called his former boss to notify him of two American/Canadian girls sitting on the steps of the establishment. Unfortunately, Hassan said, the boss-man was not going to open the hostel today, but would open in the following day (Sunday) at 6pm. Okay...not gonna help.

We thanked Hassan for his kindness, and then asked him where the best place to catch a taxi to the Medina would be. Hassan offered to drive us there himself, and in a moment of what some would consider insanity, and also where Elena probably wanted to hit me, I accepted.

Hassan was very nice, apologizing repeatedly for smoking in the car (I was practically immune to cigarette smoke by this point) and told us that after leaving the hostel he had moved to Saudi Arabia to do some very scientific sounding work for 7 years. He had just returned to Morocco this week. He took us to Hotel Agadir, the first in a line of about 5 run-down and cheap hotels on the Medina's main strip, and insisted in waiting in the car to make sure we got a room. There was no vacancy. We insisted right back that he had done enough for us, and we would find a hotel, and so Hassan left, and we began to walk down the strip of hotels (uphill, wearing the backpacks) looking for a room.

After 3 hotels where our poorly pronounced "bonjour!" ended nowhere helpful, we were starting to lose our gusto for this little adventure. I should mention that we originally had no intention to visit Meknes, and this was a spur of the moment detour that was starting to piss me off. We then entered, Elena leading, Hotel Noveau.

Elena: Bonjour!
No response
Elena: Bonjour!
No response
Elena: Bonjour?
Man out of absolutely nowhere who appeared behind the check in desk: Bonjour!!!!!

This man was Lechet. Lechet was a slightly overweight, jolly, Berber man who (thank god) spoke English and became our friend. Mainly because he had one room available. One small-as-a-tool-shed room, with walls decorated completely in mosaic, making it look, somehow, smaller, a clogged sink, and a bed where the middle was completely broken making Elena and I roll into each other no-matter-what, when we slept. All for about $9 a night. Without said room, Lechet might not have been so dear to us.

In Meknes we ate Tajine for the first time. Like a casserole, a tajine is named such because of the dish with which it is made, not what is in it. (I completely plagiarized the above comparison of a tajine to a casserole from a guide book, FYI) It is somewhat difficult to get a vegetarian Tajine in Morocco as Moroccans are very into their meat products, but it can be done, and it is quite tasty. Usually, the tajine, made of a flat bowl-like bottom and a funnel- shaped top is filled first with vegetables (like carrots, squash, potatoes, zucchini, bell peppers, onions, prunes, and olives--most of which I have not eaten in the last 6 months) and then with meat (beef, chicken, lamb, pigeon, anything) and then cooked slowly for several hours. It is then eaten with bread cut into triangles, for easier scooping. Restaurant tajine doesn't get quite the same care, but is wonderful all the same. Especially to our vegetable-starved bodies.

In Meknes we also went to a Hammam. A hammam is a public bath, used at different hours during the day for men and women (usually men in the morning, women in the afternoon) where the bather brings all their own soap etc, and are provided with all the hot and cold water needed to get clean. Up until this time, which was about 5 days into our trip, Elena and I had only bathed once, and had to do so with very, very, cold water. It was terrible.

So, we located a Hammam by stealthily following a woman who was carrying a duffle-bag, in the area we knew a hammam to be, and voila! There it was. It cost 10Dh ($1.25) and was awkward, because all the women spoke mainly Arabic, and a little French, so figuring out what the hell to do was kind of crazy. We had read that swim suits were customarily worn in the bath houses, but going topless was acceptable. Elena, who is much more comfortable with nakedness than I, who am very, very, maybe embarrassingly, modest, so she was going to go topless, and I was going to wear my bathing suit top. That was until this tiny little woman who was in charge of the lockers in the hammam laughed (somewhat cruelly) at me, and removed my top for me. Okay...I will be naked in public. I can do that. I guess.

And I did. And it wasn't bad. If hammams existed in the States, I think body issues would be much less a problem than they are. It was actually really nice. Being warm, for one thing was incredible, and washing my hair, shaving my legs, and generally being clean was a sensation I was starting to forget about. The glory of the moment was dimmed slightly when we had to put on dirty clothes (still on the hunt for a laundry of some sort) but after we rewarded our cleanliness by buying these big pink frosted cakes and retiring to the hotel.

We really didn't DO that much in Meknes...we visited a Moroccan McDonalds (the McArabia is all the rage...I don't even want to think about that sociological discussion) where we were laughed at, we got lost in the Ville Nouvelle (new city, built by the French) ate strawberries (oh how I miss you!) and literally dozens of chocolate croissants and cups of coffee. We also got lost in the Medina. And that's how we met Bouchra.

Our last night in Meknes, after being denied a day trip to see the Roman ruins at Volubilis (a taxi was going to charge us 300 Dh, aka $45) we began to wander the cobble-stone streets of the Medina and got lost. It then got dark, and we began to get a little afraid. Out of the darkness, a man appeared, who tried to help us, but we sadly do not speak French, and upon realizing we spoke only Anglais he knocked on the door in the wall beside him, which was opened by a young woman, who he spoke to briefly, and then left us. We looked around awkwardly, and then the woman surprised the dirty jeans off of us by asking us in English where we were going. We told her where we were staying, and asked us if she could tell us the way. She replied that she would take us herself, but to come in first. We looked at each other, and decided to hope she didn't want to hurt/rob/eat us, and went inside.

Once inside, we met Bouchra's mother and father (who did not speak English) and her brother and sister in law, who served us coffee, and a plate of cookies. It was wonderful. Bouchra, had decided, out of the blue, to learn English at the American Language Institute in Morocco, and we talked with her about our trip thus far, our problems with language, Ghana, and her family for the next hour. She laughed heartily at us when we told her we had gone to the Hammam. Her family invited us to stay the night, but we politely declined, as we had already paid for our hotel. Bouchra then walked us home, where she made mean faces at all the creepy teenagers hanging out wanting to harass the hell out of tourist girls.

Meknes was by far my favorite city, mainly because we met some of the best people there. And, the pastries were to die for. The next day, New Year's Eve, we headed north to Fes.

I love you.