Tea in Morocco
In the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit? a giant brick wall separates Toontown and Los Angeles, from behind it flows a medley of car horns, screeching tyres, endless music, wailing, shouting and a general impression of mayhem and disorder. At the Melilla - Nador border, between Spain and Morocco, Europe and Africa, I stood at the entrance of a real life Toontown. A gentle, tempting, Mediterranean breeze brushed against my back as I approached the main gate. Behind me a landscape of Spanish architecture, cafés with umbrelled tables serving tapas, modern efficient transport and clean streets dared me to leave. Up ahead, manic conductors shouted at potential commuters, fruit sellers thrust their wares in the faces of potential customers and border officials tried in vain to maintain an illusion of order. Without a backwards glance I handed over my passport, heard the click and thud and took one small step for man. In my search for a bus to Fes I traversed through a tumult of instructions, demands and pleas from every trader, tout and con man who tried to relieve me of my last euro and first dirham. I breaststroked my way through wads of jewellery, trinkets, currency, bottles of water and slimy hands, all encouraging me towards this or that bus company and all of which, coincidentally, happened to be the best in Morocco.
'This way sir! Fes, Fes.'
'Over here sir! Casablanca!'
'Bus sir? Where are you going? You have ticket?'
'Exchange sir? You have dirhams? I have good price.'
'Come this way, here, over here, this way.'
'Bus is this way sir, not over there.'
'You want a camel, cigarette, lady?'
After choosing a bus, I could, from the relative safety of my seat, take a breath and observe the chaos I had entered.
Welcome to Toontown.
My first destination was Fes, an ancient inland northern city on the edge of the Atlas Mountain range. On the ride from Nador we passed through a surprisingly green, hilly countryside. When we drew closer to Fes, the housing grew denser and the centuries of in absentia city planning was evident for all to see. Concrete block houses erected at will and strewn across the rooftops, a web of aerials. Each house had at least two, if not three or four, some even boasted a giant satellite dish. They were shoddily attached, many propping each other up. With the houses in such close proximity to each other, the mass of wire and cables looked like oversized pick up sticks, randomly thrown over the neighbourhood.
Fes, the largest and oldest medieval city in the world, is Morocco's fourth largest with a population of just under one million. The city is divided into three sections - Fes el-Bali (the old city), Fes el-Jdid (the new city) and Ville Nouvelle (the administrative area). Fes el-Bali, the old walled city, became a UNESCO world heritage site in 1981 and for good reason. Fes' Medina, is an intricate cluster of cobble stoned laneways and alleyways. Two and three storey buildings line the paths, spotted with wooden shutters, pot plants sit on the window sills. Expressionless faces peer out from inside the dark openings, silently watching those below. The Mosques, which pepper the Medina, have magnificent, intricately patterned doors. In front, groups of bearded and stubbly old men, in their hooded cloaks, slowly move prayer beads through their fingers and chat leisurely with one another. The traders throughout the Medina sell a range of spices, sequined dresses, camel trinkets, pointed slippers, severed goats heads and of course, tea. Finally, the Medina is enclosed by high brick walls, centuries old. If not for the mobile phones it could have been any time from the last few hundred years.
Every day in the Medina I discovered something new and with so much happening in there at once, it is easy, for a novice, to miss some things. Wandering through the laneways I had to hastily make way for donkey driven carts, hissing delivery boys pulling handcarts, the hordes of unofficial tour guides and the swarm of people going about their daily business. Add the uniformity of the Medina's exterior designing and it is easy to become lost inside and end up walking around in circles without even noticing. This effect is deliberate. Many Medinas in Morocco were designed in such a way to confuse and slow down invaders. Now they confuse and slow down travellers. One afternoon, as I rounded a corner for the third time, I looked to my left and discovered a Medina delicacy - the Moroccan bread. The crepe thin, pan fried bread is ordered by the hundred grams and sprinkled with sugar. I handed over my dirhams and the vendor folded several pieces and carefully slid them into a small plastic bag. The oily warmth of the freshly cooked bread slithered up my forearm. The sugary goodness provided the sustenance to continue my walking in circles.
When the aimless wandering, bustling crowds and market noise became too much, I made for an exit and found a hill out the back. I sat stretched out on the grass, picked pieces of my sugar bread and watched a group of boys playing football, while taking in an aerial view of the Medina. It was a calming break from the bustling and claustrophobic Medina laneways and a moment of rare serenity in a busy city.
One of the sights I wanted to see in Fes was the famous tanneries, where animal skins are soaked in giant clay vats filled with colourful dyes and turned into leather. The workers, so I heard, stood knee deep in the dyes plunging the skins up and down and they gradually changed colour - the skins, not the workers. I did not want to be ripped off by one of the official or unofficial tour guides taking me to a fake tannery, so when I spotted a group of package tourists being herded through a door and up a stairwell I discreetly joined the back of the queue. We circled up the stairwell and on the way each of us was handed a sprig of mint leaves. After I received mine, I dropped it to the ground, pretending to put it in my pocket. Being last in line nobody noticed. Always be one step ahead, I thought - someone will be asking for a tip for giving me that - suckers, you won't be getting a tip out of me! I felt pleased with myself. We continued up the stairwell, to the roof of the building. I stepped out into the sunlight and the massive vats appeared below. Instantly I wished for my mint leaf. The smell wafting from the vats hit me like two putrid fingers rammed up my nostrils and instantly changed the expression on my face. It lifted my eyebrows, contorted my face muscles and left me gasping for air - all at once and all involuntarily. I frantically scanned the ground for discarded mint leaves. Nothing. I would have even settled for a piece of cloth or used tissue. But, alas. Around me the package tourists casually rested mint leaves on their upper lips and took in the sight with minimal discomfort. Damn, I thought, I'm not so clever after all. One by one they left and descended the spiral staircase, taking their mint leaves with them. I had come, I had seen and I had smelt and it was enough for me too. Despite the stench, the tanneries were an impressive sight - but if you visit remember not to throw the mint leaves away.
Rabat, west of Fes and on the Moroccan coast, was my next destination, another multi-dimensional city where the Moroccan old world rubs shoulders with the new. The smaller, yet still impressive Medina dating from the 17th century contrasts the bland diplomatic and administrative buildings. Rabat's oldest Mosque, built in the 12th century is the Kasbah des Oudaias. After successfully navigating the winding laneways of the Kasbah I stumbled upon a small open air café. The walls were covered in the typical Moroccan style of hundreds of thousands of miniature blue and white tiles, while intricately patterned concrete tables grew proudly from the floor, accompanied by red plastic Coca Cola chairs. I sat, ordered a mint tea and enjoyed the comforts of the new world and the beauty of the old. The café overlooked the water and Royal Palace, offering a postcard view. At dusk it was the ideal pit stop to see the waves rolling in and the lights of the Royal Palace gradually illuminate the night sky as the sun set over the bay.
Rabat was also where I met Clare, an Irish backpacker who was heading in roughly the same direction as me although in twice the time and Mac, a Japanese traveller who was driving uninsured and on an expired international licence from London to Dakar in Senegal. His licence had long since expired, so Mac had crumpled it, scratched it and poured coffee over it, to make it as illegible as possible. He also drew over the 2005 to make it read 2006. By the time he had finished it was barely recognisable as anything but a scrap of laminated paper, let alone a licence and official means of identification. An old British insurance sticker in the bottom left corner of Mac's windscreen was his insurance against having no insurance. If he was convincing enough he assumed most police in Morocco would believe he was covered through the English insurance company. Mac had raised the funds for his trip, two thousand British pounds, after seeing an advertisement in a British newspaper seeking volunteers for medical trials. For two weeks Mac swallowed an assortment of pills and gave his blood every three hours. The man was dedicated and it was his quirky nature through which we connected. From Rabat, we headed to Casablanca to buy our visas for Mauritania.
We arrived in Casablanca on St. Patrick's Day, taking the coast road from Rabat. Mac's air conditioning was broken, so we...
