Wednesday 18 October 2017

Today we drive from Fes to Erfoud, in the Deep South of Morocco, and on the edge of the Sahara dunes.  The day does not start well for me, with the discovery that I have lost one of my precious gold stud earrings, which I bought in London’s Burlington Arcade last year. To replace the one I had lost in Paris.  Bummer, I thought I was being so careful too.

We are both still feeling as if we may never need to eat again, such is the size of the servings here, and we ignore the offerings which cause our breakfast table to groan under the weight of the pastries, crepes, honey crumpets, Moroccan omlette, pastries and fruit.  We stick to just the yoghurt and a cup of airline coffee.

Jillali picks us up in time to be at the Jnane Sbil Garden when it opens at 9am.  This is the garden we missed on Monday and yesterday but we know that we have limited time because we have a long drive today. i ask Jillali if he would kindly ring the Riad in Chefchaouen whilst we are in the gardens,  just to check that they haven’t found my earring.  These are peaceful gardens set in 7 acres in the centre of Fes, typical Islamic geometric design.

After 30 minutes we return to the van (which could so easily be mistaken for a hearse) to find Jillali at the coffee shop opposite with phone in one hand and the ubiquitous mint tea in the other.  Poor man did not understand what I had asked of him and he had been fretting the whole time.  He dialed the number and handed the phone to me.  The riad has not found the earring – frankly I would have been surprised if they had.  Pearls from now on for the rest of the trip!

We proceed to drive thru the centre of new Fes, a bustling city with tight security.  This is a 360 degree camera, cunningly disguised as a palm tree.

We head up the hills, and continue to experience police check points, as we have all along these drives in Morocco.  Cars are required to stop at the checkpoints and the police either question the driver or wave them through.  We are always waved through, no doubt out of respect for the dead, but we believe the police are on the lookout for illegal immigrants from Africa – the dreaded “black men” as Jillali refers to them, as did Obi.

We stop for coffee at Ifrane, a curious Swiss style alpine village, popular as a weekend resort for Moroccans.  It’s chilly and we have to extract jumpers from our luggage, for the first (and very possibly the last) time on this trip.  It’s a relief from the heat we have been experiencing, and even the coffee is good.

We are struggling to understand Jillali, and he is struggling equally.  His English is passable as a driver, but this poor man has found himself to be the tour guide and he is clearly frustrated at his inability to make himself understood.  We say OK a lot but more often than not don’t know what we’re saying OK to!  On the open road, in the middle of rocky countryside with nothing to be seen but some sheep

and a Berber hut

The hearse pulls up, Jillali comes round and opens the door.  Like obedient little children, we alight and follow this man, in his neat black trousers, shiny black shoes, blue shirt, snappy yellow and blue tie (mercifully the black jacket has not been sighted for a couple of days) through the dust and rocks, Sedum plants  (so my resident horticulturist tells me)

to the Berber shack.  Here we meet a Berber family

swoon over the new born lambs

and even enter their home

Fortunately we have some change in our pockets (we’ve learned that tips are appropriate at the most unexpected time) and we press some into the man’s hand.  This feels like such an instrusion into the lives of others, but what to do?  Do these people despise the tourists and their curiosity or does the cash help?  We are uncertain and we are unable to ask Jillali as such a complex question would send him into a tail spin.  Not a good look for an undertaker.

We are bundled back into the hearse and head up the Mid Atlas Mountains.  Such beautiful country but no photos as we really can’t do it justice from the moving van.

We drive through apple country and a town called Midelt, which must surely be mistaken for  New York

We follow the River Ziz and the most wonderful oases of palms, and Kasbah

All the schools in Morocco are painted the same bright colours, which really stand out against the otherwise monotone structures, and make them so easy to identify.

These two students of life are having a whale of a time, with the oasis in the background.

The journey continues, It’s lunchtime, but we only know this because the hearse pulls up at yet another tourist restaurant.  Out we get, but quickly get back into the van again.  It’s another set three course menu and we really can’t face so much food again. So we continue the journey, until another restaurant is offered at 3.30pm.  Again we refuse this one, as the only choice is a tagine, and we’re just not up to it.  But, there’s a little general store next door, so Cherrie opts for an ice cream and I have a packet of crisps.  Best lunch for a while!

 

We arrive at our hotel in Erfoud at about 4pm and spend a pleasant couple of hours by the pool, reading and blogging

There are lovely date palms here.  It’s date season

The peace is shattered by the arrival of two large tourist buses, one with Americans and the other with Chinese.  Oh, the noise…..

Dinner is a predictable affair, in a large dining room with huge tables to cater to the huge groups.  And a little table for two.  The buffet looks ghastly to us.  We are still feeling fooded out, and pick at some pasta and salad.  Shortly after returning to the room I feel extremely unwell but get over it during the night.  Cherrie doesn’t.  She has a bad case of diarrhoea and feels pretty awful.  Bound (perhaps poor choice of word) to happen, but the GastroStop we are carrying kicks into action eventually.

Ah Erfoud.  Ah the food.  To the Desert tomorrow and hopefully we’ll be feeling better.