Month: October 2017

 

Saturday 21 October 2017

A day of rest, except we were woken at 7am by a loud rap at the door. Cherrie opened it to a Berber man who spoke to her in native Berber.  I’m disappointed to report that she failed to understand him. He indicated that she was to go with him, but she stood her ground and told him, in her finest English, to bugger off. He did. We learned later that he had come to the wrong room to collect his tour patrons for the day. I hope they understood him.

We don’t leave the Kasbah today.  We do everything in a leisurely manner.  We breakfast, we stroll through the gardens of this lovely place,

we swim in the pool, we lunch, we read, we reunite with Lois and Gerry from the desert camp who are also staying here, and we generally refuel.  The food is lovely, today a little less western, a little more Moroccan.

The perfect holiday day.

 

Sunday 22 October 2017

This morning we go exploring with Abdul.  We are driven, in 4WD, across the river bed and into the heart of this extraordinary oasis.  This southern Moroccan desert is called the rocky desert, unlike the sandy desert of Mergouza where we were, with those wonderful dunes.

In the middle of this rocky country lies this huge oasis, 450 hectares of it.

UNESCO protected, as I have said. It is all fed by canals which were hand dug by the Romans (those Romans sure got around, and they were enterprising folk) and those same canals still feed the plantings today.

These Berbers live by traditional methods.  They grow alfalfa (aka lucerne), almonds, apricots, olives, corn, dates, quince, pomegranates, fava (aka broad) beans and parsley.   All in very salty water. The olives tolerate the salt, thrive on it in fact, and the dates bury down until they find clear water, which is not very far.  The others tolerate the salt because of the flooding watering method used.  A man is in charge of how much water each canal is fed, and he controls that with his hand shovel and simple damming.

The community lives in harmony with this water sharing system, it is, after all, the tradition.  The annual rainfall is only 200mm so the water from the alps is essential.  The dry river bed we drove through flows mightily apparently, during the season.

We are at 1200m above sea level but the high Atlas Mountains tower over us.

 

The planting routine is  determined by the amount of water they will get each year, and that is determined by looking at how much snow is on the high Atlas Mountains up there.  If there is a lot of snow, they know it will be a good  season and they plant accordingly.  If the snow is light (as it has been for the past few years – Tony please take note) then they plant crops which need less water.  They are pretty sanguine about it all.

There are kasbahs surrounding the oasis, in various stages of repair.

some even with important political messages (Tony, please take note)

From this amazing oasis we drive to a beautiful gorge, dare I suggest it was gorgeous?

We were provided with a picnic lunch, seated on a rug on the ground.  An incredible feat for me to get down and an even greater one to get up again.  I am unable to do either without considerable assistance, which is both irritating and embarrassing.  However, the good news about being on the sand is that it is a simple matter to dig a hole and bury the food which is not to our taste, so as not to offend.

Driving back to our Kasbah we pass both traditional and modern transport

Back home, we have another swim.  It is far hotter than normal and temperatures are soaring into the 30s (Tony please take note).

At 6.30pm we take a cooking class with Chef, a delightful and patient man with excellent English.  We cook our own dinner.  Well, actually, he cooks it while we add a cursory stir here and there but he is kind enough to suggest that if we enjoy it he cooked it and if we don’t we cooked it.

The resultant tomato crumble and chicken tagine was cooked by him!  Delicious, and fully Moroccan tonight.  Washed down with a glass of Moroccan Cabernet.

For those of you who have given me feedback that the blog is negative and not conducive to a trip to Morocco, please take note.  Another glorious day in Morocco.

Friday 20 October 2017

We wake up in our tent on the Sahara, which is just as well, really, as that is where we went to sleep.  All is much the same, except I went to sleep at 67 and woke up at 68.  We actually were both woken shortly after midnight by the conversation of Lois and Gerry, who don’t quite get the concept of voices carrying in the quiet.  I guess that’s what living in NYC does for you?  Or is it perhaps what being a Brooklyn realtor does for you?  Anyway, we respond to our 6.15am alarm and quietly (wouldn’t want to wake the neighbours) make our way up the almost impassable dune, courtesy of our two charming berbers, to the camels. Omar greets us warmly, and in the dark we make our way across the dunes.  It’s a glorious time of day.  We settle at the top, well, almost the top, of a dune and we alight.  We face east, Algeria.  The border between Algeria and Morocco is closed, has been for some time I gather.  But most of the Sahara is in Algeria, and how spectacular that must be.

But we happily stand (unlike Omar, who has plonked himself down on the ground) and watch this happen

 

 

We returned to camp

And a delicious breakfast of Berger omlette – cooked in a tagine.  Egg with spicy tomato. More airline coffee but beautiful breads etc accompany it all. We do not eat much, but do devour the omlette, which is mercifully small.

The time has come to climb that dune one last time.  It takes a whole tribe of Berbers to get me up the top.  Even Cherrie’s camera revolted, so no photos of this momentous event.

We travel back across the dunes in the trusty Toyota with Hasaan at the wheel and Jillali next to him.  We get to the cafe where the hearse is parked.  We are sat once again at the pavement tables and Jillali disappears.  For at least 20 minutes.  But then he arrives and in we hop.

Head to Tinghir and visit a Kasbah, which is really quite interesting.

Another couple have arrived at the same time and their guide has better English than Jillali, and they give us their blessing to tack on to their tour of the small museum.  We mix with the locals a bit, which is fun.

A small commercial enterprise here is the woman hand sewing the traditional brightly coloured shawls, with hand patterned embroidery and tassels

An hour or so further down the road, Jillali makes another unexpected stop and out we get and meet yet another Berber guide, who walks us through a Kasbah which houses several families.

The water is gathered from just a few wells, and carried by the women.  The men seem busy sitting around chatting. Except this guide, who does the demonstration for the camera!

Our guide tells us he will take us into his home and meet his family.  We reach for the tip.  He takes us into a large home, beautifully clean and surprisingly modern.  We are introduced to two male members of his family who speak perfect English, and accept their offer of mint tea.  But, hey ho, this ain’t no home.  This is a carpet warehouse.  What a surprise.  We tell them that we don’t wish to offend but we are not buying.  They assure us they will not be offended, and lead us up several flights of stairs, each level containing many carpets, all for sale to us for a special price since we are so lovely.  I toy with the notion of how long it would take a Berber to topple down five flights of stairs, but I restrain myself.  We finally extracate ourselves from the hard sell and flee back to the hearse.  It is some time before the opportunity arises to tell Jillali that we had this experience and he is furious.  He wants to execute a U Turn immediately and have us show him the house.  Well, there is no way in the world we could have found it, nor did we want a scene, so we convince him to wait until next time and he can talk to the guide himself and express his disappointment.

On to lunch. Another tourist restaurant, where ‘safe’ food is served, but again a set price three course menu.  We, of course, don’t want three courses (it is this sort of restraint that keeps us slim you know) but we do have a small bowl of soup and a kebab.  We pay full price, as expected, plus more for water.  When we make a passing remark to Jillali later that we wish we could find somewhere other than a 3 course restaurant because we only ever eat two courses, he practically explodes.  He is furious with the restaurant, slams on the breaks, and executes that U Turn.  We plead with him to do nothing.  It is not the fault of the restaurant. It is the way things are.  We are sorry for mentioning it.  Please turn around and continue on.  Mercifully he does.

We drive to the beautiful Todra Gorge.  Jillali pulls up in the middle of the road, opens the door for us, and says we will walk with him through the gorge. We wait while he drives off, presumably to park.  But he never comes back.  After a while we realise that he probably meant “You will walk TO me”, not WITH me.  Fortunately, I noticed which direction he had driven off in, and so we walked.  And, there he was.  Waiting for us!  The gorge is beautifuL

It is now time to proceed to Skoura, our stop for the next 3 nights.  Skoura lies between the peaks of the High Atlas Mountains and the South Moroccan desert.  To get there we go back the way we have come.  Suddenly, the van stops outside the restaurant where we lunched, Jillali leaps out and charges into the restaurant.  Our hearts fall.  Soon enough, a restaurateur is knocking on the door, with Jillali by his side, asking what our problem was.  He was not unpleasant about it, quite genuinely concerned I think.  We explain that it is a misunderstanding, that we did not want 3 courses and did not eat 3 courses and that we just expressed our wish that we could sometimes eat where we can choose just one course (preferably not a Berber pizza though).  He offered us the fruit for dessert, which we declined.  We apologised and thanked him and set off on our way.  A few kilometres down the road, Jillali draws to another stop and asks us to show him the carpet house.  We both yell at him, very politely, to leave it till next time and PLEASE can we get to Skoura.  We know it’s another 2 hour drive.

Through the valley of a thousand kasbahs

and into the wonderful oasis UNESCO protected oasis of Skoura

We are welcomed to this glorious Kasbah  personally, by the very charming and urbane manager, a Frenchman with a Moroccan father.  We are escorted to a huge room which is very comfortable, amongst beautiful gardens.  A true oasis indeed.

A couple of glasses of birthday champagnes (for me, she doens’t drink white wine, so I can’t justify a bottle) and to a truly delicious dinner.  Our hosts had anticipated that we might prefer a more western meal tonight, having been in Morocco for some time and perhaps our palates would enjoy a stray from tagine.

We retire for the night, looking forward to two days rest in this oasis.

 

Thursday 19 October 2017

After a bad night, we opt for nothing to eat or drink before heading off to the desert. Jillali collects us at 9am. Today we are bound for the Sahara Desert. I am feeling ok but Cherrie is apprehensive about her stomach. The luggage will stay at the hotel and we’ll collect it later, Jillali tells us. We are coming back here before going to the desert. We have already decanted our desert garb into just one small bag, the cases to stay in the hearse overnight. The hotel does not accept our luggage so it goes into the hearse immediately. Just as well, for we don’t come back here at all.  Apparently we never were going to meet the 4WD here!

Our first stop is at a fossil place. This is fossil country, harvested from the mountains nearby, with huge machinery cutting great slabs of these ancient rocks. This is surely an environmental disaster? The fossils are amazing, and are sold as bench tops, basins, tables, any number of things.

We continue south to Rissani, home to more centuries old palm groves, and a mausoleum, which we could really do without but which Jillali is keen to show us in his new found role as tour guide. He is extremely proud of the mosque, which of course we are forbidden to enter, but he nearly weeps as he tells us this is where his god lives. His faith is a sense of great pride and is quite touching. He prays five times a day he tells us, but we have not witnessed this at all. His prayers are private and obviously only when he can fit them in around our itinerary.

Our guide around the mausoleum is a Berber. We are in true Berber country here, and he wears traditional camel hair sandals.

We move onto Rissani. It’s still only 10.30am and Jillali is struggling with what to do with us. We would be happy to just keep moving, but he wants to fulfill his role as tour guide and so we follow him through the busy Thursday souk, offering all sorts of goods, from the traditional stuff you expect

to traditional satellite dishes

 

And the food, which for good reason, we find offal

Turkey anyone?

The women in this area wear black and many of them are in the full burqua. We haven’t seen much of this elsewhere. We are in a truly traditional part of the country and it is obvious from both the dress and the demeanour of the Berbers.

After the souk Jillali takes us on a date. A double date. After all, it’s date season here and the speed dating market is hopping.

And then to lunch! Despite our protestations. He has organised this in advance and we really don’t want to disappoint him. It’s only midday. An outrageously early time to eat lunch in this country, but he’s run out of things to do with us. We follow him down an alley and into a restaurant. Which is closed. But not to be deterred, he calls out and someone appears and turns the lights on. We are shown into a private dining room and seated at a table. And left there. For an hour. Jillali is heard in another room talking to his friends, and we are sitting at this table where we don’t want to be, awaiting some special food we don’t want to eat. We have told Jillali repeatedly “un pur”. Eventually, at 1pm, a huge salad arrives, which frankly looks very unappetising. We order a bottle of water and reject the salad. The proprietor runs from the room in a panic and shortly after our translator, Jillali, runs in. “Something wrong?” he asks. “No, we just don’t want to eat much and if we eat the salad we will not be able to eat your special meal”. So, salad is removed. Another half hour of waiting and eventually the surprise arrives. A Berber pizza. Yum, just what we are craving. Not. It’s not dissimilar to the Bedouin pizza we made at our cooking class in Petra. Essentially spiced beef inserted inside flat bread and oven baked. This is not what we feel like eating. Fortunately, after our pseudo-delighted first taste, Jillali leaves us to go and pray. Our prayers are answered by a packet of tissues into which 50% of the meal is placed, and in turn that goes into my backpack. We think that leaving the other half of the lunch is not impolite, besides not enough tissues and not enough room in the backpack.

Jillali returns, we confirm how deliciously delightful this surprise lunch was, and we pay an exorbitant bill, which of course includes the salad. And the water.

We proceed to a rendezvous point for a 4WD which is to take us into the desert. Except we don’t really know this. Jillali dispenses us at a table for two outside a cafe and drives off. Where are we? What are we to do? We trust our driver, we know he is responsible, his communication skills are lacking, that’s all. I take advantage of his absence to find a bin to dump the lunch. We seem to have spent much of today waiting. Eventually he returns, a Toyota Prada behind him, and we are baled into the Prada with our overnight bag and one bottle of the wine we bought a couple of days prior. Jillali joins us in the car, having parked the hearse behind the cafe. Hasaan, a Berber (how good looking these young Berber men are, delightfully polite and attentive) drives the three of us to the desert. First over sealed roads, and then over sand dunes. We arrive at our tented camp, and struggle to get down the steep dune. It’s a test on the legs, even Cherrie’s.

We are surprised to find that Jillali has the tent next to ours. I guess he has earned this relevant luxury because he has done his best to look after us since we arranged for the premature axing of Obi.

It’s about 5pm when we arrive at camp and at 6pm we are to take a camel ride to view the sunset over the Sahara.

Getting up the dune is a test like no other. It takes two strong, and very charming, Berbers to get me up.

Omar is our cameleer and what a sweet young man. We guess about 16.  I’ve drawn a map of the world, an abbreviated one, to try to show Omar where Australia is. He could be forgiven for thinking we live on Mars.

Sunset in the Sahara is quite something. The dunes magnificent, the atmosphere peaceful, until a large group of Chinese atop camels ride by screaming as if a desert fox has embedded its teeth where teeth should never be.  Many other groups of tourists on camels are better behaved and there are plenty of sand dunes between us all.  The peace is once again broken by a dune bashing Toyota – oh what a feeling that is.

But, it is a wonderful experience and we know how privileged we are to be here, looking at the mountain range which is the Algerian border.

We even like our camels, albeit their halitosis.

Back to camp an hour or so later,

 

arrangements made with Omar for a sunrise pick up, and a drink of that lovely Bordeaux we bought by the fire before retiring to the dinner tent for quite the best meal we have yet had in Morocco. Avocado salad, lamb tagine, fresh fruit. Yummo, and tummies feeling better. Only two other guests in camp who we meet at dinner. Lois and Gerry are New Yorkers who own a real estate business in Brooklyn and a second apartment in Jerusalem, which they go to several times a year. They were in Morocco last year and loved it so much they are back, with their same guide. Lucky them – their guide is fluent in English!

And so to bed.  In a tent.  In the Sahara.  Que Sera Sera

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.

 

The best joke of the last blog got edited out by some stroke of misfortune.  Here  it is…on the way back to Fes from the ABR

Good gourd.  Is that an ass with a pumpkin?