Category: 2Cs OverCs

Sunday 15 October 2017

Today Jillali, back in suit and tie, drives us from Chefchaouen to Fes. It’s a 5 hour drive through really lovely farming country.

Agriculture is a big part of the Moroccan economy – agriculture and tourism.  We pass by orange orchards, olive groves, wheat fields and chickpea crops.  The donkeys are working hard here, hauling carts full of produce, often with huge sacks on their backs too.  They are such strong, sturdy creatures in tiny bodies.

It is said that Fes is the cultural heart of Morocco and is home to the world’s first university, founded in the 8th century….by a woman amazingly enough.

We are staying, once again, in an old riad (meaning house) with a wonderful internal courtyard, in the sprawling medina – the largest in the world and a UNESCO cultural heritage site.  But check in is not until 3pm in Morocco and it is now only 1pm, so Jillali parks near the Medina and takes us for a stroll,  As ever, it is a bustling place with people, donkeys, stalls and a variety of goods.

There are a whole lot of other foodstuffs we could have photographed, but one must draw the line somewhere.  At the camel and goat heads for example, the live chickens tied up, the offal (just offally awful) and the flies.

Jillali is a tall, good looking man, in a smart blue shirt and bright yellow and blue striped tie. He looks more like a banker than a tour driver and we follow him through the crowds.  Eventually, having first sought our permission, he ditches the tie and dons a white cap.  We are now focussed on the cap to keep up. He stops and shakes hands, people are happy to see him.  He borrows 5 dirham from Cherrie and buys two eggs.  We keep walking, no words.  Then we stop at a meat stall and watch while the butcher minces some meat, adds herbs and spices, and the eggs.

Mixes it well, puts in a bag and gives it to Jillali.  We suspect this might be for us so we insist on paying.  A pittance.  We then execute a U-Turn and back to a tiny cooking stall, the proprietor of which greeted Jillali warmly earlier.  The meat is kneaded onto the skewers, beef liver cubes are added to other skewers and all goes onto the hot coals.

“Salads, patates?” asks Jillali. “Oui” we nod as we are directed to a pair of makeshift stools at the front of the stall.  Jillali is intent on looking after us.  Once the meat is cooked and three saucers of chopped tomato and cucumber and three saucers of fries are delivered from a nearby stall, we are ushered inside the stall.  We didn’t even know the stall had an inside, but indeed on closer inspection there is a table and bench.  Lunch is served.

And it’s delicious.  This is where Jillali eats whenever he is in town.  He stays at a hotel around the corner and comes to this stall for lunch and dinner.  He has entertained us today, and is proud as punch.  The stall owner has Jillali take a photo of us with him, he too is proud to have fed some westerners and we are sated.  Frankly, some of the best food we have eaten in Morocco.  So simple, so tasty.

We are escorted back to van to collect our luggage and then to the riad, where Jillali leaves us to await check in.  But not before he tells us he loves us.  He is clearly thrilled to be able to show us his country.  He has not been a guide before and he is lapping it up.

The riad is lovely, as they all are.  We sit in a beautifully tiled internal courtyard, with fountain running, for half an hour or so until our room is ready.

 

 

As always, we are ushered to a twin room (despite the booking being for a double) and, as always, we reject it and ask for a double.  No sign of disapproval if there is any, simply a new room.  They are a friendly and polite people, these Moroccans.  Our room opens on to the courtyard, but we have privacy behind these heavy doors

We dine in tonight, mercifully with a bottle of wine.  A Moroccan Cabernet merlot and very palatable.  Not in a plastic water bottle either.

Monday 16 October 2017

We are met by our guide.  Farida is a gorgeous woman in her late 20s we suspect.  She is in a Djellaba (robe) of a lovely green, and a patterned hijab.

Her English is excellent, her religious beliefs strong and her sense of humour in tact.  Jillali is with her this morning (in tie but no sign of the coat, thankfully) and he drives us to New Fes, outside of the Medina and established in the 14th century (hence “new” Fes).  We drive past one of eight imperial palaces, look down on the old Medina

see more storks (which migrate from Latvia each year, so my Latvian niece tells me – Signe I think you became my niece when you married Tim)

Jillali drops us at the old Medina and leaves us for the day in the capable hands of Farida.  She grew up here and she knows it like the back of her hand.  This narrow, winding maze has a surprise around every corner and we spend six fascinating hours exploring many of those corners.

There is so much more to the Medina than the stalls.  160,000 people call this home.  There are 18 primary schools, 12 secondary schools, several libraries, hospitals etc.  No cars though.  If an ambulance is required, the nearest donkey is called.

In the course of today, we see so much.  The leather auctions and the tannery,

inside lavish buildings which are now home to carpet sellers, libraries, restaurants, museums, hotels etc

There are 30,000 artisans in this Medina, and we see a lot of them!

We even meet a man whose job it is to keep the water hot for the Hammam (or community baths).  He works from 9am until 11pm each day, sometimes until midnight.  He puts wood shavings, from the woodworking section of the Medina, into the fire and stokes it.  For hours on end. I’ll never complain about picking fireweed again.  Maybe

In the event that the YES vote gets up, Cherrie fancies the red but I’ve never looked good in white.  Might have to go the blue I think

We ask Farida for a dinner recommendation, thinking it would be nice to eat somewhere other than the riad tonight.  She points out a little restaurant and we make a booking.  As its clear that anyone who has not lived here for years will never find their way to the same spot a second time, the restaurant arranges for an escort to and from dinner.  We book for 8pm.

After a long and most informative day in the company of this delightful guide, we say goodbye to her at our riad and have a rest.  At 8pm we receive the gentleman caller, plus two women from New York who are staying in a nearby riad.  We walk to the nearest Medina gate, get in his car and are driven around the Medina to the nearest gate to the restaurant and then walk to it.  By now we are bosom buddies with Marjorie and Marilyn and the four of us eat together.  They have done a gentle  hiking tour in the high Atlas Mountains and are interesting and fun women who are appalled at the current US administration.  It is pleasant to be able to converse at length with English native speakers and we enjoy their company.

At last we find a menu which offers something other than tagine and both Cherrie and I partake in a chicken pie, which is absolutely delicious.  We enjoy friendly service in the home of the restaurteurs.  It’s 11pm before we are escorted, by foot and car, back home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday 13 October 2017

As reported in the last blog, we had advised our travel agent as to our concerns about our guide and we were assured that we had been heard.  Indeed we had, for this morning, despite being met by Obi and the undertaker and ensconced in the van about to take off, everything changed.  That’s when the phone call came through reassigning Obi to another job.  So the hearse proceeded to the Rabat railway station where we dropped Mohammed off and so Jillali, Cherrie and I proceeded to Chefchaouen, the famous blue city in the Rif mountains right up north.

Jillali has never been tour guide before but his English is a good as Obi’s, his accent as strong, but he is a charming man with a great sense of humour.  He behaves as if a great weight has been lifted and we wonder if he also had difficulty with Obi.  He even asks if we would like music and when we say yes he puts on Hotel California and bops away on the steering wheel. It’s a lot of fun.  I make a mental note to carry my Travelcalm with me, as I get quite car sick climbing those mountains, hugging the bumper bar in front, with Jillali’s lead foot on the accelerator.  He is a safe driver – it’s just the Moroccan way!

At our fist stop Jillali removes his black suit coat.  This is progress surely.  He teaches us some Arabic, amongst many laughs.  We learn, or try to, “good morning”, “no problem”, “hi” and “thankyou”.

We drive through beautiful farming country with heaps of greenhouses, really just big plastic tents, full of bananas.ploughed fields, conifer forestry and olive groves.  And, eucalyptus trees everywhere.

When we arrive at Chefchaouen we have to park outside the Medina and our suitcases are transported by foot up steep, narrow paths and stone steps to the beautiful Ryad where we are to spend the next two nights.  Jillali supervises our check in procedures and then leaves us until tomorrow morning.  We are starving.  It’s 3.30pm and we are desperate for lunch.  We venture out into the busy Medina in search of tucker and confess to having trouble finding any which looks palatable

We eventually climb some steps to a cafe with 2 tables, a large TV screening the under 16 womens football finals, between North and South Korea (North won) and devour a beef tagine made by the young man who runs the place.  I think he said it was his mother’s recipe and if he didn’t then he is left wondering why I am so enthusiastic in my praise of his mother.

Saturday 14 October 

This morning we meet Jillali (now out of his tie too) in the foyer and he introduces us to our local guide for today.  Meet Abdu Salam.  A charming, funny and energitic man who is fluent in the extreme in English, French and Spanish, as well as Arabic.  He is a local and planning to stand for Mayor in 2020.  I’m sure he’ll get there. HIs charm meter is positively in overdrive and many of the local are clearly happy to see him.  We have a two hour walking tour with Abdu Salam, which is both fun and informative.

This place, Chefchaouen, the blue city was founded in the 15th Century and housed the Jews and Muslims from Spain.

They cohabited happily for centuries and there is still 1% of the population who are Jews.  No synagogue any more though but the blue comes from the Jewish tradition of painting their houses blue.  These days the houses are painted three times a year, and until recently have always been painted by the women (of course).  More recently the blue has tended to go higher and the men have to  now get involved up the ladder.  Otherwise it’s still girl power.

It is such a pretty place.  A thriving little town within the Medina which covers 4 1/2 acres and houses 18,000 people.  The primary industry these days is tourism and so the locals bear the hoardes as they point their cameras at their doors

into their streets, into their houses and into their lives.

We’ve had hot weather, hotter than ever we expected, since we left home and Abdu Salam tells us that his wife has invented a 13th month of the year, Augustober.  It’s August heat in October.  Tony, get over here and bring your budgie smugglers.

Our guide leaves us and we spend the rest of the day getting lost in the laneways and hills of this gorgeous place.  There are lots of water fountains which are fed by spring water, safe to drink. We did not test the theory but continue to carry water bottles with us.

The streets are narrow and care must be taken to avoid traffic

The colours of the fabrics and rugs are vibrant, and add to the beauty of the old town

We have noticed in Morocco that the tree trunks are painted, an insect and animal deterrent.  In Chefchaouen they are, of course, painted blue

Wait, is that Obe stalking us?  Or is he waiting for his tagine?

We are in an Islamic country, predominantly non alcoholic.   Our riad does not serve wine, indeed there is only one hotel in the whole town (and it’s outside of the Medina) which serves alcohol.  It’s been a few days now, and I’m starting to get the shakes. Maybe.  Mercifully, our wonderful travel agent had arranged for a bottle of Moroccan rose to be in our room in Rabat, which we carried with us. Tonight we prise it open, decant it into plastic water bottles (in what Cherrie tells me is boarding school style) and sit up on the gorgeous roof top terrace in the cool evening air, sipping pink water from plastic bottles.  We’re all class!

It’s a gorgeous view from up here, and we sip our ‘water’ contendely, listen to the call to prayer (five times a day) and look at the houses on the hillside

Then we go to dinner.  Such a difficult choice

 

 

 

 

Wednesday 11 October 2017

We arrive in Casablanca at 1pm, after an 8 hour flight from Dubai.  Emirates offered wonderful service and an extremely comfortable flight.  We are full of praise this time.  Our luggage had been checked through all the way from Amman (we had an 11 hour stopover in Dubai and had booked a hotel room in the terminal so we got some sleep) but when it didn’t come through after an hour at the carousel we were convinced it was in Romania. Or somewhere it shouldn’t be.  However, it had been removed from the carousel 50 minutes earlier by an efficient baggage handler because it said “urgent international transfer” and so he kindly hid it to a corner in the terminal for us.  Eventually we found it and exited to the public area where we had been told we would find our guide.  No guide. After another 15 minutes we went outside, and indeed there he was.  We were met by Obi-Wan Kenobi (aka Mohammed)

 

 

And our driver Jillali,who was dressed in a black suit with collar and tie. It is 36 degrees.  He looks like an undertaker.  We enter the hearse and are spirited away to tour the huge Hassan II Mosque, which was opened in 1993.  It can house up to 25,000 worshippers.  Obi waits outside and the undertaker in the hearse.  We then re-enter the vehicle and commence our one hour drive north  to Morocco’s capital, Rabat, on the Atlantic.  It quickly becomes obvious to us both that Obi is not the guide we want to spend the next three weeks with.  He is extremely traditional, is strongly accented so that neither of us can easily understand him and has not a hint of levity.  However, we know that we need to give him the benefit of the doubt and that he may, after all, work out well.  Finally he goes to sleep in the front seat, giving us some respite.  Until the undertaker wakes him up.  Three times.  He awakens with a start and just starts talking again, as if the narcolepsy had never kicked in.  To hear him we have to lean forward in our seats and strain our ears.  To make matters worse, Obi doesn’t like air conditioning and so the car windows are open to all the ambient noise.  And the heat.

When we arrive at our lovely accommodation in Rabat, in an old private villa, we email our travel agent with a heads up that perhaps Obi is not the man for us, but we  offer tomorrow as the test day.

We go downstairs for dinner and find James Morrison in the bar.  Shouldn’t he have been in Jericho?

Thursday 12 October

Obi and Jillali (still in black suit) take us on a tour of Rabat, the greenest city in Morocco. It is very pretty.  We visit the old Roman city of Chella and the Andalucian  gardens, all at Obi’s pace.  Heaven forfend if we want to take another route.

 

 

We visit the Medina, where Obi walks us through the bustling markets, with strict instructions not to take photos. It’s a shame because there is so much to shoot.  The only things Obi points out are the women’s underwear (which we have mistaken for pyjamas), and the bakery which he says is for lazy women – why buy bread when you should be making it?  We, as is to be expected, defy orders and Cherrie takes a few clandestine shots, of black olive oil soap and some cute tortises, which are apparently for pets not consumption.

After the Medina we visit the Kasbah,  En route see lots of hawkers, who Obi says are refugees from Africa and who are ruining the country, for the ‘real people’.  This man must be related to Tony surely?  The Kasbah must have one of the best views in Rabat.  It’s right on the Atlantic and we see why it was the first place settled.

Originally we were to visit the botanic gardens but Cherrie has researched them and is not overly keen.  We ask to visit the Museum Mohamed VI of Modern and Contempory Art instead but Obi resists and eventually seeks permission from his local office for this outrageous deviation in the itinerary.

But first to lunch.  At a restaurant of Obi’s choice, whether we like it or not.  Mercifully he does not join us. We are noting the major language barrier in Morocco. The two main languages are Arabic and French, which is understandable, but no English written anywhere.  Di McDonald, we are missing your language skills.  We recognise none of the dishes on the menu (we can always find our way around a menu in France) and as a result we consume some rather unpalatable fish, albeit with wonderful ocean views.

The Museum is wonderful.  This time Obi accompanies us, and takes more photos  on his mobile than Cherrie does on her camera.  He clearly is surprised at how pleasant the gallery is.

There was even an abstract of us rolling around in the Dead Sea

We return to our lovely accommodation in time for a swim in their delightful pool surrounded by the beautiful gardens

An email to our travel agent confirming our concern that we don’t want to spend any more time with Obi is responded to with admirable sensitivity and speed.  Obi is called to administer his special skills on a delicate job in Casablanca and tomorrow we proceed to the magnificent blue city of Chefchaouen with just our driver, to pick a local day guide in situ.

Forgot to post these two pics. The first is the shoreline. Pebbles and salt.

Second is the sea bed cliff.  Looks like something in a lolly shop I think  it’s salt and something else (Bryan?) and crumbles in your hand like a biscuit

 

 

Sunday 8 October 2017

Aqaba is on the Red Sea. We were so close to it at Wadi Rum that it seemed a shame not to take the opportunity to dip our toes in. This is where Lawrence successfully led the Arabs to overtake the Turks from behind. Victory.

Aqaba is a tourist destination. The cruise ships come in here and the passengers take day trips to Petra (I suspect they don’t go beyond the Treasury) or to Wadi Rum (where probably, like me, they stay glued to the seat in the back of the ute)

We visit the beach

Indeed, there is good reason that Australian beaches are so lauded. This is one of the most popular beaches in Jordan. Men sit and smoke hookahs, and women sit with their bodies covered and look after the children.

We don’t dip our toes into the Red Sea on this occasion, but we do lap the water with our hands. Which then smell of diesel. No, we don’t want to swim in this part of the Red Sea after all, but at least we’ve touched it.

We then walk through town, a typical bustling seaside affair, with shops full of beach toys, leisure clothing and nuts and spices.

A lunch of grilled fish today, a nice change from chicken, rice and dips, and then back in the van headed to the Dead Sea. We’re taking the coastal route, which can’t be driven safely in summer for fear of tyres melting on the hot road! This is more verdant country,

with water catchment from underground aquafers

 

And, hang on, that green over is Israel!

We are so close, but Murad tells us that if we walked the 50m across that field bullets would ring out within seconds. Jordan guards Israel at gunpoint. One Jordanian in our car is not impressed. Raed is more quiet about his feelings. We have passed through a number of checkpoints, where the cars pull up, guards check with the driver as to destination and who he is carrying, occasionally a guard might look in the car, even open the boot, but we are always waved through. We are grateful that we are with our trusty guides but never have we felt even vaguely threatened or unsafe in this country.

It’s a pleasant drive and a relief to see some greenery. We pass a huge potash mine, which helps the economy of Jordan, and a bromide plant.

And then we sight the Dead Sea.

It’s 90km long, with Jordan on one side and Israel and the West Bank on the other. All within easy sight. Tragically, the sea is in real danger. The level is falling at an alarming rate of 1m per year. Due both to global warming (Tony, oh Tony), and because the Jordan River, which feeds the Dead Sea, is being harvested by both Israel and Syria. No wonder those trees on the border were green! It’s 10m lower than it was 10 years ago and the signs are clear. There is some talk of pumping water from the Red into the Dead Sea but that has been talked about for many years without any progress. Politics are the same the world over, eh?

We arrive at our luxurious accommodation and say a fond farewell to Murad and Raed, both of whom have looked after us so well. We are particularly fond of Raed, who is a quiet man with a lovely sense of humour and a lot of eye work going on, which speaks volumes. Murad is a typical tour guide, with excellent English and an encyclopaedic knowledge of the things he talks about. Its exhausting trying to absorb it all and a little unnerving because we know we will be tested within the next few hours. He doesn’t like it when we don’t listen, or when we are distracted by some remarkable sight and move our eyes from his to the camera. Could it be that I have finally met someone bossier than me? But, we are very grateful for everything they have shown us and the care they have taken of us and we wave them off. They have an hours drive to home in Amman and it’s already 5pm. A long day for us, longer for them.
We manage a swim (I have to go in the kiddies pool because my leg is still Petrafied and I can’t get out of the big peoples pool), and then have a drink on the terrace.

We are directly opposite the West Bank and we see the lights of Jerusalem and Jericho

Where are those trumpets when you need them?

Monday 9 October
Here we are, our last full day in Jordan and it is a day at leisure at the Dead Sea. Hallelujah! After breakfast we make our way down the steps, many more than there used to be and more each year, to the Dead Sea. The lowest place on earth. 430m below. Next year it will be 440m below and by 2050 it may no longer exist. Without human intervention. It’s a tragedy

WARNING WARNING

Those of you with a weak stomach, I suggest you log off NOW.

The Boom Booms hit the Dead Sea. I mean how low can you go? Well, 430m below sea level actually. Never before have Cherrie or I have posted a photo of us in swimmers but these seem to be special circumstances.

We are floating on the Dead Sea. Not even we can sink

It’s a weird sensation. The water is warm, and sort of a little slimy. A bit like floating in baby oil. No matter how hard you try, you simply cannot do anything but float. Makes you laugh. Makes everybody laugh the first time. It is recommended that you float in the Sea for 15-20 minutes and then go ashore and cover yourself in Dead Sea mud, full of minerals (and salt), wait for 20 minutes and then re-enter the sea and wash the mud off.

WARNING WARNING WARNING

We’re not the only muddy folk around

but it is mercifully quiet down here. It’s highly likely the sirens have been activated, warning of beached whales down on shore. The ‘Life Guard’, who we are pretty sure can’t swim, is always happy to give a helping hand

We wait for 20 minutes, an uncomfortable wait since we can’t sit and I’m not good at standing for long (without a bar to lean on) so we wander a little (a Dead Sea stroll). I have faith that this cure-all will do its job and that I will be sprinting back up the steps within the hour.
Back in the water for more bobbing and washing the mud off. It’s quite an experience.
I’m cured enough to use the grown ups pool today (with Cherrie being the human counter weight to get me out) and we have a refreshing swim in the infinity pool overlooking the West Bank

And we are joined by a harem of hookahs

I cannot believe the location of where we are. I was shamefully ignorant of the geography of the Middle East, and here I am in Jordan, at the Dead Sea, looking at Israel and the West Bank, in sight of Jerusalem and Jericho. I find it amazing.

Today has been wonderfully relaxing and we are grateful for the day off.

Tuesday 10 October

We are not being collected until 1.30pm today, so we venture back down to the Dead Sea early and do our float, mud, wash. We float for longer this morning, we are enjoying it. There is a bit of an art to it and we are just starting to find it. I think our skin feels pretty good. Silky even. Probably the fat cells floating to the surface. Pity our Dead Sea floats are all over. We do, however, have another swim in the lovely pool and lie on the lounges.

A lovely surprise on check out to discover that it is Raed who has come to transport us to the airport. We are delighted to see him again.

Arrival at Amman airport is an easy affair, pulling right up to the check in gates and our luggage is checked all the way through to Casablanca, despite our 11 hour stopover in Dubai. Once again we have booked a hotel room and have the basics with us in our hand luggage.

However, passing through security is another matter. We are both stopped and pulled aside. They have found drugs in both our bags. Indeed we are carrying prescription drugs, which the Berry Pharmacy kindly put into Webster packs for us. Mine are complicated and copious and they have never seen anything like it. I think the sheer volume of mine distracted them from Cherrie’s meagre offering of mostly vitamins, and it took 3 security guards 20 minutes to clear us. How grateful we were for the pharmacy’s forethought in providing me with a piece of paper (a large one) with a photo of each drug, a description, the chemical make up etc. I was a tad nervous about the vessel of white powder I am carrying, which is actually magnesium powder, with a number of natural anti inflammatories mixed in, but which might easily have been mistaken for something else. Again, it is in its original packaging and a description on the sheet of paper. None of this helped by the fact that I ring like a cathedral when I pass through security. Anyway, we were finally waved through and boarded the plane. Which stalled on take off! We were amongst only a few of the passengers who were not working on their computers, engaging in social media on iPads or talking on their phones during take off. During take off I said. Anyway, who cares about turning off electronic devices? Or a stalling engine? But we got off the ground with the Royal Jordanian Airline and arrived safely in Dubai 3 hours later.

We have loved our time in Jordan. We felt safe the whole time and lived the history. We wish we had more time here. We would have valued another day in Petra, to limp back in to absorb what we saw. We had amazement overload and really need some more time to sit and look. We wish we had a night at Wadi Rum and maybe even an extra night in Amman. The snorkelling in the Red Sea is apparently amazing and we might have liked a night in Aqaba too, to investigate less diesel infused waters. We highly recommend Jordan to you adventure travellers. It is wonderful.

And now we are now officially on the