Category: Morocco

After inching our way through the Hollywood of the Sahara and zipping down the Tichka Pass over the Atlas Mountains, we landed in Marrakesh, the last big stop on our tour before flying home. This was late in 2015, so “home” meant a month of frantic, last-minute remodeling projects before putting our house on the market and moving to Atlanta. We weren’t looking forward to that, but were also worn out on our “package tour” itinerary and being rushed from one place to another in order to see as much of the country as possible in two weeks.

In Marrakesh we would abandon our tour and take the city at our own pace. At least that was the plan. Marrakesh is a city that demands you take it at its pace, which is lost, bewildered, hassled, and confused. It’s a bustling city, a hustling city, and a market city to rival any other medina on the continent. As such, it seemed the most African city of any in Morocco, with its cacophony of sights, sounds, and smells, and its aggressive vendors who will literally chase you down and grab you to make you visit their shop (this happened).

On our first day in town, we stuck with the tour for as long as we could stand it. The first stop was the 16^th century cemetery of the Saadian royal family, now home to a lush garden, crowds of tourists, and the cutest cats in the country – which is saying something.

After, as we wandered through the maze of the old city trying desperately not to lose track of our guide, I practiced a little more of my “guerrilla photography,” taking secret snapshots of Moroccan daily life. Next was a stop at the Bahia Palace, filled with room after room of the lush, amazing Arab architecture and design that had been permanently burned into our retinas by that point.

It was here that we ran away. While Hamdan, our guide, was yelling “Yallah, yallah!” to get our group to follow him, we jumped ship and headed in the other direction (after telling him, of course).

The next stop on the tour would have been a march through the heart of Marrakesh’s central marketplace, and we weren’t interested in being forced into any more recreational shopping – certainly not the way it was practiced here. Instead we did our own thing, finding our way to the huge El Badii Palace, which was under renovation but still open to the public, and then the nearby Jewish cemetery (because, as long-time readers of this blog should know, we always check out the dead people).

Our next stop was to locate, in the maze of the city, the Henna Art Café, a restaurant Lea found where you can have henna done using the artist’s home-made henna recipe. Today, with current GPS tech, better worldwide access to data networks, and directions on the café’s own website, it’s probably easier to locate, but four years ago, working only from vague notes jotted down in our hotel room and a rough (nearly fictional) tourist map of Marrakesh… well, it’s a miracle we found the place. But we’re so glad we did.

Because we had to escape from the crowd. The streets pointed every direction but straight, and while trying to find the right alley we got into a shouting match with a shop owner who followed us several blocks trying to get us to come to his store. At last we asked for directions at the post office, since the postal workers were the only people in town we could trust not to direct us to a spice shop instead of where we wanted to go.

The Henna Art Café is a refuge of quiet above all the foot traffic. You can still hear it all through the windows, two and a half stories below, but you get to lie back on comfortable cushions, enjoy the food, and ignore it all. Then the henna artist comes out and creates some of the most amazing skin art you’re ever going to see. Just look:

That evening we splurged at a wonderful French restaurant a block from our hotel. We went to bed early, because the next day had an early start of our own devising.

Day Two was scheduled as a “free day” in Marrakesh to spend however we wanted. Gate One offered an optional trip to the resort town of Essaouira, but a little research showed us that Essaouira offered nothing but more and more shopping. Instead, we booked a tour that picked us up before dawn and took us to ride in a balloon over the Atlas Mountains at sunrise.

Getting a balloon into the air in the desert is a tricky thing. The wind was the main problem. Our guides drove us around until we found a depression they felt was sheltered enough that the balloon wouldn’t get dragged away or fly off while being inflated. There were eight tourists and one pilot who were to ride in the balloon itself, and all of us got to take part in getting the thing off the ground. The women in the group got to sit in the basket to anchor it, while the men got to hold the guide ropes on the other end, keeping the balloon from dragging while it filled with air.

And then we were away! The sun hadn’t long been over the mountains before we were sailing over farms, sheep pastures, highways, and the foothills of the Atlas themselves. Our guide kept trying to crack us up, shouting to imaginary Taliban fighters on the ground far below that we were friendlies. The flight itself was eerie and serene at the same time, and the vistas of the desert and mountains in the early morning sun were everything I’d hoped they’d be. Such a flight would have been the perfect end-cap to our experience of Morocco.

Alas, we still had Marrakesh to deal with.

We followed our balloon flight with a gratuitous camel ride through a palm grove. Recommendation re: camel rides – one is enough. Back in the city, with most of the day left, we took a taxi to the Majorelle Gardens, a private two-acre botanical preserve at a private residence that was started in 1923, and then purchased and renovated by Yves Saint-Laurent in the 1980s.

After that, for some ungodly reason (cheapness being my first guess) we walked to the old city, entered through the north gate, and hunted for a photography museum we wanted to visit. This was made excessively frustrating by the impossibility of distinguishing streets from shopping alleys in that part of the city, the inaccuracy of our tourist map, and the fact that even the children we asked for directions would lie to our faces, insist the museum was closed, and that we should visit their family’s shops instead. We found the museum, enjoyed it (though we don’t have any photographic evidence) and haggled with a taxi to take us back to our hotel.

That night we set out on foot looking for a tapas restaurant we’d glimpsed while on our tour bus, desperate for anything to eat that wasn’t kefta kebabs or tagine. We didn’t find it, though a nice man who saw us walking insisted he knew where it was and offered to drive us. Fools that we were, we got in his car. He drove around in circles before bringing us to his souvenir shop. We pried ourselves away as quickly and politely as we could, then wandered back toward our hotel and ended up having dinner at KFC.

That’s Marrakesh for you.

Our tour at last brought us full circle back to Casablanca. We’d already been there, done that because we’d arrived a day ahead of everyone else, so we skipped the Hassan II Mosque tour that we’d already taken. Our tour did visit a Christian church with beautiful, modern stained glass windows that strongly reminded me of those at the Methodist church where I grew up in Baton Rouge.

Here’s where we also witnessed a bit of “Muslim exceptionalism” similar to the “Christian exceptionalism” prevalent in the United States. In Muslim countries, no one but Muslims are allowed to so much as set foot inside a mosque (with the exception being the Hassan II). However, at this church, our guide encouraged us to go inside and take photos even though Sunday services were still in progress. This attitude made us really uncomfortable, so we waited until church let out to go in and appreciate the architecture.

Years later, in our trek around South America, we became much less shy about visiting churches that were actively in use, even going so far as to crash a wedding in Chiclayo, Peru. However, the attitude that “mosques are sacred, but this church isn’t” rubbed us the wrong way, just as do assumptions of Christian privilege here at home.

That night we had one last group dinner on the waterfront. The next morning, early early early, we boarded the plane for home.

Verdict?

Morocco: Go there. It’s a beautiful country, with many amazing sites and cities. Our favorites were Rabat and Fez, and I also enjoyed the historic sites in and around Ouarzazate. However, unless you’re a crowd person who loves to shop and haggle, skip Marrakesh.

Our Packaged Tour: It had its ups and downs. Because of taking a group tour, we got to see a lot of places that we otherwise wouldn’t have considered or had access to. However, there was also the perpetual feeling of being rushed, and of having too many activities crammed into every single day.

My recommendation: If you choose a tour, don’t be shy about taking a day off from its itinerary or planning a side trip on your own if it’ll make your experience better. Just be sure not to miss the bus.

The Escape Hatch will be going on a brief hiatus. In a month or so, get ready to experience the aurora borealis in Iceland.

Yallah, yallah!

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Fresh and early in the morning, after washing off the Saharan sand, we hopped back on the bus for another long day of travel. The itinerary: a ride through more of Morocco’s geographic wonders toward the city of Ouarzazate (pronounced War-Zah-Zaht), the center of Morocco’s film industry. “Hollywood in the Sahara,” here we come!

But first – while we were staying two nights in Erfoud, we’d asked to have our laundry done. (Even wearing outfits two days in a row, we hadn’t brought enough for two weeks.) The laundry was returned, folded and clean, and at a reasonable price. No complaints at all, but on our way out of town we saw from the bus how our laundry was probably washed:

Our route went along more of Morocco’s river canyons, which showed the powerful effect of water in an environment such as this. Down in the river valleys, the land was as lush as a jungle, while merely a hundred yards away (or less) the land was as dry as bone. We paused for photos on the top of the stunning 800-foot cliffs over the Todgha Canyon, which was lush and cultivated at the bottom. Since this was only the second trip I’d taken with my Canon Rebel T3, I was still really excited about the telephoto lens. I confess I spent most of our brief stop stalking people on the valley floor from my crow’s nest high above.

From there we drove up the valley of the Dades River, which had carved a deep, narrow gorge in the Atlas. The bus let us off at the bottom of the narrowest, highest stretch and let us hike up the rest of the way. There was a stone aqueduct running just above the stream itself, and the water was clear and cold. At the end of the gorge was a restaurant where the tour had stopped for lunch in earlier years, until the back of the building had been caved in by a landslide.

We arrived in Ouarzazate in the evening with just enough time to wander around and discover that the city was depressingly bland, though we did get to meet some friendly local cats. The next day was going to be extremely busy, so we got up in time to catch a gorgeous sunrise.

After sunup, the day’s long list of excursions began with a walk through the 12^th century village of Taourirt and its Kasbah, a grand castle that once watched over the desert caravans. The village itself is still a living, breathing town. One of the things I appreciate most about Morocco is that its history isn’t set aside to crumble under the hiking shoes of tourists. Many of its ancient trading posts, structures, and citadels are still very much in use.

While driving through Ouarzazate, of course our guide couldn’t help but point out the many movie studio facilities on the outskirts of town. Because Morocco is the most politically stable country in North Africa, and since it offers a wide variety of canyons, mountains, ancient cities, and desert landscapes to choose from, it’s the filming location of choice for movies dry and sandy. The film they were proudest of, understandably, was Russell Crowe’s Oscar-winning Gladiator.

I’ve skipped past the bloody bits in this clip, for the faint of heart:

Our last stop in the region of Ouarzazate was the ksar of Ait-Ben-Haddou, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, one of the most famous fortified villages in southern Morocco and a textbook example of the architecture found in the region dating back to the 17^th century. And while it’s a historic city open to tourists, and surrounded by a ring of vendors selling souvenirs, it’s in use as a living village and home to many families. The structures are maintained in the ancient style, but the insides of the homes are often quite modern.

And of course, Ait-Ben-Haddou is used as a shooting location for films and television. The city gates and many of the buildings can be seen quite prominently in this clip from Game of Thrones, albeit with a heavily CGI’ed backdrop.

The final bit of excitement for the day – and exciting it surely would be – was a drive on the Tichka Pass, the highest road over the Atlas Mountains. Now, the travel company (Gate One) assigned everyone bus seats and rotated them every day, so no one was stuck with a good or lousy view for the entire two week tour. On this day, as luck would have it, Lea and I were awarded the seats in the very front of the bus, giving us fantastic views of the horrifying drops over the maze of hair-raising switchbacks as we made our way over and down.

Exactly how fun is the ride over the Tichka pass? When I re-watched Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation on DVD, I almost shouted in my seat – “Hey, I’ve been there!” Check it out:

Now, if you wind that clip back to the beginning of the scene, you’ll notice that the chase begins in front of the Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca, and then minutes later (through the magic of cinema!) Tom Cruise is flying up the Tichka Pass, 350 km away. Good grief, that’s a fast bike.

Our day’s ride would eventually bring us to Marrakesh, but that is another story. For now I’ll sign off with a cute-as-hell Moroccan cat.

Yallah, yallah! Back on the bus!

After leaving Fez, our route took us south across the “Middle” Atlas Mountains and along the river Ziz for a long, long day of sightseeing through bus windows. After that, we would spend two nights in the city of Erfoud, very close to the Sahara and the border with Algeria. Got that? Let’s go.

Our first pit stop as we climbed up into the hills was the little ski village of Ifrane. Yes, ski village. The town looked as if someone had airlifted part of Germany or Switzerland and gently set it down on the slopes of the Atlas. From the description given by our guide, that’s pretty much what happened. The Middle Atlas are very temperate and one of the few areas of Morocco where you can see greenery all around and not be surprised. It’s green enough for wild macaques to be running around in the trees – macaques that have learned that gullible tourists are an excellent source of potato chips.

The further south we went, the more sparse the vegetation grew. I did my best to take photos while the landscape zipped by, but most of the shots didn’t come out very well. However, scattered among the hillsides were occasional Amazigh encampments. Many Amazighs still live the the nomad life. Their houses are big tents that can be packed up and moved when it’s time to relocate their livestock.

(As in my last article, I’m using the name “Amazigh” instead of the more common – although ethnically incorrect – term “Berber.” After all, how’d you like it if I called you a barbarian? Actually, scratch that. I have too many friends who might consider it a compliment.)

Lunch was at the Hotel Taddart just outside the town of Midelt, and it was here that Lea and I lost all patience with Moroccan cuisine. We’d been eating kefta and kebabs for nearly a week and were eager for anything else, so when we saw that this restaurant had “Salad Niçoise” on the menu we went for it. When it arrived – well, imagine a regular side salad with lettuce, tomato, onion… and a can of tuna upended over the top of it. They didn’t even bother to spread it around or mix it in: the tuna was still shaped just like the can it came out of.

Midelt wasn’t a total bust, because right next door to the restaurant was a fossil and mineral museum/store. Morocco is a fossil-rich country and we would come across them in many places on the trip. This store in particular had an impressive collection of giant ammonites and really bizarre trilobites.

Following lunch was a winding, scenic drive down the Ziz River valley, a narrow strip of lush vegetation in the middle of rocky wilderness and rock formations to make geologists swoon. And Lea did, continually pointing out cuts, folds, and striations in the rocks while both of us took turns trying to photograph the landscape while zipping by at umpteen miles per hour without having the pictures marred by bus window reflections.

While Lea was getting excited about Moroccan geology, I was basking in the glow of all the ancient, crumbling structures that were strewn along our route. It turns out that the joke was on me – even today, people in eastern Morocco still use adobe as their primary building material. Adobe dries and crumbles quickly in the Saharan environment, so every building looks like a crumbling monument from the distant past. Most of the “ancient buildings” I drooled over were, I learned later, no more than ten or twenty years old.

Still, the Ziz River Valley is beautiful, and it shows the stark contrasts of desert life, especially when viewed from any high overlook. Where there is water, life explodes in abundance. Where there isn’t, you fry.

We spent two nights at a secluded resort on the edge of Erfoud with blue swimming pools and light switches that looked like water faucets. Using that as a home base, we would travel south for a tour of the city of Rissani and an excursion into the desert. This is what I’d come for and I was ready – except for those light switches. They really threw me off.

After passing through the gates of Rissani, we were met by our guide for the day: a Tuareg in full Tuareg regalia. The Tuareg are one of the three major Amazigh groups to be found in Morocco, and we were now in their territory. (“Tuareg” is also the name of a very tasty brand of coconut cookie found across southern Chile and in one single convenience store in Guatemala.)

Our tour began at a local mosque. We weren’t allowed to enter the worship area, but we did get to tour the lush courtyard garden and enjoy the ever-jawdropping Moorish architecture. After that, we walked across the street to a ksar (fortified village) built in the 18^th century and still very much in use today. This is where I learned my error in assuming any crumbling structure must belong to antiquity. To keep the ksar in shape, the residents continually have to “paint” the walls with fresh mud to replace any that has cracked and crumbled away.

Leaving the ksar, we went on a tour of the local market, starting with a “parking lot” full of donkeys. Elsewhere there were animals for sale, but these were those that local vendors used to bring their goods into town.

While wandering the market I wanted to take pictures, but in general taking pictures of people without their permission is uncool – and most people here wouldn’t have wanted their pictures taken anyway. I tried a sneaky, unethical strategy to get what I wanted. (Bad Jared!) Instead of being obvious about pointing my camera at market scenes, I simply wore it around my neck with the lens cap off. Hidden in my hand was the control for the shutter release. It was far from good photography, but it let me walk the market while taking surreptitious stealth photos. I had no idea what I was getting; all I could do was point my body in the general direction of whatever pictures I wanted to take and snap a random shot. Most of them came out crap, but I did get a handful of gems.

The last stop in town was a workshop where slabs of fossil-rich rock were cut and shaped into tiles, tabletops, souvenirs, and anything else you’d like to spend a few thousand dollars on. Once again, Lea and I were struck with “when we win the lottery” thoughts. After escaping the fossil furniture outlet with our credit cards intact, we rode off into the desert for the “optional” Sahara tour.

But was it really optional? I mean, come on. If you’re this close, there’s no way you’re not going.

The tour began by heading way off-road in several 4x4s for lunch at an oasis, followed by a photo op with a nomadic Amazigh family living in a traditional dwelling. Watching the family’s daughter hand-weave a rug using traditional techniques was genuinely fascinating, though this part of the tour felt exploitative enough to make me uncomfortable.

But enough of that. Bring on the camels!

The camel ride was a sunset ride, so first we rode to yet another desert resort and waited around for an hour or two, drinking tea in the air conditioning until the sun started heading down. Then we were back in our 4x4s on the way to pick up our real transport:

Camels are dirty, gross, and smelly, and I love ‘em. Not as much as llamas, but you can’t ride a llama. You really can’t ride a camel either unless you have trained handlers nearby and the camels in question are tolerant. I rode a horse before – once – and this felt much, much more unstable. Then again, there was sand all around, so I imagine if my smelly chauffeur decided to throw me the impact wouldn’t be quite as painful as hitting hard dirt, unless the camel trampled me for good measure.

None of that happened, of course. These camels were customer-service professionals, and as we climbed on board they took us in caravans, camel-nose to camel-butt, up into the Sahara. And I do mean up. This was not a gentle climb into deep and deeper sand as I’d imagined it would be. The line between Sahara and not-Sahara was a sharp demarcation. The ground was flat until suddenly it wasn’t, and a giant mountain of sand stood in front of me.

(I say mountain. Really more of a hill. I’m from one of the flattest states in America. What did I know about elevation gain? This was three years before I got up close and personal with the Andes.)

The sunset itself wasn’t that big a deal. The horizon was too overcast to see it and the sun was setting to the west, over the Atlas Mountains and not the dunes. However, the sheer romance of the setting (a word I use in the Lawrence of Arabia sense) overwhelmed me. Though this was only the edge, it was still the Sahara: an endless expanse of sand the likes of which I’d only read about in novels by Frank Herbert. And here I was on the back of a camel, dipping my metaphorical toes in the driest of oceans with half of a continent before me, empty and unknowable.

Our camels let us down with barely a grumble and we followed our guides to the crest of the highest dune. Morocco lay on one side and an endless expanse of terra incognita on the other. We watched the light dim and the shadows grow longer. The breeze from the west ruffled our hair. The miles behind us and the miles yet to come vanished for those quiet moments.

Sometimes you build up an experience in your mind and feel empty when it’s come and gone. But sometimes you sit on the edge of the desert, leaning against the person you love most in the world, and listen to the silence as the stars slowly appear.

Next Time: Morocco’s Hollywood! On the set of Gladiator and Game of Thrones. Also, a landslide demolished our regularly scheduled restaurant.

So we really wanted to go to Cuba. Once upon a time, in an administration that was a little less orange than the one we have at present, it appeared that restrictions on travel between the States and our neighbor to the south were relaxing. In fact, an acquaintance of ours had gone on a photography trip to Cuba and brought back many beautiful images.

So we did the research. If we were to go, we still had to do it as part of a “cultural exchange” program approved by the State Department. We looked at all the options, what they cost, what they would let us do, and devised a complicated spreadsheet to “score” each tour package and pick the one we wanted.

The result: they were all too expensive, and none would give us the freedom to see what we wanted to see. So, with only a few months left to make a decision about where we would travel that year, we got on Groupon.com to see what was available. It came down to two options: a trip through Italy in which a travel agency would arrange our hotels, rental car, and then set us loose; or a packaged tour through Morocco where everything was planned in advance and all we had to do was show up.

We’ve always been leery of packaged tours – the lack of freedom, being herded like sheep – having experienced them in a way on the cruises we’d taken. However, after the decision fatigue of planning and discarding our vacation to Cuba, coupled with the uncertainty of driving on our own in a foreign country, we opted for the Morocco package. To set the timeline straight, we purchased our tour of Morocco less than two hours after abandoning our plans to see Cuba.

The Package

The trip we booked was the two-week Kaleidoscope of Morocco from Gate One Travel. The itinerary doesn’t appear to have changed in the years since we went (September 2015), and includes a bus, an English-speaking guide, many of your meals, and all of your hotel reservations for six cities in Morocco: Rabat, Fez, Erfoud, Ouarzazate, Marrakesh, and Casablanca. Along the way there are many side-trips and optional tours, as well as a free day here or there to wander around at will.

Despite my initial reluctance to go back to Africa, it was the chance to ride a camel into the Sahara that sold me.

When you buy a trip from Groupon, there is usually a list of designated departure cities from which they will fly you so the tour group can converge at the same place and time. We were living in Birmingham, Alabama, which is never on the list of departure cities. To our irritation, nearby Atlanta wasn’t one either, but the folks at Gate One were accommodating. They could book us a flight from Atlanta to Casablanca, but we would have to leave the States and land in Morocco a day before everyone else. We would be on our own to arrange lodging for that first night and meet up with the tour at the Casablanca airport on the following day.

That was no problem for us. We booked a stay at the Ibis Hotel (which by sheer coincidence would be where Gate One would put us on our last night in-country). After our arrival, we had an evening and a morning in Casablanca to ourselves.

Casablanca

Despite lending its name to one of the greatest Hollywood classics of all time, Casablanca didn’t feature prominently on the tour’s itinerary. There’s a reason for that: there’s not much to see. Casablanca is the economic capitol of Morocco, and as such it’s a working city. From a tourist standpoint, there’s nothing there – with one glaring exception. And I’m not talking about the cheesy “Rick’s Café” that someone established to cash in on Humphrey Bogart.

No, the reason you have to visit Casablanca is to see the Hassan II Mosque. Completed in 1993 after only seven years of intense construction, the Hassan II is the largest mosque in Africa and the fifth largest in the world. Compare that to the Sagrada Família in Barcelona that’s been under construction since 1882 and won’t be finished until (supposedly) 2026. The more striking comparison in my mind is to St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, which we’d visited three years earlier. Both spaces are more vast than your brain wants to comprehend, but the Hassan II Mosque just seems so much classier. And it’s far, far less crowded.

Also important to note: the Hassan II Mosque is the only mosque in Morocco which non-Muslims are allowed to enter and tour. All others must be viewed solely from the outside.

After enjoying a morning at the mosque, Lea and I went back to the airport to hook up with our tour group. This was actually nerve-wracking since the guy Gate One sent to pick people up was only watching for airplane arrivals. Even though I walked by him no less than five times, not once did he have his “Gate One” sign where I could see it. We called the Gate One office, but English is not a good “second language” in Morocco. If you don’t speak Arabic or Amazigh, then you’d better brush up on your French.

After hours of desperate searching we finally located our dude (who thankfully wouldn’t be our guide for the rest of the trip). He piled us in a van with some fellow travelers that took us to our first official hotel in the neighboring city of Rabat.

Rabat

Now this was our kind of town. I’d never heard of Rabat before, but here there was plenty to do. Our stay included free time to wander and a tour to see the sights with our group, led by our guide Hamdan. Hamdan was the best – always a smile on his face, always free for a question or two, and a master at corralling a mob of English-speakers with shouts of “Yallah, yallah!” (Come on, hurry up!)

Rabat is the political capitol of Morocco, so our city tour began with a drive-by of the Royal Palace, where we got to watch guards lounge around the gate. After that, on the edge of town, we visited the impressive ruins of the city of Chellah. Chellah has several distinct sections, having been inhabited at various times by the Phoenecians, Romans, Amazigh Christians, and Muslim Arabs. As anyone who read my articles on Peru may remember, I’m a sucker for ruins. Ancient sites like Chellah make me drool.

Back in the city, we visited the Oudaya Kasbah, an ancient fortified keep that is still inhabited, the home of many families and businesses (including one fantastic candy shop). In the Kasbah, it was possible to get the feel of Moroccan daily life. The café overlooks a sheer cliff down to the where the Bou Regreg river empties into the Atlantic. Down there on the muddy beach were many people enjoying the afternoon and playing in the waves.

We wrapped up the morning with a visit to the Hassan Tower and the mausoleum of Mohammed V, both impressive feats of Arab architecture and design. After that, we found our own way to a currency museum and a pair of modern art museums that were some of the most impressive we’ve come across anywhere.

On the Road to Fez

After Rabat came our first long day on the bus. Unlike on our later trek through South America, we didn’t have to worry about transporting our luggage or booking tickets. In fact, we didn’t have to think at all. That even came down to choosing our seats.

This we didn’t expect: on the tour we had assigned seats on the bus, and those assigned seats changed every day. I can see the logic behind it. With variable assigned seating, no one got to hog the best view or throw a fit about what their preference was. Everyone got to sit up front, and everyone got to sit in back. It did, however, play into the feeling that tourists on a package tour are essentially herded like sheep and treated somewhat like infants. Having spent most of my adult life in customer service I know damn well that adults can act like infants and that you need to be prepared to manage that.

Anyway, on the road to Fez we got to see the “holy city” of Moulay Idriss from afar and get up close to the ruins of the Roman city of Volubilis. Once again, I was in Ancient Ruin Heaven. Volubilis was a Roman city that is now a UNESCO world heritage site. Most of the buildings were destroyed by the 1755 Lisbon Earthquake, but much of the site has now been uncovered, including much fine Roman tile work.

Fez

Once we reached Fez, we got a special treat. After our group had settled into our hotel, we were all taken out to dinner – not at a restaurant but with a local family who’d prepared us a grand Moroccan feast. This is the kind of experience that we’d never have been able to arrange on our own unless we’d had contacts or friends-of-friends in town. We sampled many dishes and the family members mingled with the tourists, providing a generous and wonderful welcome to the city.

On our next day in Fez, Lea and I broke from the itinerary. We’d taken a look at the plan for the day and it looked like a lot of running around and shopping. We’re not recreational shoppers and there were other sights that we wanted to enjoy. Hamdan was alright with this and arranged a private tour (which we paid for ourselves) to take us where we wanted to go.

It sort of worked out like that. Our personal tour guide still aimed us at places where we were expected to at least consider making purchases, and at two of them we actually did. However, instead of running around with the tour group from one shop to the next, we were able to enjoy a different sample of the city.

We started with a visit to the Jewish quarter, visiting a synagogue and the local Jewish cemetery. A word here on religion: Morocco is a Muslim country, but it’s an inclusive, more liberal form of Islam – about as far as you can imagine from what Saudi Arabia must be like (though we would see more restrictive forms of Islam once we got into the countryside).

After seeing the Jewish district and the gates of the city, we visited a pottery and ceramics collective on the outskirts of town. We got to watch artisans hand-make the pottery, chip out tile patterns, and hand-paint the results. The entire process was spectacular, as were the items they crafted. We were able to escape while only buying a serving tray, though if we won the lottery I can imagine decorating a house with this stuff.

From there we went down into the maze of narrow alleys that is the heart of Fez. This city has been a crossroads of commerce going back to the days of caravans across the Sahara. Along with trade goods, that commerce also brought ideas. It is home to the oldest known university in the world, the University of Al-Karaouine. According to our guide, though the story may be apocryphal, it was here that Pope Sylvester II first encountered the Hindu-Arabic numeral system and brought it back for use in Europe. (It’s more likely that books from the university in Fez made it to Barcelona, and it was there that the future pope learned Arabic numerals. Either way, it changed the course of history.)

Navigating the maze of Fez, our guide took us through streets of artisans and craftsmen. In the courtyard of the coppersmiths we crossed paths with our official tour group and were glad not to be part of that herd for the day. In one enormous house we got to see traditional rug makers at work, after which we were presented a series of hand-woven rugs in a variety styles. And yes, they were happy to take credit cards and handle shipping. Oh, we were tempted.

An unmissable stop is Fez’s famous leatherworks. From on high, you can watch workmen dying leather in a vast morass of chemical vats. The smell is overwhelming, and that’s from far above. I can only imagine that the poor guys who work there have had their sinuses completely burned out by now.

The last stop we requested was on a hill above the city and off the tourist trail: the Musee des Armes. This large, practically deserted museum had room after room full of weapons and armor dating from modern times and going back thousands of years. Admission is cheap and there’s a pre-recorded English language audio tour, hilariously narrated by someone who didn’t speak English and was obviously trying to pronounce the words of the script phonetically.

Our private tour didn’t hit every point on our list and still pushed us toward more shopping than we’d have liked, but the lesson to take away is that even on a packaged tour you can break out on your own and see the sights you’d like to see. Rabat and Fez in particular are cities that I’d highly recommend as travel destinations. I’d feel perfectly happy to go there again, if there wasn’t so much of the world left to see!

Next, in Part 2: Crossing the Atlas Mountains into the Sahara!