Fes Maroc

RTW – 12-14 Oct 2008
Undaunted by the prior day's drive, I bellied up to the hotel’s breakfast buffet then set out for Fez. I traversed Casablanca en route to find the Rabat expressway when a policeman walked into my path, directing me to the side. He showed me his handheld radar reading 76 in a 60 KPH zone. He had a pretty good sense of humor about my poor attempt of excusez-moi, but I came up with the requested 200 Dirhams ($16.00) and didn’t ask for a receipt. Enough of the scenic route, I took the expressway to Fez.
I had a concern for finding my Riad Sara booked on the Internet because the address never showed on any maps, nor was it listed in my travel guides. Its Medina location was in a walled area fit for only a local or petit-taxi. While seeking a taxi to guide me, a young lad asked if he could help in not-so-bad English. Why not? I let Mousauf in, and he directed me through this fascinating labyrinth within the walls. Soon it became a little downtrodden, he told me to park and wanted to take my luggage, but I said I wanted to see the hotel first. We approached a wall with Riad Hala scribbled. I stopped him with a more pronounced “Riad Sara.” At this point, I struck out on my own with him in pursuit, trying to say he misunderstood and could find Sara. With concern, I allowed more maneuvers to another sector. Without car access and challenging the donkey poop, I gave into the current condition of this eighth-century complex. It was a park and walk situation. Soon Riad Sara had an artsy painted sign in the ochre wall, through a wooden door befitting a castle; I entered into a mosaic wonder of ornate drapery and silk carpet. The colorful mosaic courtyard towered three stories of arches and balconies. Okay, where is my harem?
Inspired, I was ready to experience the legendary tanneries, so I retained Mousauf to minimize any lost time. The marvels never ceased with methods unchanged for centuries. From an overlooking terrace, seeing the matrix of colorful vats of natural dyes was a significant objective for me. The full process was before me – scrapping the hair and skin, soaking, dyeing, rinsing, drying, and of course, selling. It was necessary to fall into place and select a fine kidskin jacket. Wool processing and looms added more color near the tannery. The complex of market souks sold everything the community needed. Without rear delivery, the alleyways handled bundles atop heads, on donkeys, and in push-carts amongst the shoppers.
Morocco had much to offer, so two tasty meals a day kept me going. This day’s dinner, through near-pigeon-hole access, unveiled a splendid restaurant. Starters were an array of Mediterranean cooked vegetables. Then lamb seemed appropriate and fresh, given the local tannery. Salt and pepper were in pinches; local wine was excellent; the bread was flat, and fresh mint leaves filled the tea glass.
The next morning Mousauf was waiting by the car, anxious to lead the way. After a long walk through the old Jewish Quarter and environs, I grew tired of the attachment. Having read about the ruins of Volubilis, it was one of the southernmost extensions of the Roman Empire. Expecting a sixty-kilometer drive, it turned out to be one hundred twenty-five from Fez. Two centuries had done little damage to the mosaic floor of Diana and the Bathing Nymphs or others exposed to the elements. Back in Fez, the ever-present Mousauf was useful to navigate the maze within the walls. A Coptic Cross from Lalibela and my new leather jacket were the only mementos of this journey. Some serious shopping came up with an Arabic knife worthy of negotiations. I am a sucker for museum-quality antiques to highlight my tales of adventure. This silver and bejeweled bone sword started at 12,000 Dirhams. We settled on 4,200 from the salesman’s English to the owner’s Arabic. At that, he escorted me to the remote ATM machine, assuring me along the way of his honesty and reasonable value of my treasure. With my cash in hand, he said the owner was expecting only 4,000, so the 200 Dirhams were for himself. Huh? It was necessary to be at the airport in Casablanca by seven the next morning for my Royal Air Maroc flight to JFK. With a three hour drive, I left Riad Sara without sleep at midnight. The deserted freeway gave me time to reflect on the event-filled past three weeks and gratification with living another dream.

Casablanca Morocco

RTW – 10-11 Oct 2008
Royal Air Maroc had some lengthy security procedures which required us to be at the airport at 11:30 PM for a 4:30 AM departure. I had forty dollars in Ghanaian Cedes, which, like most African currency, would be totaling useless outside their borders, so I picked up two bottles of French wine and a box of Cuban chocolate while wasting time at the duty-free store.
Except for a long sleepless night, I was prepared for Morocco. My initial plan gave me a hotel in Fez for two days. In Accra, by way of the Internet, I booked a hotel in Casablanca for my additional two days. With a spark of determination and bravery, I decided to rent a car to get to my far-reaching destinations. I had been too dependent on guides and drivers, now I needed my freedom. With a vocabulary of two words in Arabic and a few dozen in French, this move was bordering on foolishness. C’est la vie. Arabs love negotiating even at a car franchise, so when the Eurocar guy was no fun, I haggled a deal with the Budget guys. No one seemed to have a map, but the guy printed a Casablanca map and penciled in where I was and where my hotel should be. From the scratches and dents we noted on the outgoing car inspection, I knew I would be in for some excitement on the road.
I had followed his instructions reasonably well with only one stop to ask for help. He pointed to an ornate arch behind this construction zone, so I left the car, walked back, where the floor mat below the regal entry read Riad Salam Hotel. I had picked this hotel in Casablanca on the coast so I could drive south with ease, but it was not going to be that day. Exhausted and late, delayed for two hours at the airport where they misplaced my luggage, I opted for a nice lunch and long walk. I sat poolside soaking in some sun and reading about Morocco. Early the next morning, I pointed my petit Renault south. I kept to the ocean side secondary road venturing into villages along the way. Donkeys were in everyday use. Sheep were prominent, rather than cows and goats, as in Ghana and Ethiopia. Vast fields had been tilled with mechanized equipment, but minimal crops were visible except some next to the ocean where the sea mist must have provided nourishment.

In the town of Azemmour there was an old walled village. I parked and walked in to find a bustling community with friendly people eager to greet a stranger. Frescoes in the alleyways punctuated the artistic value of such a quaint place. I had read about an oyster farming community called Oualidia some distance down and was hoping to reach there for lunch. As I arrived, a drizzling rain had become a downpour, so I kept moving. Now the journey was becoming arduous, but I was expecting the weather ahead to clear. It did somewhat by the time I came to Safi. It was a massive city, so I thought I might seek out the fishing boats in the harbor but became entangled in a dreadful industrial area. By the time I got back to civilization, my adventuring mood was gone, and it was time to head back to Casablanca before dark. Despite my frantic driving, it was dark and rainy as I approached the city. I put in to play my old Brazilian driving techniques – pretend you are the only one on the road, never yield to anyone, and overtake trucks at any cost. One wrong turn, and I was totally lost. Any sense of getting towards the ocean road was failing. After two failed attempts to get directions, a third put me on to what I soon found was the opposite direction of my ocean road. Voila, within a short time, I was at my hotel, devouring a very late dinner.

Ghana Revisited

RTW -- 8-9 Oct 2008
I worked in Ghana for four months in 1976. During that time, a thirteen-year-old boy, Armahfio Tawiah, volunteered to be my guide and interpreter through some very primitive fishing villages at Ada Foah. Those events were the most fulfilling cultural experiences of my life. Other than two short letters in the months following my visit, I have had no contact with the family of a father, his three wives, and twenty-two children. After thirty-two years, it was time to return. I was armed with a dozen photos of the family and memories of a few landmarks on the old sand road leading to his village.
I landed in Accra at dawn, found a more convenient hotel near the airport, and by nine, I had negotiated with a driver to get me to Ada Foah. My how things had changed, along with my faded memory, I was at the mercy of the driver. The old sand road from Tema no longer existed due to a major oil refinery. It was now a long forty km drive before we got to the Ada area. I was intent on getting to the post office to see if there was a record of his name. In front were a few people so I asked if anyone knew the small village of Otrokper, showing the printout I had carried. A young man on a motorbike said he would lead the way. Anxiety set in. Ten minutes away, he stopped where four young fellows were sitting under a grass-roofed shelter. They seemed too young for my inquiry, but I broke out my pictures. At the sight of the photograph of Armahfio’s father, “That my father!” came fond remorse from one man. He embraced my hand in shouts of joy called out, “Roger!” “Yes!” I said with a sigh. He had obviously heard of me. Another pointed and cried, “That my grandfather.” I shuffled through for the sibling photos asking the first if his picture was there. He acknowledged only sisters and brothers. He called Armahfio on his cell phone and then sent a car to pick him up. The father had died in 1988 at the age of ninety-four. Others from the village gathered to see the pictures. Many were related, and all were excited to see the images. Armahfio arrived. It was indeed a joyous occasion. At forty-six, the character and expression of a person never change. From that thirteen-year-old boy till now, there is a joy in living that is never dampened. He is unemployed with a sweet wife and three lovely daughters of eighteen, twenty, and twenty-two. They have a roadside shop selling necessities, his wife and younger daughter maintain. Armahfio had a house under construction but was without enough funds to complete the interior. Ten or twenty minutes might pass before good thoughts of our past would cause broad smiles and a hearty handshake. Their village of Otrokper had all but been eroded by the Atlantic Ocean. I was trying to understand the lay of the land from the pictures I had. The entire Tawiah compound had washed away, and the village preceded it. Six buildings remained of what thirty years before held three hundred people in about a hundred huts. Gone are the fertile fields of cassava where they had three growing seasons a year. Chatting on cell phones took priority over the essentials of living. My host said to send my driver back to Accra, and they would take me back later.
We went to a local restaurant. I tried to order a simple appetizer, but nothing was available, so I conceded to take whatever they had – chicken with a mound of fried rice. As it turned out, I was the only one eating. It was apparent that I was the guest and could not pay for anything. Mission accomplished. They drove me back to my hotel in Accra. Along the way, I asked the younger sibling that first acknowledged ‘That my father,’ what year he was born – 1976. Of course, back then, I had asked the father about his family, he said, “I start breeding in 1942, and child number twenty-two is in the belly of my third wife.” This young man, Isaac, was the one.
A bigger element for Armahfio’s and his people of Otrokper that washed away with the tide was adopting a Christian name. Frederick. Juju was the mark of pagan history and he made a pointed query into my faith. Everyone had a cell phone – probably the biggest expense for most. There were still many thatch-roof mud huts. I expect such a form of shelter to vanish for a rectangular brick structure with corrugated steel roofing. The agrarian life was all but gone. I had remembered continuous growing seasons of cassava, tomatoes, and protected fruit growths. The pottery had given way to plastic. Cars were rare but everyone needed to know someone with a vehicle.
With my success in Ada Foah, I felt no need to linger. My old memories were dearer than anything I could gain here in the next two days. After leaning on the receptionist at His Majesties Hotel, I was able to locate Royal Air Maroc and bump my flight to leave early.

After Konso Ethiopia

RTW – 6-8 Oct 2008
The next two days were filled with the impressive scenery. We drove to the mountainous village of Chencha at ten thousand feet. There the Dorze tribe gave a lesson on how to get the most from their natural resources of bamboo, banana trees, and cotton. We stopped in Sodo for lunch at the same spot as we had on the way down. Again, I ordered the same fare as I would get at the Blue Nile Restaurant in Ann Arbor. The basket/tables were the same here, but these local stools were quite tipsy. They had honey wine, but I opted for a local beer. From there, we had word that some Aja tribal fighting had taken place, and houses were burning. Hassen seemed to think it was minor. As we came into one town, many threatening men were assembled along each side of the road. I was pleased to see they were only carrying spears. No women or children were to be seen. Despite the seriousness of the situation, most men wore a woven top hat resembling The Cat in the Hat from Dr. Souse. I held my hand over my mouth to hide my smile. About two kilometers from town, the first isolated huts were smoldering. Probably fifteen in all had been burned. Shortly, there was another village with groups of men wielding spears. We passed without incident.
Beyond there, the city of Awassa’s large lake had an assortment of waterfowl. An overnight stay and dining at Pinna Hotel worked out. On the road back to Addis, we stopped at a crater lake warmed by a dormant volcano. At this point, I reached a satisfaction with my Ethiopian stay. Rather than put Hassen through any guiding routine in Addis while waiting for my midnight flight, I opted to pay for a room at the Ghion Hotel for a relaxing dinner and collecting thoughts for my next step.

Abyssinian Beauties

TW – 5 Oct 2008
Earlier that Sunday, Hassen had heard of a tribal beauty contest to be held that afternoon in Konso. We laughed and joked about such a treat. We had both been on the road for too long. Originally he heard it would be at one. We returned from the tribal village after two. A group of men, women, and elders in traditional costumes attracted a crowd near the cultural center. Many children had gathered in festive excitement. Before long, the hillside was covered with local people. It was apparent this remote region had few gala events. By four o’clock, a handful of security people were driving the children to the perimeter of the property around the cultural center. A van arrived with the ten young beauties. The day before Hassen had told me that to get a wife, it was necessary to give cows to her family. The contestants passed in front of us, and I pointed to one and said, “Eight cows?” then explained the ten-point rating of women. We joked about purchasing ten cows for negotiating later. The afternoon rolled into the evening. We received second-row seats and courteous nods from all involved. A professional film crew set up for the production with floodlights and cameras cluttering the view of the stage. Preparations and seating continued as the people and floodlights sent the 75-degree temp to 100 degrees, and body odors rose. My patience was tested, but my tolerance level had been given allowance over the broad travel experience I set for myself. It was after eight before the Deejay cranked up the volume, and the bash began. Too many speeches tested my resolve before the beauties took to the stage. Each contestant represented a dominant tribe in the region. Each girl had stage-time with costume and dance from her group. Our agony was over when the third lady appeared in a very revealing huntress costume. “Ten cows!” I shouted. We waited for the costuming of the final girl, nodded to our host, and slipped away into the dark. I was concerned for the 90 km ride back to Arba Minch, but most cattle had returned home from the fields.

South of Addis Ababa

RTW – 3-5 Oct 2008
Back at the Ghion Hotel where they said to let the hot water run a long time to get warm. After ten minutes, it seemed colder but took a heart-stopping sailors bath. Then while brushing my teeth, the water warmed. Soon it was hot, and I took a real shower. Later I learned that the water came from a hot spring some distance from the hotel. I must have been the only early riser to get it flowing.
Hassen arrived in a beautiful Toyota Land Cruiser, and we headed south. The roads were charming for the first 320 kilometers to Sodo, but the next 120 km to Arba Minch was not so smooth. The scenery was magnanimous, a further extension of the Rift Valley that runs from Djibouti to Mozambique. It was Saturday, market day. Our roadway was an eye-catching hazard, filled with goats, cattle, plus donkeys and people loaded with goods traveling to critical towns along the way. I took the opportunity to stop at a farmer tilling his field with a team of oxen, some colorful homes, women washing clothes at the river, and a small market area.
I think of the settlements along the road as frontier towns. Like when I traveled rural Brazil thirty years ago. Isolated farmers found their way to town for necessities. Truckers stopped for repairs, getting lunch, or just taking a break. Many young men seeking different work from the farm life they wanted to leave behind. A small merchant class developed as most were just passing by.
Our little oasis at Arba Minch was Paradise Lodge, a new / still under construction lodge with safari-style bandas. The private quarters simulated local huts with grass roofs but a well-done sleeping room and bath. Most lodgers were from tour groups of two, as a young couple on an adventure, to twenty, a caravan of elder Europeans. Facilities in this area were limited, so there was a convergence of 4WD tour vehicles at such unique places. It was near dark; my banda was some distance from the restaurant, so I carefully noted my path; lest lighting would not be available later. Thunder and lightning started, and rain approached as I entered the restaurant. As Hassen and I started our dinner of fried fish, a local family and group of friends celebrating graduation were driven from the patio as the rain picked up. Now the place was alive. Soon the windy rain began to breach the venting of the grass roof, and a mist settled over us all. A few tables got more than there share of water, but everyone laughed at the situation.
We set out for Konso some 90 km south. The road had about four bridges and some eight areas where bridges once were. Our Toyota was challenged to descend and traverse the mostly dry river beds. During the rainy season, it is more hazardous. Hassen is looking forward to getting a new 4WD with an air cleaner intake for the engine that extends to the top of the windshield -- ahh, now that could get exciting. To travel beyond Konso, such a rig is most important. Besides, you need to carry your own gasoline, tents, and food. In Konso, we needed to get a tribal guide to visit the native villages. With a little effort, a young man named Chooch was selected. For lunch, there was but one choice, an open compound in the center of town. I had been told to eat only cooked beef. The gristly stuff came in a lighted charcoal pot sizzling in grease. The soft grey dough, injera is like cutlery for consumption. I opted to dip each mouthful in the red hot chili pepper sauce, thinking the hot stuff might kill a few germs. Chooch ate raw beef – it came in chunks with a large knife to carve each portion.
As for how safe that would be -- you get a sense of their hygiene by the body odor and limited exposure to soap and water. Sanitation? I have learned to adapt to toilet conditions by going a full day without and using only those in my hotel room. At my grins and raised eyebrow of the food before us, Hassen said we had been slated to spend the night here, nodding towards a row of doors next to the cooking area. After my desire for a warm shower in Addis, he decided it best to drive back to the Paradise Lodge – I reached over and shook his hand in thanks. Outside the dining compound, the three of us enjoyed a cup of coffee inside a local hut. While a lady at the doorway roasted beans over a charcoal fire, the lady inside fixed the brew. Eight or so gents were chewing on spinach/mint leaves that I thought were part of the coffee ritual. An odd, unfamiliar aroma filled the confines of the hut. I was offered a bunch – Hassen nodded approval with a grin. ‘When in Rome – never touch the stuff.’ He went onto explain some locals can pass the whole day munching on the drug. “Drug?” Contrary to my naiveté – by then, my munch turned bitter – he said, “It works soon.” I had no more and sipped my coffee.
The Konso tribal village was near vacant. It was Sunday, and the people had trekked to church. In these primitive conditions, you would expect more pagan beliefs, but Christianity is widespread. The chief greeted us and told of his role and heritage. He had pictures of his father and grandfather in their mummified form. After death, they are retained for nine years, nine months, and nine days before burial. He said as chief his wife was chosen by relatives – I quipped, “You mean all nine of them.” He grinned and explained his duty was to produce an heir and lead his people. He lived separately from his only wife. The grass-roofed mud huts were amazingly sound with a life of sixty or more years. Raw forms of selected timber were used for arches, fencing, and structural members.

Dirty Little Fokker

RTW – 3 Oct 2008
Our Fokker 50 to Addis landed an hour late. As before, the cleanliness was poor, especially apparent in the stained and spent pillows. With all on board, the cabin door was still open; they revved the left engine to a high ear-shattering speed while the right engine twirled a couple times just outside my window. After twenty minutes, they rolled out a rusty gangplank to the right engine. A young fellow in airline garb climbed up and opened the engine housing. A half a dozen assorted men stood back watching. The ‘mechanic’ was armed with a screwdriver and an old pair of pliers. During his twenty minutes fussing inside the hatch, the onlookers cajoled and smiled, leaving me to wonder the value of his effort. The operation was over, but I was concerned about the prognosis. None-the-less we were off to Gondar at what seemed to be a lower altitude, and they never turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. On the ground, I thought of getting off with those scheduled but held tight, and more souls came aboard. They went through more engine revving, then shut it down and said we would have to wait two hours for a new plane from Addis. Whew, the masses and I were pleased. In the terminal (I should use that word), I was sipping a local beer, and they called us to board the plane after twenty minutes – yeah, the same little Fokker. I was last to come aboard. Well, maybe some good spirit from those ancient churches will sustain our plane. We had one more stop in Bahar, where a nurse from New Jersey sat next to me. She had been working in AIDS clinics all over Ethiopia for the last five years. We held a good conversation to keep my mind off the right engine.

In the Horn of Africa

RTW – 2-3 Oct 2008
Ethiopian Airlines out of Nairobi was a precursor for bad accommodations ahead of me. Arrival in Addis Ababa was late; a Galaxy tour guy picked me up and drove me to the Ghion Hotel. He would be back at 5 AM to take me to the airport. This tourist hotel was dirty, the water was cold, and the room service did not keep their promise for an early breakfast.
The twin-engine Fokker 50 flight to Lalibela made two stops along the way, and my confidence dwindled with each lousy landing. Flying in, the high terrain was quite rugged with very fertile green plateaus. A guide and driver awaited me for an enriching fifteen-kilometer drive to Lalibela. Subsistence farming yielded plenty. Mules and an occasional ox made up for the lack of mechanized farm implements. This area had no electricity ten years ago. I had read there were no banks or petrol stations, but I did see a bank. The Roha Hotel showed three stars, but when I asked about hot water – two hours in the morning and three in the evening. After I settled in, everything started looking better.
The eleven rock-hewn churches about the town were started in the twelfth century. As you look about, there is a feeling that little has changed. The more I observed, the people seem to have the same religious devotion it took to carve this volcanic rock. I have long been inspired to see the results of faith in art and architecture. This area displays the utmost of such creations. The Great Pyramids of Egypt put things in perspective, but this place was presumably done by religious followers of King Lalibela, not slaves as in Egypt. You can feel it with each priest reading scriptures and the homage of pilgrims seeking their blessing. A holiday for St. George the Dragon Slayer was on my second day. The area of the churches was filled with white-cloaked pilgrims. It was a special day for them. Rather than be an imposing tourist, I stood aside and listened to the chants and prayers.

Masai Mara

RTW – 30 Sep – 1 Oct 2008

An early morning start with a seasoned driver and well-worn Toyota Safari Van, we were soon crossing the Rift Valley towards Masai Mara National Reserve. At this point, the bad roads got worse. Before for long, I left the pot-hole avoidance to the driver and watched for an occasion zebra. The edges of the twenty-year-old asphalt had eroded away to a dangerous single lane road for two way traffic. It was safer when the blacktop was gone, where washboards became moguls. Stomach crunches with each contusion.
Isaac had been driving this route for twenty years. He had to know the limitations of the van’s suspension in combination with the road to get maximum speed. I had some concern over breaking down the fluid membrane that keeps the brain suspended in the skull. Two hundred and fifty kilometers one way in four hours was quite a feat. Isaac said it was seven hours before they fixed the road. There was some new construction going on. Of which, twenty kilometers was completed in pieces. About fifty kilometers under construction was an ever-changing hazard.
Upon our arrival at the park, we went to a remote lodge for the overnight stay and found my reservation to be bumped. I was so ready to rinse off the dirt and allow the vibrations to stop. Isaac was able to get through to another place, and off we went. I endured ten more miles of bad roads pouting all the way. We finally got to Sarovo Masai Game Lodge at noon. I quit moping when I realized what a first-class place it was. For sure, Lucy will be sulking at this upgrade as the site was near full, and I got a Club Tent. Branson, the founder of Virgin Airlines, had stayed there amidst a promotion bit for British tourists. Sir Richard also sponsored the construction of Masai school rooms as a likely extension of his ego, but that’s okay.
After a good meal and shower, at three, Isaac and I were off for a game drive. Most other trips were starting at four, and we could avoid the crowds. Several years ago, I was at Ruaha in Tanzania, where you were restricted to the main road, and the game was always at a distance. Here driving across the savanna was better than most of the streets. Isaac was good at getting into the midst of the game. While stopped within six feet of a pride of lions, he said, smiling, “You want a good picture?” Then proceed to put the van in the center of a group of seven. Later near a herd of elephants, he smiled and repeated himself. Even he knew better than to drive in their midst but tantalized the old bull into a couple threatening stances.
The drivers chatted amongst themselves by old radios to alert one another to the presents of the game. Others would often stop alongside and chatter Swahili. Isaac seems to be a senior member in good standing with a respectable following. Most other lorries were filled with four to twelve people. There was one huge bus that may have held thirty European tourists but very little esteem. We stopped next to another lone rider like me. He appeared to be on his last hurrah. Most likely over eighty with very limited mobility and thick glasses, he probably waited a little too long to experience this dream.
Back at the lodge, there was a splendid buffet then a Cat Stevens style singer in the lounge. Sleep came early.
We were off at sunrise for another game drive, exciting but much the same. I asked to concentrate on some big birds. There were storks, plenty of vultures, and a remarkable secretary bird. We returned to the lodge for a quick breakfast then headed for Nairobi where our planned exit was closed due to yesterday’s rain. The alternate route was arduous but by then it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

To fulfill the deal we stopped at a Masai village where the chief’s son took me through after greasing his palm. The village had 20 families, 160 people, 250 cows, and as many goats. It was authentic and all that but after putting the ‘bum’s rush’ on me for more donations I felt the need to get on with my journey.