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.
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.
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