I’m sending this recap of our first days of holiday from the edge of the Sahara Desert. We spent last night beside the Erg Chebbi sand dunes, which come with a pre-loaded story of natural origins mixed with refused hospitality gone horribly awry (ironic backstory for a place destined to inspire the construction of a number of hotels). Tonight we spend in the dunes (more on that later). We made it to this part of the desert last night after a day’s drive which began with a misunderstood forecast of 4 hours that ballooned to the eventual 8+ through some of the most varied terrain I’ve seen this side of the American West. We’re staying in a Moroccan village named Merzouga about 50km from the Algerian border. There’s actually some confusion between me and our charming driver, Hicham, whether this is technically Merzouga or an even smaller town named Hassilabied. Unlike Minneapolis and St. Paul, there are no locals around to ask for their deeply-held opinions of where the line is surely drawn. Both villages are here as a result of these majestic dunes right outside our hotel (or kasbah) compound. Like I told Sarah on our run this morning, I think this place is like Morocco’s Branson, Missouri. Pretty far off the map but if you know which stars you want to see, this is the place for you. The area is actually more of a desert theme park - camels and sand and tents and whatever we’ll do with all of them in combination. Once again, more on this later.
The story of how we got here deserves a few steps backward in summary. To do so properly, I need to go back to Addis to catch us all up.
We meant to hit the road for this trip just after Friday turned into the early hours of Saturday. Bole International Airport was filled with people hopping some form of “freedom flight,” so named for those families leaving for the holiday break within hours of school ending at ICS. There was a festive air all around. We were a well-oiled traveling family machine, aside from the fact that Sarah was sporting a rattling cough and post-fever bedraggled look that screamed: “I’m doing the best that I can here, people!” Actually, she rallied amazingly well after seeming really sick just a few days prior. Cough, fever, chills - she was sporting them all. I knew she was really sick because she even skipped a few consecutive days of exercise. Which she hadn’t done since having an emergency appendectomy on Valentines’ Day a sizable handful of years ago. Sarah rallied, Maya was walking on sunshine after a great first-semester grades report, and I knocked every item off a to-do list that would’ve made a nuclear missile silo crew groan with over-preparedness. What could go wrong?
Then our flight got delayed. Not just delayed. Ethiopian Airlines delayed. No information, no prediction of when we might get on our way, “cigar yillam” (no problem) delayed. We originally expected a nine-hour layover in Rome. We’d been salivating over the idea of heading into the City and luxuriating in the food and coffee and whatever other trouble we could manage over a few stolen Italian hours. As it turned out, we’d be sleeping fitfully in all the wrong places while keeping a watchful eye on the tide of stressed Ferengi milling about for more than seven anxious hours.
We all experience travel chafes that fade over time. As did ours. Sure, there were moments of complete annoyance and the tendency of the very sweet Ethiopian employees of the Airline to not want to get into the difficult details of re-booking and just plain EVERYTHING UNEXPECTED THAT HAPPENS IN REGULAR AIR TRAVEL isn’t their strong suit. Nonetheless, we made it to Rome. After a frenzied transfer when the inmates were truly figuring out how to run the asylum, we got through the Italian’s TSA-equivalent (Note: they were efficient, unflustered and awesome to all). We grabbed a gelato, fistfuls of coffee drinks and panini-type items. Being Italy, they were all somewhat infuriatingly delicious. Our luck had turned.
We made our flight to Casablanca. Our bags arrived. We got a SIM card from a vendor in the airport and began using it as a personal hotspot that has us all stoked. Our driver, Hicham, met us on time and I quickly transferred most of the translation duties to Sarah because they understand each other’s version of Italian. I really only speak English mixed with my signature blend of universal hand gestures and folksy wit. Hicham speaks many languages that work together as a melange of Moroccan (an Arabic language), French, Italian, and English. He also rented a spacious, sporty 4x4 Hyundai for the week, allowing us to embark upon our maybe-too-ambitious itinerary.
We had many hours to still drive after arriving around 5 pm on Saturday. Our original plan was to head straight to Fes (for those expecting the American spelling, Fez, I’ve made the switch fully and only reserve the other for the distinctive headgear). One of the places not on our original route was Rabat (the Capital of Morocco). As we got to talking with Hicham, we learned that he and his family live there. Being me, I made some sort of folksy joke about how “maybe we can wave when we drive by.” To which we were immediately invited to do. Over a meal. In Hicham’s house. We all deferred to our mantra (“say yes”) and soon we were on our way to do so. Hicham’s mother cooked for us. His son cast sideways glances at and tried occasionally to speak with the oddball Americans who’d plopped on the comfortable but somewhat formal “family room” couches. His wife showered us with gifts, including a gorgeous necklace that Maya is wearing in the next day’s pictures from Fes. We hadn’t expected it, but our first meal in Morocco turned out to be the sort of authentic, cross-cultural experience we’d craved. It was a wonderful way to arrive.
We didn’t get to Fes until almost midnight. The medina (or old, walled city) doesn’t allow cars. Freelance baggage handlers and guides jump on new arrivals like bedbugs on a freshly exposed leg. Mercifully, our riad (or house that serves as a hotel with an interior courtyard) was very close to the nearest gate into the medina. The staff at Riad Farah (Mohammed and Hajar, along with a chef whose name I did not catch) greeted us like family. The courtyard’s ornate furnishings felt surprisingly homey, although that may have been somewhat due to the out of place Christmas tree in the corner. A decent enough night’s sleep and we were ready to plunge into the medina.
Fes deserves more than a quick summary. Like so much of our introductory travel this year, all we allowed ourselves was one full day. What I gathered from that one day of getting lost and found again throughout the medina’s delights boil down to this. In every direction, you will find con men masquerading as tour guides. Theirs is a harmless con. We used two boys to get us to and from the Chouara Tanneries when our mapping technology failed (you can find their pictures in the gallery below). They brought us up the back route, past far less glamourous aspects of the tanning business that is still very much active in Fes. They handed us our “gas mask” in the form of a sprig of mint to be used while on the viewing terrace. I knew to say “no sale, no buy” to the older, weathered men waiting to answer questions and surely offer a special discount to just to you and the lucky ladies this one time only. When we jettisoned the kids, they upsold me on the price of their help with an insincere “we just want you to be happy.” I’d have given them credit for the reverse psychology if I didn’t hear the exact same claim later in the afternoon. That time we had a tour guide spot us while we searched for the Jewish ghetto area (named “Mellah,” for salt which served as an early bartering currency). He started off charming but became a drag who we all couldn’t wait to dump (I’ll just refer to him hereafter as our collective College Boyfriend). The little tidbits of Jewish history crossing over into Islam and Christianity paired with the cultural geography of the Mellah were College Boyfriend’s finest moment. Then he lit a cigarette during a quiet moment while showing us the Jewish cemetery. Plus every random skeezer that College Boyfriend bumped into treated their crossing of paths like a chance to call in an overdue debt or ask about that thing with the guy in the place, all while executing increasingly complex handshakes. We all felt much better when we dumped College Boyfriend and made our way back to our riad. We struggled to finish less than half of the dinner prepared for us. It was the first of the many “tagine” dishes we’ve tried. I assume many of you know that the tagine (as both the physical dish and its cooked contents) represents the culinary touchstone of Morocco. Not unlike how a “hotdish” served in a “casserole” is the touchstone of my true homeland (Wisconsin). Without doing the rest of what we saw justice, I’ll sign off on our full Fes day by saying that we all felt a timeless, intellectual appeal from the City and look forward to the next chance we have to return for more thoughtful exploration.
Yesterday’s drive ended up being around 500 km. From the olive tree groves outside Fes, around the Berber Mountains and Atlas Mountains, through canyons and beside oases with palm trees sporting shockingly full green expanses, up into the arid highlands and “hamada” (rocky flat desert) that eventually gave way to what we now see before us for the today’s adventure atop a camel. I’ll reserve some of what I have to say about the Erg Chebbi and its multi-colored dunes until after tonight’s desert camp.
There will be more stops and many more things to observe. Like how Moroccan hitchhikers don’t use the thumb - they just point with their index finger at the road in an unthreatening manner. Or how just like in America and so many other places there are minor claims of civic uniqueness everywhere. Who can forget Midelt’s claim of being Morocco’s Apple nexus (90% of them are produced nearby). We stopped there for a bathroom break. Or how about Zaida, where we stopped for another bathroom break and a quick espresso. When I asked Hicham what Zaida means, he said something about beef or chicken or BBQ with the universal hand signal for “so-so” and a chuckle. I Googled it and found that, indeed, their roadside BBQs are Instagram famous for stops along the way between Fes and Merzouga. We’ll just have to see what comes up between here and Ait Ben Haddou (our next overnight after Morocco’s Branson desert excursion). Ciao.
