Fes Day 3

Our last day in Morocco dawned hazy with the promise of 20 degrees and we got up for breakfast, with the prospect of a morning in the medina- something I wasn't too sure about after Friday's fiasco. Fortunately we had another tour booked, because it's almost impossible to explore the medina alone- there are so many twists and turns in the covered streets and opportunist Moroccans trying to get you lost- and charge you for them to get you out. 

We met our tour guide after breakfast, who was a very nice man, and quite a charmer. For example, a few times if Alison or I broke in to his explanations with a question or a comment he would say 'I talk now, please have patience, then I explain'. He told us a lot about Islam and encouraged us to ask questions.  Our first stop was to a mosque, and he explained about the practice of men and woman praying separately. 'You see,' he said, 'if you are a man and you have a woman bending over to pray in front of you, it's just too distracting.' He showed us how there are two knockers on most of the doors- one for men to use, so the women behind know to put on their veil, and one for family members and other women to use, in which case the women can remain unveiled. I was confused and asked if the women had to wear the veil for their husband. 'Of course not' he said grinning, 'how else do we do sex?'

After the mosque we went to the tanneries, where they dye the leather, which stank because the dye is made from pigeon droppings. We were given mint to hold under our noses and were immediately pounced upon by the man that owned the leather shop connecting to the tanneries. 'Sisters, let me tell you about the tanneries...' This was all very friendly until we didn't want to buy one of his bags for 70 euros and when we wished him goodbye he scowled at us. 

In the afternoon we saw the oldest university in the world- where there was a fight because an Italian man wanted to enter but had no proof he was a Muslim. The guards were demanding some sort of paper proof and our tour guide was trying to get his two pennies worth in by offering practical suggestions of asking the Italian man to pray in front of everyone. (If he no Muslim...how he pray?) He seemed pretty impressed by his idea, and kept explaining the logic of it to Alison and I after we'd left. 

Apart from me getting ripped off for pottery (haggling is not as easy as all that- whenever I tried to offer a lower figure they looked hurt/disgusted and said, 'sister, have some respect') and Alison and I buying 4 pieces of bread for 2 dirham each and getting charged 15 dirham (they can spot tourists a mile off) we had a good afternoon and came back with a haul of Moroccan goods; jewelry, pottery, Moroccan oil, and postcards. We ate our lunch on the rooftop of the hostel in the hot sun and then there were just three things left to do. 

these are the way Moroccans advertise their political parties- so as not to cover all the streets, they each have a square on this street in which to advertise.

Firstly we wanted to see the garden we hadn't managed to find on our first day, and did so, only to be slightly perturbed by the whistle blowing guards everywhere. It was also hot and for a while we took off our cardigans- but attracted a lot of 'you beautiful', 'you so good', 'you so nice' so put them back up again and walked up to the viewpoint which looks over Fes, to watch the sun set. Though we were the only tourists there and again attracting a lot of looks it was fun and very pretty to watch the sun go down. On the way back down the hillside our good experience was slightly marred by a group of boys 'tsk'ing at us and throwing rocks in our direction (whether throwing rocks is a flirting technique in their culture I have no idea)- at which point we legged it back down the hill.

Back in the hostel Muhammad and Muhammad served us more mint tea and told us we were such nice girls they wanted to throw us a shisha party with Moroccan whisky. We went out for dinner at the legendary Cafe Clock and sat on the roof terrace, with some really good food, the highlight of the trip, and chatted to some of the Moroccan waiters who were very friendly and slightly redeemed our very low opinion of the Moroccan men we had so far met. When we got back to the hostel, everyone was in the shisha tent and Muhammad insisted he pour us some Moroccan whisky. He came back with the mint tea we'd been drinking all holiday (turns out he'd made a joke about mint tea being Moroccan whisky but it had gone straight over our heads...) Still, between us, two Australians, two Dutch ladies, Muhammad and Muhammad, we had four bottles of wine, and then we said goodnight, got into bed and congratulated ourselves on having survived three days in Morocco. 

After three days I was ready to get home, to clean water, fresh air, and normal food, but I'm so glad we had a good experience of Morocco, and did all the things we wanted to do in Fes. I'm even more glad that my year abroad is turning into a year to remember, with such good experiences in each place I've visited. 

Fes Day 2

Saturday started better- we had booked a tour to the middle Atlas Mountains, to see some Moroccan countryside and a few other smaller towns than Fes. After an impressive hostel breakfast we headed off to the blue gate to meet our tour guide, who spoke limited English and asked us if we 'sleepy good good?' 

Though the Moroccans seem to have no road rules, and overtake/ undertake/ pay no attention to red lights or each other it was strangely relaxing to be in the car- especially after the hassle and confusion of the medina. We drove out of Fes and up into the mountains in about forty minutes, before making our first stop of the day, at a lake. Most of the stops were to take photos at beautiful spots, but it is obviously a well trodden tourist route, and at each place the Moroccans are waiting for you with their horses, hassling and hassling you to go for a ride.  In the second place, as soon as they saw the car we were immediately surrounded, the men peering through the windows and gesturing towards the horses, so close we couldn't open the car doors. The other thing we learnt was a simple 'no' doesn't suffice to be left alone, you have to be repeatedly firm and engage in no conversation or eye contact, and even then they won't leave, but hang back watching you. Any movement such as getting our cameras out, they'll call out, 'you want photo? You want photo on horse?' 

After the lake, we went to a town higher in the mountains, apparently the cleanest town in Morocco which was bizarrely like a ski resort, and despite the bright sunshine, there was still snow on the ground in places. Our tour guide explained with derision it was a place for the 'familles riches'. It was strange to see such a place in comparison to Fes, almost like being back in France. 

Then we were on to another town for lunch with a very quaint medina, where we stopped at a street side cafe for our first experience of Moroccan street food. Here we had Moroccan spiced beef and chicken with salsa and Moroccan salad which were actually really good (we were very apprehensive about trying the street food), and it was lovely to sit and relax in the hot sun- with our guide nearby so we had no hassle, and the smell of barbecuing beef in the air. It could have been May in the UK at about 16 degrees. Despite the fact we think they overcharged us about 40 dirham, it hardly mattered because the food is so cheap- 1 euro a salad, 2.50 euros for the chicken and 3 for the beef. It was something we discovered over the weekend- we were never given a bill breakdown, just an overall price and most of the time the price seemed higher than what we had worked out between us. They can spot tourists from a mile off.

In the afternoon we caved in, and went for a ride on the horses, through a forest full of monkeys. The monkeys weren't all that interesting until we saw one wee on a Moroccan woman's head. We then continued to a waterfall, which was pretty, and another good spot to take photos. 

By this time it was about half three, and we were happy to head back to Fes, both of us exhausted, when we arrived in a tiny town and appeared to be driving deeper and deeper into it through the narrow streets. Eventually the driver stopped and motioned for us to get out. After sharing a look, we did, and he led us down a narrow side street and through a door into some kind of Moroccan grotto to have some mint tea. It was all very strange- there was a young boy there and he dressed us in the traditional Moroccan cloth outfits and gave us Moroccan names and we sat and drank more mint tea with them. And then it was time to leave so cheerily we waved goodbye- grateful to be returning to a public space, and the guide hesitated. 'A tip?' Hastily we pulled out 10 dirham- to which he looked extremely disappointed and the tour guide subsidised him a note as we left. Seemed we still hadn't got the tipping quite right but we were trying to follow the advice online- and we could be sure there would be no point in asking the Morrocans their advise on tipping policy.

Apart from the fact the tour actually cost double what we'd initially thought (either a language mistake or we got ripped off again)- we really enjoyed Saturday and felt infinitely better after our dubious start to the weekend. We went out to a little restaurant, the Ruined Garden, run by an English guy who cooked up a mixture of typical Moroccan food and English, chosen because we read it had an open fire in winter. It was a lovely restaurant and the staff were very friendly. I had garlic and lemon trout with Moroccan spiced veg, and cheesecake for dessert, and Alison had a caramelized onion tart and chocolate mousse. Then home to bed.

Fes Day 1

By the time Friday came around Alison and I were not feeling too enthusiastic about Morocco and met each other at the gare routiere with nearly a whole pharmacy, food supplies and bottled water in case we couldn't eat anything, passport photocopies and the number of the British embassy to hand just in case. In typical French style our half hour train to Marseille wasn't running though there was no warning about this on the departure boards so it was up to us to ask and then sprint to the bus which was running as a replacement. The bus then took two and a half hours to get to Marseille- only two hours later than planned- and thank god we had booked our train well in advance! Nothing can be guaranteed with french public transport!

We went straight through security at Marseille, and into the departure lounge which further added to our unease as there seemed to be no other tourists heading to Fes and Alison and I certainly stuck out like sore thumbs among the native Moroccans. We seemed to be even more curious as we arrived in Fes airport- turning heads wherever we went. We had arranged to be picked up from the airport by our guides Muhammad and Mohammed but as we walked out of departures scanning the crowd for a sign with our names on it, we were met by a barrage of jaw dropped Moroccans but no sign of Muhammad or Muhammad. We sat for an hour outside of the tiny Fes airport hoping we hadn't been abandoned, with men calling out and making 'tsk'ing noises at us; 'you want fast taxi pretty girls?'  etc etc. 

An hour later Muhammad's driver arrived and drove us into Fes for our first view of the old town. The old medina in Fes dates back to the 9th century and is the largest pedestrianised urban area in the world. Consequently we had to get out of the taxi for which we paid 150 dirham (15 euros) and got back our first 50 dirham change (5 euros) at the blue gate into the medina and a Moroccan man immediately loaded our suitcases into a cart and led us through the streets to the hostel. To say it was my first experience out of Europe it was an unbelievable culture shock- the litter lying through the streets, lined with beggars and everywhere the men staring calling out 'so good', 'so beautiful', 'very good' and in some extreme cases, 'I give my life for you'. We arrived at the hostel and thanked the luggage man, starting to head into the hostel when he grabbed Alison's arm and held out his hand. We'd forgotten the tipping culture and Alison pulled the 50 dirham out of her purse- both of us slightly flustered because we had no change or no idea what was appropriate to tip. The man spotted the 50 dirham note and took the decision out of hands, taking it hastily from Alison, thanking us and departing us at the speed of light. As it turned out later a more appropriate tip is around 5 dirham we actually paid him 10 x his due so it's no wonder he made a speedy departure.

Muhammad and Muhammad greeted us with mint tea, very sweet and slightly sickening and showed us to our room which was very nice considering it cost around 16 euros a night, and certainly for Moroccan standards. 

Then Muhammad took us out to get some money changed, and buy some water, gave us a cheery wave and told us he'd see us later. We were officially alone in morocco. We set off up the hill to the viewpoint, hoping to see the sunset on our first night in Fes. At the sight of us approaching, one man leapt up from his perch on the side of the road. 'You're looking for the viewpoint?' We nodded. 'I show you way?' We shook our heads, thinking we were smarter than that. He pointed us in the direction and insisted again that he show us the way. We declined firmly in French and in English. So we set off walking and five minutes later the same guy comes running down the road after us. 'It's this way,' he said, pointing in the direction we were already walking. 'I show you the way'. Again we shook our heads firmly and explained we could go alone. 'But I am already walking that way?' And so resigned, we shrugged. He then led us on a very abbreviated tour of the viewpoint and tanneries (abbreviated in the sense that we later realised he showed us neither) and back into the heart of the medina where he stopped in a dark alley and said 'I make you happy- you make me happy'. We asked to go into the light of the street, opened our bags and I, determined not to make the same mistake as the bag man, confidently handed him 5 dirham. He recoiled. 'But no- that is an insult. That is nothing to us.' I hesitated and added another 5. Again he held up his hands and insisted we were insulting him. We shrugged and said we had no more- we didn't want a tour- he could take it or leave it. At this point he got angry and started shouting at us that we were insulting him and his culture- that we are everything that is wrong with tourists destroying Morocco and his livelihood. Thankfully Alison spotted an American family walking down the street and asked them if we could stand with them, explaining our predicament and they told us not to worry and to walk with them down the street. As we did he followed, yelling obscenities at us. Eventually the man in the American party, turned round and said something to the man in Arabic, so he stopped and continued to shout from the top of the street.  We were both pretty shaken up and followed the family a long way down the street before we felt brave enough to turn round and head back all the way back up to the blue gate and try to track down our hostel. 

We did get to take some good pictures on our free tour.

By the time we got back we were exhausted and didn't feel a lot like embarking on another adventurous exploration of the medina to find a restaurant so we asked Muhammad and Muhammad their recommendation and they, of course, took us to their other hostel, which had a restaurant too. It was freezing cold and the food wasn't such a great first taste of Moroccan food, but we were very happy to have been escorted there and back by Muhammad and Muhammad. We only paid 3.50 euros each for a chicken tagine to share (the menu was vast- beef tagine or chicken tagine) and we had the chance to meet the other travelers eating at the hostel. To round off the evening we ended up sitting on the freezing roof terrace with them- a group of us that included people from England, Poland, Sweden, Germany, Japan, Argentina, Canada and Lithuania and we talked about travelling experiences and tried to open a bottle of wine with a hairpin. And so that was the end of day one. Our first day in morocco and though it didn't end badly, we both went to bed with mixed feelings about what was to come. 

Tout Va Bien

After an abysmal weekend of weather, the sun has finally returned, as blue and bright as ever. Tuesday was another day of no classes because the school were away skiing (again) so I had the day at my leisure (again). I decided to stop putting off one of my vague New Year's Resolutions and with reluctance knocked back some black coffee, donned my trainers and set off outside for a run. I decided to do intervals- five sprints up the steps that lead up to the Notre Dame de La Garde, (the empty church that overlooks the town of Apt) and use the jog down to bring my heart rate down.  The first 'sprint' adjusted my expectations slightly, and I decided four ascents would be perfectly acceptable for the first time. My legs would barely lift, and I was sure any second I would trip and smash my nose on the step in front, but I struggled upwards, and completed the four, even though the final time was more of a crawl than a run. Walking back down the hill to school my legs didn't really feel like legs anymore, and I wasn't convinced they would take my weight much longer, but I made it home and collapsed.

In the afternoon it was too good a day not to go back out, so I took a book and went to sit in Bar L'Aptois in the sun. It was too hot for a coat, I barely even needed a cardigan, and I sat down to write some ideas for my blog with a coffee, feeling rather conspicuous considering all the French adolescents were glaring over in my direction. I was feeling slightly uncomfortable and fed up with France and its constant ability to make me feel like an outsider, when the man that runs Bar L'Aptois stopped by my side to ask what I was writing. I told him it was a letter to my parents (wasn't sure whether a blog is 'un blog' and a letter is definitely 'une lettre') and he sat down next to me, and asked where they were, where in England, and what I was doing in France. Of course, this is a relatively normal conversation, but my heart felt ready to burst with gratitude, that he had acknowledged me with kindness and interest rather than the hostile looks and mutterings behind me that I've become accustomed to. When I left to go he called after me, have a good day, and see you soon at which the French adolescents nearly fell off their seats.  Feeling smug, I wandered back to the apartment to do some lesson prep, and sat at my desk with the windows wide open in the sun. That evening I had a sunburnt face- and that's pretty good going for the 21st January!

Aix

My slow cooker casserole turned out to be a very great success- we had it with crusty bread and red wine on Friday night when Alison arrived. Saturday we were up at 5.30 for our day trip to Aix-en-Provence- because that's the only time the bus runs through the winter (from March onwards there is an 11am bus). Just writing now about the bus trip makes me feel slightly queasy- the bus goes to Aix via Lourmarin and Pertuis rather than taking the motorway, and the road to Lourmarin from Apt is one of the windiest, most treacherous roads in Provence, zig-zagging its way down a steep hillside. The bus driver obviouslys drive it twice a day, if not more, and paid no heed to the sharp corners- accelerating and breaking sharply and thus turning Alison, Becca and I a nasty shade of green. It took a sit down breakfast in Aix and some strong coffee to return the colour to our cheeks and we felt ready to brave the tipping rain.

Our day in Aix was the worst weather I have experienced in all my time in France so far. From our arrival at 8am to our departure at 6pm it poured and poured. We still had a lovely time; shopping, lunching, shopping, wandering round the cathedrals and fountains, stopping for ice cream (there is the most amazing gelato bar in Aix) and all of the cafes have covered outside terraces with heating lamps so you can sit under a blanket, under a heater and watch the rain and the world go by. Around four we met up with one of Alison's friends and had a hot chocolate on the Cours Mirabeau (the main tree lined street in Aix) before grabbing a baguette for dinner and catching the bus back to Apt. It was the journey back that was so horrendous- my stomach felt like a washing machine by the time we arrived back in Apt and Alison and I had eaten most of the baguette to try and appease our churning stomachs. 

Sunday morning we had pancakes and then Becca and I said goodbye to Alison and set off to wait outside the school for our rendezvous with her mentor teacher, Kathy, and her family who live not far away in the pretty village of Saint-Saturnin-les-Apt. They invited us for lunch and we spent a very nice (still rainy) Sunday at her house. She is an English teacher at the secondary school and speaks very very good English. She was also very helpful with correcting and improving our french- because she is experienced at teaching languages, she had plenty of advice to give. We had aioli- a garlic anchovy sauce with vegetables and cod, and then the galette de rois (homemade this time) and then coffee and nougat, before tipping out into the rain with the dog and walking round the soggy countryside. Back at hers we spent a bizarre and quite pleasant afternoon, with wine filled and tired heads, listening to her husband and two daughters playing irish jigs on the guitar and violin. By the time we got back to Apt in the evening neither Becca nor I were hungry at all, and were both happy to get into bed and relax before Monday morning loomed.