Off to Morocco

Sunday, Sept. 13, 2009--Copenhagen to Casablanca

I was up at 5:10 after a somewhat restless night of sleep. Grethe gave me a light breakfast and sent me on my way. Saying goodbye to Grethe and making my way to the airport, I kept thinking, "This is the last time I will be doing this."

Check-in was in Terminal 2, the old terminal. Only one person was in line in front of me. I still had 1 1/2 hours before my flight and needed to get rid of my leftover Danish money, since I would not be returning again soon. I decided to spend it rather than exchange it. The exchange fee would have been $7. Although the airport prices are a lot more than the town prices, it was still better to buy than exchange. I got some of my favorite candies--Lifli by Anton Berg (plum with madeira gelatin over marzipan and coated in chocolate) and Marabou (the Swedish chocolate bar with hazelnuts). It made my backpack heavier than I would have liked, especially since it was already a bit heavy with books I had been given while in town.

My suitcase is also overstuffed. I have slowly been taking things home that I had stored at Nurse Grethe's. This time, I had to deal with everything left, since I would not be returning. I gave her my old terrycloth bathrobe and my hair dryer which is good only with 220 wiring. I left two pairs of shoes for her to offer to someone who wears that size. I packed my gym bag, a sweater that belonged to Arne, and some house shoes that Arne had written his initials on to identify them as his rather than mine. I also packed two gifts that I need to take to Texas.

I have been worried about going to Morocco. There will be hassles there. All the guidebooks warn about touts, guides, difficulties finding one's way, etc. My guess is that I cannot ask questions related to directions without people expecting me to hire them as a guide. Will see.
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I arrived and faced long lines at immigration. The airplane attendents did not give us the forms that should be completed for admission to the country, and there was no indication that they were needed until I was a the window. I had to move to the side and complete the form and then wait for service again. My luggage was already on the carousel when I came out, so I grabbed it and headed to the ATM machine to get cash. That done, I looked for the train. I had only 10 minutes before one would leave. I got my ticket and found a place to sit.

It was difficult knowing where I was. The names of the stations are not well displayed. The voice announcement over speakers was not loud nor clear enough to understand. Fortunately, I was able to determine when we got to my station, because the train continued and I would have been in a mess if I had not figured it out.

Before leaving the station, I bought my ticket to go to Fes tomorrow. I decided to buy the first class ticket based on what the guidebooks had said. It costs 50% more, but it guarantees a seat. In second class, it is possible that one might have to stand.

Walking out of the station, I could see the hotel where I had decided to spend the night. I was able to avoid the taxi touts and walk directly there. A man outside took my bag and walked me upstairs where he registered me. It was a simple room, but it was also a cheap price and the guidebook had described it as being so. It had only a bottom sheet. I always hate that. I would have liked a top sheet, too, since it was going to be necessary to use a blanket during part of the night.

It still was only late afternoon, so I wandered some in the areas near the station and my hotel. Unfortunately, it was very quiet. Apparently Sunday is a closing day here. I had thought that maybe Friday would be the closing day since this is an Islamic country. Rereading the pages I copied from a guidebook, it said that shops are closed on Sundays.

Grethe had made me some snack foods to take with me. I am glad, since nothing nearby seemed to offer food. I ate the sandwiches in my room along with a banana.

Monday, Sept. 14, 2009--Casablanca to Fes

I finished reading Hope's Boy by Andrew Bridge while waiting for time to leave for my train. It is based on the true story of a foster child who managed to get an education and become a lawyer and then worked to fight the system that seems rather indifferent to the needs of the children and their families in their attempts to get the children out of dangerous situations. I gave the book 2 1/2 stars out of 4.

It's a bit difficult going back into travel mode after leaving Copenhagen. For the past several years, I have headed back home when leaving there. Last year, I stopped to see friends in Switzerland, but that was a short visit and was not like this year where I am back in a country with hassles. There seems to be resistance in my mind to being cautious again and to returning to having to negotiate hotel prices, deal with touts, etc.

Morocco is a bit like India, a bit like Brazil, a bit like Cairo, a bit like Istanbul, etc. Of coure, it is its own unique self. It is mostly dry and brown, but there are irrigated areas that are extravagantly lush and green. There are slums (people living in temporary shacks) that are as bad as I have seen anywhere. It is one of the countries that apparently has no organized garbage pickup system; the countryside and rooftop views are spoiled by randomly placed garbage dumps. n general, the apartment buildings are drab with cluttered balconies, ugly beige paint, and often with disposed items on the roofs. So far, people are nice, but yesterday was quiet and today is a travel day. I must remain warry once I am in the tourist areas.
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It seemed to go fine when I first arrived. Then things fell apart! I walked to the medina (old walled city( getting help along the way mainly from shop keepers to avoid people who might think it was an invitation to be my guide. I got help from a restaurant employee, a policeman, and others, too. When I first entered the medina, I was told to go straight through. I did. But then I could not figure out where to go. A man who obviously wanted to be my guide started bothering me as I searched for shopkeepers and eventually a policeman to help. He knew I did not want him as a guide, but he told me which way to go. I continued that direction. More people helped along the way. When I was near where someone had said would be my turning point, I asked at another shop. A man standing there with a motorcycle to the side said that he was the owner of my pension I was seeking. Then they all said that a man seated inside was an employee. He wanted to take me there, but I began to become suspicious. Something didn't seem right. I started walking away. The "employee" came to me and said that the man was crazy but that he worked there and would take me. By then I didn't trust him and told him so. I said that if he were really an employee he should have spoken up immediately to dispute the man who was saying he was the owner and was wanting me to go with him. He became upset with the fact that I would not trust him. I just stopped and stood by a wall and insisted that he go on without out me. I pulled out a book and started reading it, thinking that if he was an employee he would send the owner for me. Soon a man came up asking if I wanted the Pension Sakaya. I asked if he was the owner, and he said he wasn't but that he would take me there. I refused even though he said he would take me for free. I wasn't in a trusting mood at all. I said that the employee would send the owner if he was really an employee and, if not, I would find it on my own. He said he would go tell them. A few minutes later, a man came up to me out of breath and said that he was the owner. I asked his name, and it was the name of one of the owners. But then I asked him my name, since he should know who has a reservation for that day. He said he could not remember and made a typing movement to imply he had typed to me but could not recall the name. Although he did not look like an owner, I decided to follow him knowing that I could stop at any time and that I would not have to pay him if he took me there and was not the manager, since he had lied and said he was. I got a little worried as we took a back, twisting route. But that is he way the medina is. We did eventually come to a narrow passageway which led to a door with a small sign that said "Pension Sakaya." He rang the bell, then, as I expected, disappeared after the door opened proving that he wasn't really the owner but probably was paid to go get me and bring me there. Who opened the door? The "employee." He apparently did work there. I was so upset that I didn't say a word, and he could sense that I was upset. I followed him inside recognizing the interior from the Internet site. He offered me something to drink and I refused. He gave me the registration papers, and I completed them. He showed me to my room, and I entered it, pulled the curtain shut (leaving the door open for ventilation) and stayed in the room for 2 1/2 hours. I was not in the mood to do anything, and I wanted him to realized that I was VERY upset about what he allowed to happen.

When I did go out, I was hungry. But I knew that food probably would not be available yet because of Ramadan. Muslims are not allowed to eat until after sunset. Therefore, I went wandering to try to learn the neighborhood and my way back to the pension. I let Zak, the "employee" who is apparently trusted by the owners who do not speak English, walk me to the main street, show me the identifying features for the turning point, and give me his phone number. I continued to be quiet and obviously unhappy with him. I returned to the door of the pension just to prove that I could find it from the main street, then I returned and started exploring.

The medina consists of narrow, twisting, streets that go off in many directions. There is no way to keep from getting somewhat lost. But there are ways to find one's way back to a known area. Most helpful are signs for "trails" through the medina. I wrote down that I was on the pink trail in the area called Bab R'Mina in addition to the information that Zak had given me. Then I went up the main street. I found an outlet to the outside roadway. I continued on up until I came to a gate that also opened to the outside. I went back the other direction making sure that I could figure out when I was back at the turning point for my pension. Then I continued down the street that direction. It brought me to a t-shaped intersection where I had to turn right or left. I memorized the features of that intersection and continued to the left to see if it would bring me to a gate. I gave up before it did and turned around and retraced my steps.

By this time, shops were beginning to close and a drizzle was starting to fall. I was hungry and knew that I needed something before heading back to the room. I remembered a market area near the far (top) end of my street. I headed there. The drizzle got harder, so I ducked into a simple looking restaurant. The owner was so excited to have me and immediately offered a set meal. When I asked how much it was, he quoted 70 dirhams ($8.50 U.S.). I knew that was too much, because I had seen a similar menu on a sign near my hotel the night before for 25 dirhams! I left with him asking if I wanted a sandwich for 25 dirhams. Of course, I knew that would be a $4 sandwich which would be a ridiculous price here. I continued in the heavy drizzle to the market area. I looked first at a place that had fish, but they were small and had their bones, so I decided against that. Then I saw a crowd. They were getting bags of what looked like soup. I got in line. I tried to see how much to give, but people seemed to give different amounts and no one was getting change. I tried to give the man a coin for 10 dirhams, and he ignored me. A young man beside me obviously asked why, then explained to me in French that I had to give 5, 6, or 7 dirhams. Apparently, he required exact change due to the fast pace of his business, and there were different sizes of bags of soup that could be bought. I pulled out 6 dirhams and handed it to him. He made me a bag, ladling from a huge pot of prepared soup that was already 2/3 empty. He put it in a plastic bag, poured some olive oil in it, and then sprinkled it with 3 kinds of spices. He tied a knot in the top of the bag and handed it to me. It was HOT. I pulled out a large pastic bag I carry and put the soup in there.

I headed next to a nearby shop selling breads. I bought a round, flat loaf a bread and put it in the bag. As I headed back to my pension, people could see through my bag and see what I had. Several shopkeepers smiles as if they were pleased I was eating local. One actually asked, "You have soup with olive oil?" I said, "Yes," and he gave me a thumbs up.

When I got back to the pension, I rang the bell for entrance. Zak answered. I asked if he had a bowl and a spoon I could use. He said there was a kitchen upstairs and led the way. He misunderstood that I wanted to cook and questioned if I would cook just for me. I explained that my food was already cooked and that I just needed to put it in a bowl. He helped me find a bowl and cut the bag and empty the soup in it. I got the impression that he was genuinely trying to redeem himself for what had happened earlier. He explained that it was made with chickpeas.

Since it was raining, I ate my soup and bread in the covered atrium of the building rather than on the rooftop. It was wonderful and just what I needed. I was full afterwards. I washed the dishes and went back to my room to read and eat a couple of bites of chocolate.

Tuesday, Sept. 15, 2009--Fes

I bought my train ticket yesterday to stay here for 5 days. I was questioning that after the problems I had yesterday with Zak. Today, I feel better about it.

The Pension Sekaya is really nice. My room is the one immediately to the left downstairs in the top photo at the website. Like many rooms in old houses, there is no window. Instead, the double doors open to let light inside from the covered atrium. When the doors are closed, there are lights. The floor is brick and blue tile. The walls are white stucco. The ceiling is wooden beamed. The doors are elaborately painted and have fancy brass hardware. The archway of the door has fancy tilework and detailed carvings representing Islamic styles. There is an old carpet on one wall and a painting on another. There are very nice silk fabric draperies that can be drawn to cover the opening when the doors are open for ventilation. It is quite simple but elegant.

Zak prepared breakfast and served it to me and other guests at 10:15. I was glad that it was late, since there will be no food offered until close to night time due to Ramadan. I had "a la mente," green tea with mint. I also had a pot of coffee that came with cream and sugar on the side. There was a warm piece of thick, flat bread. To go with it were cream cheese, butter, black olives, and jam. It was filling and good.

Among the other guests here are 5 young Spaniards and a couple of young Asians. They have apparently hooked up and are exploring together. I left them alone except to offer a book I had if anyone read books in English. There was no taker.

I explored even further today. Often, I had the usual young man approach me to offer to be my guide, to take me to the bath house, to take me to the Jewish Quarter, to give me massage, etc. They don't like to give up. But I wasn't taking their offers. Instead, I let myself just smile and enjoy the changes which often became quite crude as they started describing what I could experience if I would take them up on their offers.

I went to three cyber cafes before I found one (far away in the New City) that knew how to set the computer for me to type in English. The keyboards here are designed for French typing, and the letters are placed in different places than they are for English. I do not know how often I will be able to be on computers due to this problem. Do not be alarmed if I am not online for a few days at a time.

It is now 16:00. The stores will start closing in half an hour. I must walk back to the walled city. I may have soup again tonight!