Rabat to Marrakesh

I was a little worried about today's train ride. Yesterday, I'd strategically aimed for the new double-decker rapid train from Fez to Rabat, but today I was not going to have such a nice option. I've been on a lot of trains over the years so I'm not sure why I was concerned.

Maybe because I was thinking back to the second-class car I'd been on in Egypt in 2007. I didn't talk about it much on the blog post that day, but there's an element of over-enthusiasm involved in friendly interactions that can sometimes become a burden. I am an advocate of public transport abroad because I believe that taking public transport is what puts you in direct contact with normal people in the countries you're visiting. But I'm not a tireless advocate. Far from it. The first hour of having your photo taken and comparing notes about cars sold in your home country can be priceless. But several hours later, when you're still the pony in the dog-and-pony show, it can become an burden.

I needn't have worried. After I sat outside a photo shop and downloaded all my e-mail on their signal, I headed to Rabat's Ville train station and boarded a first class car. My compartment was fully of business people far more interested in their paperwork than in me. We traveled to Marrakesh in the air-conditioned car, the near-silence broken only when the coffee seller came by.

The train arrived a little late in Marrakesh, which meant that all the taxi drivers were on a shift change. It took me 20 minutes to get a taxi to Bab Laksour, and from there I shouldered my pack for the ten-minute walk into the old city.

I followed the instructions to proceed to the Mouassine Fountain, then turned down a small alley. "Easy," said the instructions.

No. Absolutely not easy. The alley snaked back into the medina, and had several branches. Right? Left?

"Excuse-moi, ou est Villa Mouassine?" I asked a guy with a Vespa in front of his door.

He had no idea. Neither did anyone else.

I found #86, which was the address. No sign. No indication of anything behind the door except a normal Moroccan home.

I backtracked and asked a ceramics seller by the fountain.

"Sometimes they don't have signs. You just have to knock."

So I walked back through the winding alley, past some really young feral kittens, and knocked on the door.

The front desk clerk answered and invited me in for a juice and some wi-fi. I went up to my room. I'd thought I'd scored a great sale price on a gorgeous riad-style home. But it was tired and uninspiring. I'd seen so many gorgeous guesthouses on websites. I'd scored wonderfully in Fez, not so wonderfully here.

But it was okay, so I unpacked and went outside to check out Marrakesh.

Doors of Rabat

Annoyed with the hotel, I went out into the sunny afternoon to take a look at Rabat's Kasbah.

The Kasbah is a walled-in area. People live in houses there. At the top of the hill is a lookout over the beach and the Atlantic down below.



I took some photos of the doors on the homes inside the walled-in area. Here are a few but I put an entire gallery up here.

Live, Learn, and Check the Wi-Fi Before Paying

Rabat isn't the hottest tourist destination in Morocco, and so the hotel selection isn't great. The closest hotel to the train station is a tired old place called Balina. The Balina is deluded... it still believes itself grand and worth $65 a night.

Which it certainly is not. Unless you have a thing for ratty and ick.

But I do have a thing for wi-fi, so when I stopped in and asked if they had wi-fi, and they said "yes in the lounge," and then were willing to put me in a room directly above the signal, I agreed to fork over $65 for their room that was probably state-of-the-art in 1958.

I could have had something similar for half the price if I'd walked a few blocks on, but I was also lazy and carrying a big-ass backpack. As usual.

And hour or so later, I was swearing and spitting when I could not get onto the wi-fi. I stomped down to the front desk, where the clerk said:

"Are you using a Macintosh? It doesn't work with Macintosh."

F*CK. (&^$$##$%%@@%^^^&#$#@$@%%J$%... and so on. NOT HAPPY. Why would I stay in this crappy hotel, paying way more than it was worth, when there is NO REASON TO? Arf.)

I tried some tricks... quotation marks around the password, the $ sign ahead of it. Nothing.

The hotel probably needs to upgrade their firmware. But they weren't likely to do that tonight, if ever.

I opened the windows to the street to try to catch a signal, and was overwhelmed by chanting.

Ah, hell. I was across the street from the main government building. The parliament, senate, or whatever it was. Right there.

And there seemed to be a protest.

Strategic Train-Riding

The new double-decker Moroccan high-speed trains were gorgeous. I'd seen one the day before when I'd gone from Fez to Meknes.

How can I get onto one of those trains?

I craved the novelty of the new. I studied the online schedules. I added up the number of hours between Fez and Rabat, the capital city on the Atlantic coast.

That one.

The 9:50 train made the run in 2 hours, 22 minutes. The others? Almost 3 hours.

I caught a taxi to the gare, bought a first class ticket, and sat in the shade of an open-air coffee shop in front of the station, enjoying a cappuccino and croissant. Imperialism is bad, I know, but I've had brilliant French bread and coffee in both Vietnam and Morocco. I won't deny that it's mighty tasty.

Time to board! A man at the entrance to the tracks checked my tickets. I could see the double-decker train waiting across the tracks.

Down the stairs... damn backpack... damn knees... under the tracks... up the stairs (that's not as bad).

Into the First Class car. Quiet. Empty. Air-conditioned. There's even a waiter who would bring me coffee if I hadn't just had some!

Man, this train is swank.

An Interruption

The theme park piece was on BBC radio last night.

It's available to listen to here for a week.

One of these days, my straight-talk style is going to get me into trouble. Maybe today!

Last Night in Fez

I arrived back in Fez in late afternoon. I was full of pizza, and went into the little house, switched on the A/C, and fell asleep.

I tried shopping a bit in the evenings. Fez is the artisan capital of Morocco. Lovely pottery, textiles, and leather goods. But I was still traveling overland to Rabat and Marrakesh. I didn't want to weigh myself down with heavy packages.

I'll buy my souvenirs at my last stop, in Marrakesh.

I'd be moving on in the morning.

Complete Fez photo album here.

Unexpected Twist

I scampered around Volulibis with my camera, and then jumped back in the taxi. Back to Moulay Idriss. Then 20 more dirhams for a front seat again back to Meknes.

I wandered towards the train station, and stopped in an upscale pizza shop for some food and air conditioning. Though the pizza shop was expensive, it was much cheaper than the tourist restaurants I'd frequented for the last few days.

Then, as I was walking back to the train station, a woman carrying a container of hair mousse and one of hairspray appeared in my path.

She started rambling on, pleading in French, waving the hair products. I picked up "enfant" in her barrage of words, and realized I was being asked for money. She wanted me to buy her hair products so she could feed her kid. Or not. Who knows. In New York, we ride the subways every day listening to the saddest stories imaginable. We all learn immunity here quickly. If you don't toughen up, you'd crack from the endless barrage of sob stories.

But here was this woman in my face. I couldn't ignore her. I wasn't sure if I should. I am always kind of baffled in begging situations. Do I give? Not give? What do the local people do? Follow the local example. But I hadn't noticed if local people were or were not giving.

Since she was standing in front of me, I had only two options. I could ignore her and brush on by and feel like crap, or I could give her something and scuttle on down the road to the train. I handed her 16 dirham ($2).

What happened next was completely unexpected.

She grabbed my head like it was a watermelon and pulled it to her chest, in one, super-fast motion. She hugged me tight and clung as I frantically pushed her away. Yikes! I am not huggy, even with people I know. And oh did she ever stink! She stunk of beauty products and heavy perfumes. I assume this was to cover up some other smell.

I pulled away and snarled "CUT THAT OUT." I quickly scurried on to the train.

I could still smell her all the way back to Fez.

Wallili

I'd hid in the guesthouse for part of yesterday, self-imprisoned, asleep or working with the a/c on.

I'd been overwhelmed by my new "friends," the kids who wanted to sell me something. Ali had suggested that I never walk with them, because they would believe they were making progress. Instead, he thought I should stand still and firmly say "La, shukran" until they got the point. (No, thank you.)

It worked but it made going anywhere a bit difficult. I had to spend several minutes per kid, standing there convincing them that I had no intention of accompanying them to any shop.

But the next morning, I sheepishly laughed at my overreaction. I know a thing or two about handling touts. Surely a few kids trying to make a buck or two shouldn't intimidate me. Ha.

"What are you going to do today?" I was sitting with Josephine again in the morning.

"I thought I'd go to Volulibis. Just on public transport, I mean. The going rate for a private driver is 800 dirhams."

"Normally, more people are staying here and you can split the cost," she explained. But I was fine with having an entire restored Fez house to myself. Really. Not a problem.

You might remember that I'd passed Volulibis, or Walili as it's known locally, while taking shared taxis to Fez from Chefchaouen. I hadn't been able to see much of these Roman ruins from the road, so was interested in getting back and checking it out.

I walked up to the main bab (gate) and hailed a taxi. 10 dirhams from the Medina to the gare (train station). 18 more dirhams for my train ticket to Meknes.

There were loads of empty seats so I was surprised when a young man sat down directly in front of me, in the seat facing mine. I was reading but when I looked up, I noticed that he had no luggage and no reading material. He was starting right at me.

Here we go.

I ignored him until finally he said "Where are you from?"

"New York, but I live in Kuwait." I learned back in Nairobi, when I lived in Uganda, that telling touts that you live somewhere unexpected throws off their game.

"You going to Marrakesh?"

I'd heard about hotel touts boarding the trains.

"No," I allowed myself a smug smile. "Meknes." I was only going to be on the train for 40 minutes.

He got up and left. Not so much as a good-bye.

At Meknes' El-Amir station, I caught a metered taxi (another 5 dirhams) to the grand taxis bound for Moulay Idriss. It's an easy walk, and I walked the reverse later, but from the map I wasn't sure how far away the grand taxis were.

"Moulay Idriss." I arrived at the grand taxi stand and informed the attendant of my destination. "Deux places." I wanted the front seat this time. 20 dirhams.

He nodded and put me in the front seat of an old Mercedes. Four men squeezed into the back seat and we were off. We stopped along the way and let one man out but the other three went to Moulay Idriss with me.

Moulay Idriss was another whitewashed mountain town. I negotiated with three drivers once I got there, but I still ended up paying 100 dirhams, more than twice the book's listed rate for a ride and back (with an hour waiting) to Wallili.

Here are some photos of Wallili/Volulibis.

Tough Job

So maybe editing or coloring comic books ISN'T so bad after all.

A Guided Tour

"Do you want me to call a guide or do you just want to walk around alone?" I was sitting in my guesthouse on Sunday morning, sipping coffee in the central room while Josephine spoke to me from across the table.

Yesterday, I had intended to get lost alone in the souks. Today, I had changed my mind. Last night, no less than three young men had attached themselves to me when I'd walked back from therestaurant. It's only a ten-minute walk. No sooner had I shaken one would-be guide or tout, then another would materialize at my elbow. One had at least made me laugh. "I don't want to be your guide. I want to be your bodyguard from other guides."

"I think I'll need a guide. I can't stand the hassle."

She called a man named Ali, who showed up in a long Jedi cloak. There are both Jedi Knights and Jawa outfits in Morocco. I haven't been to Tunisia, where much of the original Star Wars was filmed, but I suspect the same style of clothing was popular there at the time. And while I haven't seen any motor scooters of this sort on my current trip, the last time I was in Morocco, "Jawa" brand motor scooters were everywhere.

Ali escorted me around the Medina, showing me historic schools and mosques, as well as pointing out cultural differences.

"That is where wedding chairs are rented for ceremonies. No family buys these—they always rent because styles of wedding chairs change with fashion. And these threads here—they are being prepared for sale. Those are political posters."

It was good to have a guide like Ali. He took me into a store to overlook the tanners souk, but he didn't seem to care if I bought anything. I saw a gorgeous sky-blue leather bag... but when I asked the opening price and it was 350 dirham ($46), I decided there was nothing there that I really needed. Even at half the price, I didn't want the bag.


The same thing had happened at the pottery village the night before. Prices had been even higher than the value of the item. I understand I'm supposed to bargain, but I knew there was no way I'd get the prices down to anything I considered acceptable.

Once Ali dropped me off, I walked to a place called Cafe Clock for the most expensive falafel I've had since the first time I went to Egypt and didn't know not to order food in a tourist restaurant in Khan El-Khalili. One problem, besides me frequenting tourist joints here in Morocco, is that the euro is kicking the dollar's butt. Everything in Morocco is priced in euros.

I'm financially doomed this time out.

Maybe it serves me right for all those years of traveling when the dollar was king.