We arrived in our most foreign and exotic of cities via Ryanair, an Irish budget airline that has its stewardesses sell scratch cards and other idiotic trinkets. I just read and gazed out the window at the Mediterranean while Stacey dozed, leaning occasionally on the stranger to her right. We arrived in Africa (my 3rd continent of the week!) and walked off the airplane into beautiful, warm weather. I could have run around in a sundress...if I wanted to risk being stoned.
Exchanging money was gratifying because the Dinhar is weaker than the dollar. With 560 MAD in hand (approximately $75) I felt richer than my usual European student status. Our bus driver drove us to our Riad, a house with a garden courtyard, in Fes while chitchatting with Adrian in French and Hawra in Arabic. Its nice to have that language connection in such a foreign city.
Stopping at the walkway by our Riad, our bus brought us in the middle of a pack of male teens. None of us were reasy for the gawking and harassment so soon to out arrival- we wanted to at least drop our luggage off first. Luckily, the discomfort was kept to a minimal because we are such a large group and we have an even guy to girl ratio. [Although tourism is boosting Morocco's economy, I feel that tourists are a burden on their culture. In Turkey everyone was selling- laughing and friendly. Here it is much more reserved. As I walked through the city throughout the trip, I initially would feel a sense of intrusion as I maneuvered through traffic, down alleys or markets.]
We walked up to our Riad, passing stuccoed plain walls. Hidden behind these walls lay ornate homes, courtyard gardens, and bustling households. The home is a sacred place in the conservative Muslim culture of Morocco; interior beauty of the architecture is kept a secret because of a combination of modesty and privacy. Windows never give views inside, front doors never sit directly across from one another, and bedrooms never open directly onto courtyards.
Entering our Riad, we were not disappointed by our accommodations. Ceramic tiling, in vivid blues and white; intricate motifs carved into walls, framing the doors and windows; stain glass arches and windows; sunlight streaming into the courtyard filled with potted plants centered around a bubbling fountain with floating rose petals. We were greeted warmly by the hotel staff and offered mint tea. We anxiously awaited the unveiling of our room. As they lead one pair and then another to their suites, we glimpsed four poster beds fit for a king and delicately carved sofas and armoirs. Finally, a staffmember garbed in a loose fitting burgundy tunic and pant outfit walked Emma and I up to the winding stairs. As we ascended up the tight and winding staircase, I likened the experience to a Princess climbing up to her tall tower room. I felt like a Princess when the bellhop opened our door with a big brass key to our room, which we were delighted to find our four poster bed draped with beige and gold sheer fabric, natural light filtering in through the large windows. I jumped on the bed in my excitement, leaving the bellhop in the doorway to laugh at my childlike enthusiasm. After I gracefully got off the bed, I followed him as he motioned us to a small hallway off our bedroom. We descended a few stairs and turned a corner to find our bathroom bathed in natural light with a double high ceiling- akin to our bedroom. Not too shabby.
After we grasped the concept that we were living in a house/palace, we began roaming around, discovering balconies and terraces, as well as our neighbors (all CUA people since we took up 10 of the 12 existing bedrooms). We had jacuzzies in some rooms, terraces in others, a loft in yet another. Each room was uniquely beautiful and absolutely spectacular.
Applauding Christy and Adrian for their fruitful efforts we gathered in the courtyard to embark on our first Morroccan adventure. All the girls made sure they were properly covered, not baring shoulders or collarbones. Its not so conservative that we need to don Burkahs, an islamic head scarf, but caution in flashing skin was heavily advised.
Tentatively we exited our Riad, apprehensive of our reception as we walked through Fes. Some people stared, young boys heckled to impress their friends with their mock bravery, most people continued on- unconcerned with yet another group of tourists.
The day was warm and the beautiful weathered melted some of our anxieties as we began to appreciate Fes' understated vibrancy. We passed the gates of Bab Boujoud that mark the entrance into the Medina. We headed uphill, still inside the city walls from the 13th century. A large space to our right swarmed with people involved in the flea market. People sat next to their towels covered in various goods- from shoes to pottery- as others wander through the tight aisles of trash and treasure.
Walking through MoroccoPassing under the city wall I started to sweat under the warmth of the sun in my jeans and jacket, but because od modesty ( I was wearing a tank top underneath) I couldn't shed layers without offense. We crossed the bustling roadway unscathed to begin an upward ascent for a good view of the city. On our uphill travel we witnessed a funeral procession. Men carrying a pyre containing a body draped with a traditional cloth passed us chanting praises to Allah in Arabic (thank you for the translation Hawra). I found the procession intriguing and slightly archaic, while some of the other ladies in the group thought it disturbing.
After our first culturally shocking exhibition of the day, we continued onwards and slowly upwards. Finally, after passing a high school, a scenic outlook and a hospital, we reached the hilltop crowned with historical arches crumbling with age. One local boy, who rivaled most agile monkeys, had successfully climbed up one such deteriorating structure and sat triumphantly in the center of the arch. His friends found it amusing to chuck stones at him. We all looked on with a sense of amusement at their form of affection. The boy began to scramble down as his friends continued to deter rather than aid in descent. At one point, the monkey-boy cheered at us, trying to get us to take photos of his feat. As amusing as the picture was, we weren't gullible enough to take a photo knowing that the little boy wouldn't leave us until he extracted a fee for his impromptu photo op.
The arch the monkey-boy conqueredThe light began to fade and we were getting hungry from our hike, so we set off past the shepherd and his flock of sheep to get some dinner. Backtracking to Bab Boujoud gate, we entered Medina and were quickly convinced to try a restaurant near the gate entrance by their friendly Maitre de. Seated on a terrace overlooking the bustling street, we dined on local favorites of cous cous, targine, and skewered meats. For desser we were surprised to have sliced oranges sprinkled with nutmeg, simple, but delicious. My stomach still didn't trust me from my ill-adventure in Istanbul, so although I tried bits of many things, my full appetite had yet to return.
View from our terrace dinner
View from our terrace dinnerThe sun had set and our travel weary bodies yearned for the comfort of our gloriously indulgent looking beds. Entering the Riad I bid good-night to my teachers and classmates and beelined for the bedroom. Settling into bed after my nightly rituals, I finished off a book and quickly fell asleep.
(pictures and the rest of my adventures to follow).
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