The conference is over. A whole day awaits, but I finally sleep like a stone and cannot get up before 8:30am. Hilda has to bang on my door at 9:00 to track me down. We have breakfast with Helene after saying good-bye to the others who all head off to Fez and we promise to meet up that night at the Dar Seffarine in the old city when we get there. We say good-bye to Helene, who is headed back to NYC, and thank her for organizing this amazing trip and experience. Then we are off to the Oudaia to do an afternoon of drawing and watercolor. First through the medina where I stop to negotiate prices and purchase three pairs of leather slippers for a nice price.
We sit over the waterfront where the blue fishing boats come by and have our tea. Basically we are paying to use the terrace as a place to do some drawing. The girls with the henna sticks come over, but we wave them off and they leave us alone to draw.
We hustle then to catch the 4:15 train to Fez. Change money, pack a bag and a quick bite at the kitchen across the street. The cook now adds extra fries to our plate as we sit there. They look after us.
The train is 80 dh one way and no first class. We finally manage to get a seat after traveling through several cars. Hilda sleeps and listens to music and I read through some papers for my class - actually getting some work done. We pass more sheep and fields with cactus and now know it's used to make the silk scarves - called sabra.
At 6:15 we think it is our stop but then realize it is Meknes and sit again. It is still light out but night is falling fast. A young Frenchman, Vincent, behind us asks if we are going to Fez as well and says he is looking for the youth hostel so I lend him my Lonely Planet guide (courtesy of my friend Patrick.)
Another young man comes and sits down next to him. He speaks stilted but very good English and then perfect French to the young man. He asks where we will stay and I show him in the book. He says, "I am from Fez and I work for the tourist bureau. I can tell you that it is not safe to go to the medina at this hour. The medina is closed on friday and you will have trouble to get to this hotel. There are very many good and cheap hotels near the train. I can show you." And this is where my radar should have and did go off. But I was anxious that this might be true and the night was falling fast and we had another half our to get to Fez. In the back of my mind I was trying to remember the warning I had read about tour guides and Fez. About the "touts" who ride the train between Meknes and Fez, tell you they are students, and then take you under their wing and for all you are worth.
Then he asked us where we were from and began telling us about his "sister" in NYC at Columbia University. Can she look us up when we go back to the states? He tells us you are like "sisters to me." We fell for the whole thing hook line and sinker. Even when he began talking about his father the certified tour guide taking us around Fez in the morning, we hung in there. I think I was too afraid to tell him no. What an actor.
So at Fez, outside the train station it is a mad house; crowded, in the not very pretty part of the Nouvelle Ville. We are completely disoriented. Not even sure where to find a cab and Abel, the tour guide is very polite and simply describes to us how to get to the Hotel Royal (a short distance he says) so we set off with Vincent, the French youth who is from Cairo on a work holiday at an NGO where he distributes funds to non-profit charities. He has decided to stay at the hotel instead trying to find the hostel. He carries a large rucksack on his back with all his worldly goods like any young traveler. Crossing the central square in the busy downtown darkness is a bit daunting. I am clutching my bag with my i-Phone, i-Pad, passport and wads of cash for all its worth, for the first time feeling like a real American tourist. And then we cross through a darkened park which is down right scary. Abel has actually followed us at a distance and comes out of nowhere to point us is in the right direction. This is either really helpful and friendly or downright creepy. Now Hilda and I are really beginning to wonder who to trust and I am thinking we are going to spend the weekend with Vincent and the creepy tout instead of finding our friends. Abel leads us to The Hotel Royal, which is dingy and frightening with stained wallpaper and greenish dim lighting. They offer to show us the room before we agree. The mattress looks like cardboard and the blankets like plastic sheets. Hilda and I exchange glances and know we would be afraid to lie down let alone close our eyes. So we say no and he says, "No problem. I will take you somewhere nicer." So we wave good-bye to Vincent, of the enormous rucksack, who has decided to stay at the Royal. Maybe cheap hotels in Cairo are even worse. Abel takes us across the central square again to the Perla, which is really fine a nice little place with a small restaurant even if the towel bar fell down in the bathroom.
The room is $25 and we have wi-fi. Our kindly "tout" Abel leaves and I try to offer him a tip, but he says "No just promise you will go with my father tomorrow for a tour." How can we say no now? So we arrange to meet his father in the lobby by 9:00 am in the morning. When we get to the room and check the Internet, Becky has sent us a photo of the Dar Seffarine, the riad in the medina, where they are all having a meal. And I sigh. She says, "It looks like a palace and I hope that you will arrive soon." It looks wonderful and inviting while our room resembles a Holiday Inn, but at this point we are too tired to deal with wether it's safe to get over to the Dar Seffarine alone at night and we stay at the Perla Hotel and bolt the door before falling asleep. Hilda and I agree we are determined to get up at 7:00 am in time to miss our "tout's" tour guide father. Apparently that's when the real hustle starts. The tour guide takes you to all the shops where he gets a commission and the prices go way up. Hilda is convinced that Vincent, the French tourist, was in on the whole scam. We'll see what the morning brings...
Hilda outside Oudaia
A few people are curious and come to look, a little girl, a Moroccan boy with long dreads, and a woman from Guinea who now lives in Tunisia. Three cats roam about the terrace and lounge in the sun.
On the way back we stroll up the Rue des Consuls to find the weaver we met with Helene the day before, but it's past two and he seems to be closed for the midday rest between 12 and 3. But we stop so I can buy a few scarves from another man and they are beautiful colors of orange, yellow, red, purple and gold. He throws in a pair of red slippers with tassels on the ends.
A store front on Rue des Consuls
My purchases
Rabat Ville Gare waiting for the 4:15 to Fez
Courtesy of H. Meza
Courtesy of H. Meza
Courtesy of H. Meza
On our way to Fez - What awaits us?
At 6:15 we think it is our stop but then realize it is Meknes and sit again. It is still light out but night is falling fast. A young Frenchman, Vincent, behind us asks if we are going to Fez as well and says he is looking for the youth hostel so I lend him my Lonely Planet guide (courtesy of my friend Patrick.)
Another young man comes and sits down next to him. He speaks stilted but very good English and then perfect French to the young man. He asks where we will stay and I show him in the book. He says, "I am from Fez and I work for the tourist bureau. I can tell you that it is not safe to go to the medina at this hour. The medina is closed on friday and you will have trouble to get to this hotel. There are very many good and cheap hotels near the train. I can show you." And this is where my radar should have and did go off. But I was anxious that this might be true and the night was falling fast and we had another half our to get to Fez. In the back of my mind I was trying to remember the warning I had read about tour guides and Fez. About the "touts" who ride the train between Meknes and Fez, tell you they are students, and then take you under their wing and for all you are worth.
Our "tout" Courtesy H. Meza
Then he asked us where we were from and began telling us about his "sister" in NYC at Columbia University. Can she look us up when we go back to the states? He tells us you are like "sisters to me." We fell for the whole thing hook line and sinker. Even when he began talking about his father the certified tour guide taking us around Fez in the morning, we hung in there. I think I was too afraid to tell him no. What an actor.
So at Fez, outside the train station it is a mad house; crowded, in the not very pretty part of the Nouvelle Ville. We are completely disoriented. Not even sure where to find a cab and Abel, the tour guide is very polite and simply describes to us how to get to the Hotel Royal (a short distance he says) so we set off with Vincent, the French youth who is from Cairo on a work holiday at an NGO where he distributes funds to non-profit charities. He has decided to stay at the hotel instead trying to find the hostel. He carries a large rucksack on his back with all his worldly goods like any young traveler. Crossing the central square in the busy downtown darkness is a bit daunting. I am clutching my bag with my i-Phone, i-Pad, passport and wads of cash for all its worth, for the first time feeling like a real American tourist. And then we cross through a darkened park which is down right scary. Abel has actually followed us at a distance and comes out of nowhere to point us is in the right direction. This is either really helpful and friendly or downright creepy. Now Hilda and I are really beginning to wonder who to trust and I am thinking we are going to spend the weekend with Vincent and the creepy tout instead of finding our friends. Abel leads us to The Hotel Royal, which is dingy and frightening with stained wallpaper and greenish dim lighting. They offer to show us the room before we agree. The mattress looks like cardboard and the blankets like plastic sheets. Hilda and I exchange glances and know we would be afraid to lie down let alone close our eyes. So we say no and he says, "No problem. I will take you somewhere nicer." So we wave good-bye to Vincent, of the enormous rucksack, who has decided to stay at the Royal. Maybe cheap hotels in Cairo are even worse. Abel takes us across the central square again to the Perla, which is really fine a nice little place with a small restaurant even if the towel bar fell down in the bathroom.
Kind of a Moroccan Motel 6
With nice lighting. Courtesy H. Meza
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