Ascension Someday… Pt II

Just to recap from my previous post…

I was standing in a hostel reception with a puzzled look on my face. I’d just been informed that it’s Ascension Sunday – despite the fact that it was a Thursday. Confusion aside, this meant there were no buses, scuppering my plan to visit a glacier.

“But…today’s a Thursday?”

“I know,” the hostel owner replied apologetically. “But we celebrate it on a Thursday in Scandinavia.”

I’m not religious at all so, apart from the obvious ones, I’m unfamiliar with the various Christian festivals. Unbeknown to me at the time, Ascension Sunday is the day when Christians celebrate Jesus’ ascension to heaven. Christians believe this occurred forty days after the resurrection (celebrated at Easter). Due to Easter occurring on a Sunday this means Ascension Day actually falls on a Thursday. It’s only recently that some countries have begun celebrating it on a Sunday (in the hope that more people will be free to attend the service). But the Scandinavian countries still observe the festival on the traditional Thursday. As a consequence, there were no buses.

Upon initially hearing this I was, understandably, left a little confused. I didn’t bother to enquire on which days they celebrate Easter Sunday, Ash Wednesday or Shrove Tuesday. I simply began to wonder what on earth I was going to do. Norway isn’t a cheap place and I was still quite some distance from the glacier centre so a taxi would be prohibitively expensive. I was stranded.

“What shall I do?” I asked despondently. The hostel owner paused for a moment’s thought before suddenly exclaiming, “The Americans!” He then pushed against his desk, sending himself and his chair wheeling towards his computer. “The Americans are going to the glacier too!” he continued, whilst rolling across the office. After arriving at his computer he began hurriedly typing away to retrieve his information on their travel plans. “Yes,” he confirmed, while tapping the screen, “they’re going to the glacier and they’ve got a car.” He then got up excitedly and marched me towards the cabin.

The American group that I’d shared my room with were busy polishing off their breakfast when we burst through the door. The hostel owner explained my predicament and asked if I could possibly catch a lift with them. I then rather melodramatically added, “I will be forever in your debt.” After saying this I couldn’t help but feel it sounded a little silly, after all, I would probably never even see them again. But I was feeling pretty desperate. To be honest I think the Americans just found it rather quaint and amusing. But regardless, they were more than happy to accommodate me, they almost insisted in fact.

As we made our way to the glacier we exchanged tales of our times in Norway, other travel experiences and a myriad of other topics. They were an exceedingly nice bunch of people and it was a very enjoyable journey. And so, due to their kindness and generosity (and some quick thinking from the hostel owner), I got to experience my first glacier, a truly spectacular and unique phenomenon.

Glaciers are essentially like rivers of ice flowing down mountains. And they behave much like rivers, only more slowly. Like rivers they have ripples and eddies that occur as the ice flows over features of the ground, like rocks. The composition at the surface isn’t solid ice as you might expect. It’s formed from little lumps of ice about the size of peas. And the glacier is constantly in motion. This was clearly evident when we left the glacier and the edge looked completely different to how it appeared when we first climbed on.

In order to explore the glacier we had to put on crampons and be tied together. We were then given an ice pick each to help with the climb. The guide then led us onto the glacier and took us on a tour while showing us the interesting features. It was an amazing experience to be honest. I greatly enjoyed seeing up close the strange feature that I’d first spied from a distance in Iceland.

The friend I was speaking to when I initially decided to visit a glacier had asked me to bring a piece back. I’d arrived prepared with an empty drinks bottle. So, using my ice pick, I hacked as many of the pea-sized lumps of ice into my bottle as I could. It was a lot harder than I expected. But I was glad I did. She still has the melted ice in a small decorative glass bottle as an ornament. I recently gave her a companion to the ice by bringing back some sand from the Sahara Desert during my Morocco trip. I figured the two would complement each other.

After leaving the glacier it was time to make my way to my accommodation. This proved decisively easy as my American companions insisted on driving me there, despite it being in the opposite direction for them. They were certainly a great bunch and I was incredibly fortunate to have met them. They truly saved my day. I have no idea what I would have done without them.

Footnote.

I received a few amused comments about my account of the hash dealers in Marrakesh. Well, as amusing as they were, they didn’t top the one I encountered at Oslo train station while waiting for my train to the airport.

I was standing outside the entrance killing time before my train left. I’d noticed a number of characters loitering around and approaching people. I’m not completely naïve; it was quite clear they were cannabis dealers plying their trade.

As the time of my train departure approached I entered the station and made my way to the platform. As I did so I was approached by a young man. He wasn’t intimidating or anything. He actually seemed quite nice. But not being a Norwegian speaker I didn’t understand what he said. Well, technically I didn’t understand it, but in reality, I got the gist of it. But, I had a train to catch so in order to end the conversation quickly I decided to play the helpless foreigner card and replied, “Sorry mate, I don’t speak Norwegian.”

I’d been rather surprised at how well Norwegians speak English. For example, when I was waiting to leave a different train a young man of about fifteen asked me something in Norwegian. I apologised and explained that I didn’t speak Norwegian. Without blinking he replied, in impeccable English, “Do you know if there’s anyone in the toilet?” I was a little surprised, but not as much as I was at Oslo train station.

It’s all well and good when some hardworking school children have developed good English speaking skills. But you’d assume that the kind of guy who ends up loitering around train stations selling drugs probably didn’t do that well at school, and consequently doesn’t have a great grasp of English. Not so. English is so ubiquitous that even the drug dealers speak it. In response to the apology for my incomprehension the guy immediately replied, again in perfect English, “Do you want to buy some cannabis?” It was what happened next that really made me laugh. I replied, “Cheers, but no thanks. I’m cool.” Without missing a beat the guy smiled mischievously and replied, “Do you want to be cooler?”

 

Ascension Someday…

Writing my last post reminded me of another similar story that also occurred during my trip to Norway. So, in order to riff upon a theme, I thought I’d share that tale too.

I’d been dreaming of seeing the Norwegian fjords for some time. The plan was partly inspired by a wish to witness Slartibartfast’s handiwork firsthand, and partly because the photos I’d seen were simply stunning. I’m not sure where the glacier element entered the story; it was a bit random I believe. A friend had asked me how I was planning to celebrate my upcoming birthday. I hadn’t yet given it much thought. I’m sure the expected response was a few beers in town or something. But, after a few moments contemplation, I shrugged and replied, “I’m gonna stand on a glacier.”

A number of years previously I’d taken a trip to Iceland. During a day’s coach trip I caught my first glimpse of this fascinating geological phenomenon. My curiosity was initially aroused by the sight of a faint horizontal white line on the horizon. The strange line ran between two mountain peaks. So whatever it was, it was clearly big. After assuring myself that I wasn’t imagining it I concluded that it must be a glacier.

As we continued along the road another mountain peak came in to view. I was surprised to see that the white line continued to this peak too. My sense of surprise then turned to astonishment as we drove further along the road and peak after peak appeared, all joined by the white line. Glaciers can be massive, I realised. I was absolutely amazed. But I had good reason to be. The glacier in question is called Langjökull. At 953km² it’s the second largest glacier in Iceland. Impressive as this is, Iceland’s largest glacier stretches over 8,100 km². That’s eight percent of the whole country.

But I digress, I’d decided that I’d celebrate my birthday by going to Norway to see the fjords and stand on a glacier. I wanted an up close view of the strange icy feature that had piqued my interest back in Iceland.

As described in my previous post my planning for the Norway trip was fairly meticulous. This gave rise to a few tight travel connections. I hadn’t yet got around to learning to drive, so I was left in the hands of public transport.

And so I found myself sat on a Norwegian bus making my way to the location of my next accommodation. I had no idea which stop was mine and consequently relied upon the assistance of the helpful bus driver. As we pulled over the driver gave me a smile and informed me I’d arrived at my destination. I grabbed my rucksack and stepped off the bus to survey my surroundings. I was due to stay at a hostel but as I looked around I couldn’t see any sign of a hostel. In fact, I couldn’t see any sign of anything. I was in the middle of nowhere. There were no buildings or signs of human habitation whatsoever. It was just a long road in the middle of nowhere. I decided to go for an exploratory wander. But as I began to walk away the bus driver called out to me. She then explained that the taxi pulling up behind the bus was there to pick me up. I was initially a little confused, but it turned out that the taxi was part of the fare. My stop was down into a valley, but the bus didn’t go that way. So I took the taxi for the last leg of my journey.

“Wow,” I said to the hostel owner upon arrival “You’ve got yourself a proper little slice of heaven here!” He smiled a polite but slightly mischievous smile, because he really did have a slice of heaven, and he knew it.

The setting was absolutely breathtaking. The hostel was situated in a peaceful valley that rolled gently down to the edge of a deep, gorgeous fjord. The various hostel buildings were nestled amongst the orchards and fruit beds from which the hostel owner made his own jams and juices. It was only a short walk down to the waters edge. The secluded spot offered the chance to absorb the spectacular sight of the rugged mountains that rose up dramatically in almost every direction creating an enclosed sense of isolation. “Wow,” I repeated to myself later as I stood on the shore and let the water lap lazily at my feet.

I was staying in a shared room with about eight beds. I was still organising my rucksack when my roommates arrived. They were an American ensemble of mother, daughter and two friends. They were a really friendly bunch and we shared a few brief jokes and chats before I headed down to spend an evening by the waters edge. But this was just a stopover for me. The main event was the next day.

On my day of arrival I’d done a quick recce to the nearby bus stop in order to be well versed in the next day’s plan. The fact that my initial bus hadn’t entered the valley left me a little concerned that my departing bus might not either. So I walked to the bus stop, checked the times and confirmed that it all tallied with the information I had. It was about three times that I sought assurance from the hostel owner. I think he found it slightly amusing. “Yes,” he repeated, “the bus definitely leaves from that stop. Don’t worry, it’ll be there. You’ll be fine.”

The next day started early. I awoke and quickly switched off my alarm so as to not awake my sleeping roommates. I then snuck out, got ready, and headed to the bus stop. I was a good ten minutes early, just to be on the safe side – or so I hoped.

The ten minutes passed. No bus. A further five minutes passed. Still no bus. Ten more minutes passed. Still no bus. I was beginning to get a little concerned. I was tempted to go and check with the hostel owner, but I couldn’t risk leaving the bus stop and missing it; I had to sit and wait. At this point it’s probably worth providing an overview of my travel plans.

I needed to catch that particular bus as it was the only bus that would get me to the site of glacier tour in time to catch the glacier trip. I could get a later bus – assuming one turned up – but that would mean I’d miss my opportunity to take a trek onto the glacier (the trips were limited so I had to book ahead which tied me to a specific time). The glacier was the whole focal point of my trip. It was my little birthday treat. In addition, I had to get to the glacier centre because it was from there that I caught a bus to the hostel I was staying at that night. Without a bus I was stranded and had no idea how to reach my accommodation.

And so I waited at the bus stop. It was back when I was smoker. As such, a long series of nervous cigarettes passed my lips. In desperation I’d been pretty patient and had waited about forty minutes. Eventually I had to conceded defeat and give up. I dejectedly picked up my rucksack and walked back to the hostel unsure of what to do next.

The hostel owner was busy receiving a new arrival when I resignedly pushed open the reception door and triggered the bell. While waiting for assistance I attempted to try and weigh up my options. But I couldn’t really think of any.

After a couple of minutes the new arrival was up to speed of the hostels rules and happily departed the office. The hostel owner’s face then turned to me. He didn’t need to wait for me to speak. He immediately began apologising profusely. “I am so sorry,” he began. “I really thought the bus was coming. But there aren’t any buses running today. They’ve all stopped”. He then said pretty much the last thing I expected him to say, “It’s…umm…how do you say?….It’s Ascension Sunday. There are no buses all day.”

I paused for a moment to study of his face in search of signs that this was some kind of joke. I wasn’t really in the mood for joking, but it was difficult to take this pronouncement seriously. After a few confused moments I realised that he wasn’t about to crack a smile and start laughing. He was being serious. Struggling to make sense of this realisation I mumbled what seemed the only logical response, “But…today’s a Thursday?”

To be continued…

A little slice of heaven…

 

Ship Happens, Eventually

Over the years I’ve developed quite a soft spot for Scandinavia. It’s a beautiful part of the world with fascinating countries and friendly people. As such I’ve been gradually exploring my way around some of the various nations. So, in 2011, I ventured to Sweden, the next on my list.

After spending a few days in Stockholm, I spent a few days in Gothenburg. I then opted to spend a day exploring a few of the many islands situated off the west coast of Gothenburg. You can buy a day ticket that allows you to hop between the islands using the various ferries that service them.

As my enjoyable day drew to a close I found myself standing on the jetty of my final island. I was stood anxiously with breath held and my eyes fixed nervously on an approaching ferry. This may seem strange, but to me it seemed all too familiar.

In 2009 I managed to tick Norway from my list of Scandinavian countries to visit. I was lucky to spend ten spectacular days in exhaustive exploration of the country. And I use the word ‘exhaustive’ intentionally. To be honest I’d perhaps overreached somewhat when it came to my plans. There were just so many things that I hoped to squeeze in to my limited timeframe. So in order to make the most of my trip, I’d planned my travelling meticulously. Inevitably this involved a few tight travel connections. And one such connection occurred on the shores of the beautiful Lydsefjord.

Despite the spectacular surroundings my mind was preoccupied elsewhere. I was staring intently at the various passing ships and ferries while silently begging them to change their course and head towards me, because I was in a slightly precarious position.

I had been dropped off by a previous boat at what was marked on the map as a village. In reality it was little more than two houses and a bicycle in the middle of nowhere. Initially I wasn’t concerned. I simply sat and waited for my connecting boat to arrive. It was when its scheduled arrival time sailed passed that I began to get a little nervous.

I had a night’s accommodation booked at a B&B in the village at the end of the fjord. The next ferry was scheduled to take me there. It was in fact the only ferry scheduled to go there that day. Without that ferry there was no real way for me to get to the village. The village was a good hour or so away by ferry, so it would have been quite a long walk. Although this was a moot point anyway because the fjord possessed some rather steep cliffs. Four hundred metres of sheer cliff face steep to be precise. Despite having spent my boyhood convinced that I’d grow up to be Spiderman, I had in fact grown up to develop no superhero powers whatsoever. Consequently traversing the fifteen miles of sheer cliff face was a little beyond my capabilities. Furthermore, all my subsequent intricate plans pivoted upon catching a particular ferry the next morning. A ferry that left from the village I was currently trying to get to, for which the only ferry of the day was seeming to not appear. Like I say, my travels involved a few tight connections.

There were many boats that sailed past me as I stood on the tiny jetty. And with each passing ship passed more nail biting minutes. I couldn’t help but begin to fear that it simply wasn’t going to arrive at all.

So there I found myself. I was standing on a jetty in the middle of nowhere while staring intently at the passing ships searching for signs of one changing its course and heading my way. “Come on!” I was willing them. But they all simply sailed straight past the lonely figure stranded on the shore.

It was a good fifteen minutes after the scheduled arrival time that I saw a glimmer of hope. One of the ships that I was staring at seemed to begin turning. “Is that? Is it?… It is! It’s turning! Thank Zeus!” I thought to myself. My ride had arrived. I happily grabbed my rucksack with great relief hopped on the ferry.

And it was this story that I couldn’t help but be reminded of while staring anxiously at the ferry in Sweden.

I had a book that included a timetable of the island ferries. Some of the times had a mysterious ‘T’ next to them, and a key that explained what the T meant, at least to those who speak Swedish, which I don’t.

The island I was on was relatively small, such that I had walked all over it during my time there. It was nice, but there wasn’t a great deal there. So I decided to catch the ferry back. This was the first ferry I’d caught that had one of those mysterious T’s next to it.

It actually took me a lot longer than I’d anticipated to walk back to the jetty. As a consequence I had to rush to make it in time. When I arrived there was a boat heading past the island, but no sign of one arriving. I waited, but nothing. Eventually a boat appeared and I patiently waited for it to pull up. But instead it sailed straight past. It was then that I remembered that there was another jetty slightly further down the coast. Perhaps that’s what the T meant? Perhaps those ferries stop at the other jetty? The boats were pretty infrequent, and I had no idea how long it would be for the next one. There was no time to waste. I needed to run to the next jetty. And I needed to run fast.

The terrain I was faced with was far from ideal to be honest. There were no paths. It was just steep undulating rocky ground covered by shrubs, bushes and trees. There were a number of gullies to leap, hills to ascend and rocks to avoid tripping over. I must have run a good fifty metres horizontally and risen a good twenty metres vertically before I finally reached a position where I could see the next jetty.

When the jetty came in to view I could see that there was absolutely no way I was going to make it in time. Not that this really mattered to be fair. As I stood and watched, the boat sailed straight past it. It clearly wasn’t stopping at that jetty either. That obviously wasn’t what the T meant. But, there was little I could do except shrug and walk back to the original jetty. At least this gave me a chance to get my breath back. My mad dash across the hill had left me quite sweaty and breathless. It didn’t help that the rain had begun again.

Upon arriving back at the jetty I took out the timetable and had another look. I was in luck. There was another boat due in seven minutes, but there was a concerning element to this realisation. The next ferry was the only one for almost three hours. There was nothing on the island, no coffee shop, no bar – and I could have done with a pint after my little mountain adventure. There wasn’t even a shop, and I had no food or water. It would have also been about half seven by the time the boat arrived, so it would have been pretty dark and cold. Suffice to say, there was a lot was riding on the next boat turning up. I was naturally a little anxious in light of the previous no show. But at least this one didn’t have a T written next to it, whatever that meant.

The allotted seven minutes past. No boat arrived. I could see plenty of other boats milling about between the various islands. But none of them were heading in my direction. Ten minutes past. Time was ticking on.

It was a good five minutes after the designated time of arrival that I heard an engine to my right. The view was obscured by bushes so all I could do was anxiously wait. After about fifteen seconds a ferry came into view. As I watched it approach I was pleading with it to turn left and head towards me. It was at this point that I had my little moment of déjà vous about Norway.

The boat approached, the tension mounted. I’d recovered from my run so my panting had passed. It was quite the opposite in fact, I was holding my breath. “Please,” I was willing to the boat, “Please come and pick me up. I can’t be stuck on this island for almost three hours!” It was still raining, light rain, but the kind of rain that could easily turn heavy at a moments notice. There was no shelter either, except by perching on the wet grass under one of the trees. It was certainly one of those dream scenarios that make travelling so worthwhile.

The boat got closer. It still wasn’t turning. I couldn’t believe it; it was going to sail straight past. It got so close that I began to lose hope. It was probably on the same route as the one that had sailed past earlier I concluded. I began to sense defeat. But then at the very last second the thought crossed my mind “Is it…is it…turning?”

Boats aren’t the nippiest of movers so initially it’s not easy to tell if they’re changing course or not. But thankfully after a few apprehensive seconds I could see a definite change in direction. So, unknowingly being cheered by me, the boat began to pull in towards the jetty. It was the second happiest I’d ever been after seeing an approaching boat.

A day or two later I was in Innsbruck chatting to a girl on the hostel reception. Overcome by curiosity I pulled out the now old and battered boat timetable from my bag and flicked to the page I’d been using a few days previously. “Umm…could you tell me what that ‘T’ means please?” I asked. The girl took the timetable and began reading the explanation provided by the key. She looked quizzical for a moment as she considered how to translate it. “It…umm…it means…it stops only if someone is there,” she explained. It was then that I realised what had happened. The boat that I’d first seen upon arrival at the jetty was in fact my boat. But because I wasn’t there when it approached, it simply sailed straight past. I’d probably missed it by less than a minute.

 

My Photos from Morocco!

Here’s the promised photos from my trip. To see them bigger simply click on one and enjoy the slideshow.

The sun creeps up over the previous night’s campfire.

Sunrise over the desert hills.

Two fellow travellers disappearing into the desert.

The traffic in the desert is pretty hectic.

Some strange rock formations. And a blurred wall.

Ouarzazate has starred in more films than Kevin Bacon.

The breakfast that almost made me miss my train…

From this angle it’s difficult to understand how I managed to get lost in the Fez medina.

One of the beautiful gates of Fez, framing a minaret.

A cedar wood carved mosque in Fez.

One of Fez’s many old water fountains. The Moroccans sure know how to do water features.

A peek inside a Fez riad (one most probably out of my price range)

Some of the buildings in Fez are held up by wood. Which is reassuring.

I believe this Fez cat is thinking ‘Man I am so lost…have I been this way before? I swear I recognise that idiot with the camera…’

One of the many workshops where you can watch the goods being made. Except when the craftsman isn’t there.

The smell of the Fez tanneries is certainly…umm…an acquired taste.

The different pools are for different coloured dyes (brown appears to be this season’s colour).

Imagine 9,400 of these alleys all weaved together. Now try to find way to…well, anywhere.

A fantastically ornate mosque gate.

A not particularly good picture of the Djemaa el Fna in Marrakesh. I need a new camera.

Various stalls on the Djemaa el Fna (and a sign for a giant telephone)

Umm…I smell camera

If you’ve had enough of cous cous, here’s tagine. The other option on a Moroccan menu.

Looking down on the interior courtyard of the Marrakesh riad.

Looking down on the interior courtyard of the Marrakesh riad after moving slightly to the right.

Koutobia Miinaret. Someone insisted on trying to guide me here, even though I could see it over the buildings in front of me.

A view at one of the stops on the way to the desert.

Another view at one of the stops on the way to the desert, but this one has subtlety different terrain.

Upon meeting the camels we were all giggling with excitement. The camels were rather more subdued.

It’s probably fortunate that this guy’s leg is tied up. After I blinded him by inadvertently using my flash he probably wanted to kick me.

In the midst of all the ‘jammin’ a ring was lost…

 

Farewell Morocco

My arrival back in Marrakesh marked my final night in Morocco. So I headed to my riad, got settled in, and then headed out and into the city. After one last wander around the souqs and the Djemaa El Fna it began to get late so I headed to the bar that I’d introduced my desert trip companions to a few days previously. It seemed an apt place to end my journey.

The bar was along the main road near my riad. As I walked past it on my first night a guy named Abdul approached me and began trying to entice me into the club. It was his job to stand on the street and drum up business. After discovering that they served beer – something which, of course, isn’t very prevalent in a Muslim country – I promised that I’d come back a bit later. I then proceeded to wander off and get completely lost. Sometime later I found myself walking past the club while confusedly trying to work out how I’d managed to unknowingly walk in such a large a circle. Abdul recognised me and thought that I’d come back to go in the bar. He immediately began to take me in the bar, which I found quite funny. It was still a bit early so I promised that I’d be back a little later and would definitely go in. When I returned a few hours later Abdul once again recognised me and happily ushered me up the stairs and into the club, all the while enthusiastically telling me about the place. I was instantly charmed by his warmth and friendliness. He was a really nice guy.

The next time I saw Abdul was on the evening of my return from the desert. I was walking back to the riad with the two German guys when we walked past the club, but on the other side of the road. Out of nowhere Abdul ran up to us and began to tell one of the German guys about the bar, before seeing me and, after giving a cheer of recognition, gave me hug. We both laughed and chatted before I assured him that we might make it back a bit later.

He seemed pretty pleased when we arrived at the club entrance a few hours later. Although there were about ten of us, so it was a reasonably sized party. Once again he enthusiastically showed everyone up the stairs and to the rooftop, on which the bar was situated. He even went ahead and rearranged the tables and chairs so that we could all sit together, which was nice of him.

There were a further two or three times when I passed the bar, and each time Abdul attempted to convince me to go inside. It did make me chuckle. So, it seemed fitting to end my last evening in Marrakesh back at the bar. As I arrived Abdul mentioned that there was a birthday party going on. I assumed it was for one of the patrons, but it turned out to be for the bar itself. Morocco is popular with French tourists and as a consequence the bar was full of French revellers celebrating the bar’s milestone. It was certainly quite a lively atmosphere.

I managed to find a free bar stool situated under one of the umbrellas. This turned out to be fortunate as it later started to rain, very heavily. People quickly rushed under the umbrellas and huddled together as the rain lashed down. There was a film festival being held at the main square. They had a massive screen erected onto which they were beaming films. As the rain lashed down I became quite relieved that I’d left and gone to the bar, but at the same time I felt a little sorry for the large crowd I’d left behind. They must have got absolutely drenched. Oh well, the riad manager in Fez did say that Moroccans like rain. I guess this was an opportunity to test that resolve.

Despite the wet weather the party atmosphere of the bar certainly wasn’t dampened. Although no doubt the free food and drinks that were routinely dished out helped lift spirits. At one point the lady who co-owned the bar handed me what appeared to be some kind of fruit salad in a large shot glass. It was very nice, although I had no idea what the hell it was. But while I enjoyed the bar, the music, the partying and the food, it provided a great opportunity to reflect upon my journey.

After having arrived back in Marrakesh a few hours previously I was pleased to return. I felt like I’d truly acclimatised to the place by that point. The city can certainly seem overwhelming at first, almost intimidating. You have to contend with people approaching from every direction in an attempt to encourage you to buy this or that or to guide you to one place or another, it even begins to get a little tiring. It feels rude to be forced to ignore people. But once you get used to it, you can begin to relax and simply enjoy the place for the other charms it has to offer. With practise you become accustomed to repeatedly saying no in a firm but friendly manner, or more specifically “non merci”. The people may appear pushy at first, almost rude. But it’s generally all good-natured really. It’s simply a city of sellers all competing against one another for your custom. Whether it’s a restaurant waiter attempting to shove a menu in your hand or someone attempting to place a snake on your shoulder, it’s all just drumming up business. At one point, in the space of twenty metres, I declined four taxi lifts and three offers of hashish. And hashish is everywhere by the way. I found its ubiquity quite amusing. I’m not a partaker myself, but the place is clearly full of those that do, because there are dealers everywhere. As you walk along they dart across your path while whispering this kind of “hiss-hiss” sound. One after another, even every few metres at the busiest spots. I found it hilarious. It reminded me of those nature documentaries when you see underwater shots of birds dive-bombing into the water and careering past the camera. It was like that only with hashish dealers diving past you making their inimitable hiss-hiss sound. But it’s all part of the place. It’s all part of the lively commotion of the city, particularly in the medina. Marrakesh Medina in not a place in which to take peaceful strolls for quiet introspective contemplation. There is no peace and quiet to be found there. The place is simply too much of a heady cocktail of noise, commotion, sights and smells. A collage of vibrant sounds, colours and smells. But through it all, there’s still a great degree of warmth and friendliness to be found, like for example Abdul.

One feature of the bar was that instead of paying for individual drinks you run up a tab. The problem with this is that I soon lost track of how much I owed. My dirhams (the Moroccan currency) were in short supply and I needed to make it to the airport the next day, and I wasn’t sure how much the taxi would cost. I was enjoying my time at the bar but in light of this I decided that I should err on the side of caution and ask for the bill. After doing so I realised that I had actually spent a lot less than I had thought, which isn’t something that happens very often. So, seeing that I was enjoying the evening, I decided to stay for one last drink. The barman was a little surprised when I ordered another beer, so I indicated that I’d just stay for one more. He then cheered happily and insisted that I take the beer for free, which was very nice of him. It also meant that I still had plenty of dirham for the taxi the next day. Or I would have…

The next morning I was up early in order to catch my flight. My first task was to settle up my bill with the riad. Unfortunately, the manager wasn’t around and the guy running the place didn’t expect me to try and pay in Euros. It was a perfectly acceptable currency, but he didn’t have access to the till and therefore couldn’t give me my change. He then explained that if I waited he’d get the manager to come over and sort it out. After about ten minutes of waiting he eventually asked me what dirhams I had. All I had was a one-hundred dirham note and the equivalent of almost five pounds in change. Being helpful he told me to just give him the change so that I didn’t have to wait, even though it didn’t quite cover what I owed. This was very good of him, of course, but it did mean I had less dirham for the taxi. I gratefully thanked him and left to catch my taxi.

Morocco employs strict rules about how many dirhams you can take in and out of the country. And I couldn’t remember how much the limit was. It was for this reason that I needed to watch my money properly and plan ahead. I didn’t want to draw out too much and then have to leave it behind. As it was I was clearly a little over cautious as I left the riad with only the one hundred dirham to get my taxi. I was a little nervous about whether this would cover it, but had no choice. On my arrival in Morocco I was picked up by the desert tour people. This was included in the price and involved a trip to their offices in order to book the tour. For this reason I wasn’t sure how much the taxi cost, or even how long a direct trip took. So I flagged down a taxi and we headed off to the airport.

The journey was actually only about five or ten minutes, so I was relieved when the airport came into sight. I realised that, judging by the price of taxis in Fez, my hundred dirhams would easily cover it. I was therefore surprised when the taxi driver took the money, thanked me and immediately got back in his taxi and drove off. Either the trip to the airport just happened to cost exactly one hundred dirhams – which is not only unlikely but it would also mean that taxis’ in Marrakesh are about five times the price of those in Fez – or I’d just been scammed. I assumed that it was probably the latter and amusedly shrugged before entering the airport. Dirhams were no longer of any use to me anyway so it mattered little either way. But not even that was my final experience of Moroccan scams.

After checking in and dropping off my bag I decided to use the toilet. I couldn’t help but find it amusing to see one of the cleaners standing beside the entrance to the toilet with a hand out waiting for payment from those who used the facilities. The amusing thing about this was that he was standing under a sign that clearly stated that it was a free toilet. I had to laugh at the audacity. An hour or two later, as I was about to get on the plane, I used another toilet. This one had a lady outside not very subtlety jangling change as people left. Having used all my money I of course had no change. Not that this mattered, I was able to point she was standing next to a fifty dirham note– about a fiver’s worth. Clearly someone had dropped it, but there was no one else around who could claim it. And she hadn’t noticed because she was too busy staring at people as they left in the hope they would leave a tip. She seemed pretty pleased when I pointed it out to her. Well, it was no use to me. So she might as well enjoy it. And with that, I got on my plane and headed home.

 

Trip To Fez Pt II

I began my last morning in Fez with quite a hearty breakfast. There were just so many delights on offer that I couldn’t help but attempt to indulge in them all. The down side of this was that I completely lost track of time. So much so that by the time I finally accepted the breakfast had beaten me I was running a little late, which wasn’t very clever. I needed to catch a train back to Marrakesh and it’s quite a long journey. It wasn’t quite an emergency situation yet, though. That arrived a few minutes later.

My riad was organised into two separate parts. My room was in one building, whereas the reception was in a separate building a few minutes away. I still needed to pay for my stay so I grabbed my rucksack, handed in my keys and hurried down to reception. Unfortunately when I arrived and began knocking no one answered. A good few minutes passed but still no one appeared. I began to get a little concerned as time was quickly ticking away. I concluded that my only option was to walk back up to the apartment and see if I find anyone. But of course I no longer had my keys. So I couldn’t get in there either. I then had to begin knocking on that door in the hope that someone would eventually answer.

It was a good few minutes before the door finally creaked open to reveal the lady who had laid on the breakfast. After I explained my predicament she happily walked me back down to reception with what I assumed was a key, this turned out not to be the case. She simply knocked on the door as well. And no one answered. Time was still getting on so I couldn’t help but start to find it all a little amusing. She eventually conceded defeat and walked me to a nearby restaurant to see if they could phone the manager. While I was standing inside the restaurant I noticed the time on the mantelpiece’s clock. This served as quite a relief.

I don’t wear a watch. I just use my phone. Ordinarily this is fine. But my phone does have a peculiar quirk in that sometimes when I put it into standby mode it switches itself off. And the only way to start it again is to take the battery out. This normally works fine, but on occasions it completely resets the date and time of the phone. This is exactly what happened while I was on the train to Fez. Unfortunately, I was relying on the time to know when to get off. I was hoping to hop off and see Casablanca but couldn’t read the signs on the platforms as they were all in Arabic. And I had absolutely no idea what the announcer was saying. I thought the announcers on UK trains were indecipherable enough, but the Moroccan ones are on a different level. Thankfully I managed to guess what the time was, reset my phone and managed to find Casablanca okay.

But as I stood in the restaurant waiting I realised the clock indicated I actually had a further fifteen minutes more than expected. Meaning that I hadn’t guessed the time correctly after all, which was a relief. Consequently I was able to relax again. I was then told that it was okay to go back to the riad reception as the manager was now expecting me. So I wandered back down the street and knocked on the door. The apologetic manager opened the door and began explaining that there had been a power cut which had caused a bit of chaos. He then sat me down and offered me some mint tea.

While in the desert, a few days previously, it was explained to us that there is a certain degree of prowess associated with tea pouring competency. The higher you can hold the teapot and still accurately pour the tea, the better. My first attempt at this was a dismal failure. When I first arrived at Fez I was given some tea. While the manager was away attending to something I decided to top up my cup. As soon as I tilted the teapot it all poured out over the white tablecloth creating a large browny/green patch. I’d only been on the premises a matter of minutes so I was slightly flustered at having made such a mess. I quickly searched for something to mop it up with. But of course before I had a chance to do anything the manager reappeared, silently noted the state of the tablecloth – while probably mentally marking me down as a potential trouble maker – before directing me to my room. Understandably, I was a little embarrassed by my faux pas. The next day I was comforted a little when the lady serving me breakfast managed to pour it all over the tablecloth as well. Oh well, even the locals sometimes struggle I figured. Anyway, while I was waiting for the manager to sort out the money I decided to have another go. Bingo! Every drop went perfectly into the cup. Sadly I was unable to enjoy the fruits of my accurately aimed labour as moments later the manager reappeared with my change and informed me of the time. I realised that the clock in the restaurant was actually wrong and my phone was in fact right. I didn’t have the extra fifteen minutes after all! The manager then asked me if I knew where the taxi rank was. I said I didn’t, but I was just going to head to the main road and flag one down. He then looked a little sceptical and explained that he didn’t think there would be many going along there. Excellent, time was once again against me and my plan was flawed. I decided that I had better make a quick exit.

As I was being shown to the door the manager apologised for all the rain that had occurred while I was in Fez. I used my joke about being English and having probably brought it with me. He then laughed and said that in that case I should come back as Moroccans like rain.

After departing the riad I walked hurriedly up to the main road and began trying to flag down a taxi. Thankfully, despite the riad manager’s concerns, it wasn’t very long before one turned up. But as it pulled I saw a young man in the front seat and an old lady in the back. I wasn’t sure why the driver had pulled over if he was already busy. But when I said I was heading to the station he encouraged me to hop in, so I did.

By this point I’d taken a number of Moroccan taxi journeys. I was beginning to get accustomed to the often manic driving style. I couldn’t help joking with myself that some of them seemed to use their horns more than their indicators. But then perhaps it is justified, some of the roads can be a bit hectic. I was only in Morocco for a week and yet I encountered four road accidents. Two happened right in front of me. Of the other two one was a large 4×4 that was being winched back onto the road. The other was a lorry that had somehow managed to career straight off the road. But then perhaps it wasn’t always purely the fault of the drivers. In response to one of the crashes a nearby guy immediately burst out laughing while calling his friend’s attention to it. The amusing thing about this is that it was his job to direct the traffic!

We’d been driving for a few minutes when we suddenly pulled over. I was a little confused as it didn’t look like we were at the station. The young lad in the front then got out, paid, and went on his way. I realised that my companions weren’t on their way to the station. They weren’t even together. It then dawned on me that despite my time pressure we probably weren’t on a direct route to the train station. This point was highlighted a few minutes later when we pulled over and the old lady got out. The driver then pulled up alongside another taxi rank and began negotiating with the queuing people in an attempt to pick up another fare. Meanwhile, I nervously eyed my phone while watching the minutes scurry swiftly away.

I wasn’t sure how long the taxi ride had taken when we eventually arrived at the train station. But I had my money out ready, my bag in my hand and dived out of the taxi. As I rushed up the path towards the station I looked up only to be greeted by a defeating sight. The giant clock on the front of the station informed me that my train was leaving at that very moment. I still had my ticket to get, so there was no way that I was going to make it. I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t understand how the taxi had taken so long. I knew it was probably an indirect route, but I was still surprised by how quickly the time had flown. Oh well, I’d missed my train and there wasn’t much I could do about it. I slowed my pace down and began dejectedly ambling towards the station. It was a good couple of hours for the next train, so there was no reason to rush. Still in disbelief I pulled my phone from my pocket whilst struggling to understand where the time had gone. It was then that I realised the clock on the front of the train station was running about fifteen minutes fast! I still had time to catch my train! I picked up my pace again and rushed into the station.

Once inside I looked up at the notice board and saw my train was still running on time. There was another big clock above the notice board. This one was roughly telling the right time. I headed to the back of the ticket queue and patiently waited. When my turn finally arrived I approached the desk whilst pulling out my Euros (which was all that I had left). The guy behind the counter simply shook his head and explained that I couldn’t use Euros. “But I used them okay in Marrakesh?” I protested. He shrugged and said I couldn’t use them. I didn’t have time for this! But I had no choice, I had to leave the queue and find a cash point.

There was a cash point in the centre of the station, so I rushed over and hastily hammered away at the buttons. I only had a couple of minutes to make the train now. Grabbing the dispensed cash I rushed back over and joined the back of the queue again. My foot was tapping in frustration by this point. “Come on” I was silently willing to the people being served ahead of me. For some reason it’s always moments like these that the Universe seems to wheel out all the dithering pensioners who can’t find their money, the confused travellers who require additional directions and those with convoluted travel plans that entail in depth discussions with the ticket people. All the while time was ticking down. “Come on!” I silently urged. Finally it was my chance. I almost threw the money at the assistant, grabbed my ticket, rushed out through the doors, across the station, onto the platform, up to the train and scrambled up the steps and into the carriage, making it without a minute to spare…well, I say that. It would have been without a minute to spare, if the train had actually left on time. As it was, we sat at the station for a further five minutes before the train casually lurched out of the station. Oh well, at least I made it!

 

Trip To Fez Pt I

For the next part of my Moroccan adventure I took the seven hour train journey from Marrakesh to Fez. It was getting late by the time the train pulled into Fez station, so I was keen to track down a taxi and head straight to my riad. It was easy to identify the Fez taxis’ as they stood out being red and sporting roof racks. I was approached by a friendly man asking if I required a taxi, so I confirmed that I was and we headed to his taxi.

The first surprising event occurred when he opened the boot of his vehicle in order to put in my rucksack. It was full of tools. Hammers, trowels, white spirit and screwdrivers, as well as various other paraphernalia from what I can only assume must be his second job. As I watched him struggle to cram my rucksack in I couldn’t help but amusedly wonder why he didn’t simply empty his boot before going to work as a taxi driver. Anyway, I hopped in the passenger seat and waited for us to depart. Meanwhile, he disappeared. A good ten seconds passed until my curiosity began to stir. I had expected him to climb into the driver’s seat but he didn’t appear. I began looking all around, but he was nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t understand it. He was right there, but then he’d suddenly disappeared. Night had fallen by this point and it was quite cold so I was keen to get to my riad and warm up. But he was nowhere to be seen. After waiting for over a minute I began to contemplate hopping out, retrieving my bag and finding another taxi. But then all of a sudden he reappeared again. He was talking to some other tourists. I realised that he’d been off trying to get a second fare! He then opened the door and two friendly Americans climbed into the back seat. Of course the boot was already full with my rucksack and his tools. They were a little nervous as he chucked one of their bags, untied, into his roof rack, but he assured them it would be fine. And then finally, we were off.

Much like Marrakesh, Fez has an ancient centre, the medina, which is enclosed by medieval walls and is generally too narrow for cars to drive through. Helpfully my taxi driver took me as far as he could before calling the riad so that the manager could come and meet me. This was fortunate as while I was being guided down the confusing maze of winding alleys I realised that there was no way I would have found it on my own. I would have got completely lost.

Once inside the manager sat me down, gave me some delicious mint tea and began to mark out the city’s highlights on a map while explaining more about the place. He mentioned that guides are available but suggested that it’s far more interesting to explore yourself. I decided that he was probably right, so the next day that was exactly what I set out to do.

Armed with my clearly marked map I ventured out early the next morning in order to track down the best of the wonders that Fez has to offer. I couldn’t find any of them. Didn’t even get close. I got lost in Marrakesh a few times. But Fez is on a whole different scale. Hampton Court maze has nothing on Fez. To put it in perspective, it has 9,400 streets and alleys all weaving past each other in a mesmerising, labyrinthine conundrum. Street after street I traversed all of them looking similar but none of them being the same. Admittedly it was great fun to wander around and explore, but I had absolutely no idea where I was. Eventually I reached part of the medina’s exterior wall so I walked along it in order to get my bearings. After a minute or so I reached the river that runs through the centre of Fez. This should have proved a useful landmark, but it only confused me further. It seemed to be flowing the wrong way. By this point I’d been walking for several hours so I decided to take a rest and grab a coffee. At the coffee shop I asked the waiter to point out where I was on my map. It turned out that I was actually on the exact opposite side of the city to what I had thought. I was a little surprised, but it did at least explain why the river was flowing the wrong way. I decided to concede defeat and take a taxi back to the riad. Upon arrival I tracked down the manager and with a slightly sheepish grin on my face asked: “Umm… about those tours you mentioned…”

The manager helpfully got on the phone and arranged for a guide to come and meet me. It wasn’t long before I became very glad that I’d reconsidered the tour option. If you ever visit Fez, I highly recommend going for one. As fun as lone exploration can be, tours really help you see the true highlights. Another great thing is that I was able to learn more about life for the locals by chatting to the guide. He was born in Fez and believed that it took until he was about 13 or 14 before he knew his way around. As well as the 9,400 streets he also informed that there are 340 mosques serving roughly 200,000 inhabitants. I got the impression that he was slightly amused by my questions regarding the city, city life and its history. But he was more than happy to impart his knowledge anyway. I’m not sure if he was more accustomed to tourists simply wanting to just see the sights. Personally, I was keen to pick his brains a bit in order to learn as much about Moroccan life as I could.

Fez dates back to the 8^th century, but much of what can be seen today dates from around the 13^th/14^th century. The city was formed from two different tribes who began settlements on opposite banks of the Jawhar River. Over time the two joined into one. It became the regional centre of trade and commerce. This led to a regional dominance that at one point made Fez the capital of the Moroccan Empire. And this empire once stretched all the way to Tripoli in Libya. It was one of the few places in the region that didn’t capitulate to the Ottoman Empire.

Another interesting feature of the city is the water system. It’s an ancient water work that no longer functions. What’s curious is that no one has ever quite managed to figure out how it ever worked. It’s an example of ancient knowledge that has been lost to the sands of time. But its importance has been recognised and forms part of the UNESCO World Heritage Status that has been awarded to Fez. And UNESCO are currently trying to map the system in order to help uncover its secrets. There are plenty of ornate fountains that can be found around the city that no longer work as they were once fed by the water system. They have intricate ceramic mosaic decorations. Often blue, as this is the official colour of Fez, and sometimes green, as this is the official colour of Islam. The guide explained to me that Mohammed painted the first mosque green and for this reason green has become the traditional colour of Islam. But the most fascinating fact imparted by the guide, at least in my opinion, is that apparently a person from the 14^th century would have no problem navigating the winding streets of Fez because it has changed so little in that time. I wonder how many places in the world you could say that about.

But as interesting as the facts about Fez are, it’s Fez itself that’s the true wonder. I honestly felt that my trip to Fez was the closest I’ll ever get to experiencing the Medieval world. Things seem to have changed so little, it was fascinating. Much like Marrakesh people could still be seen making the crafts that were on sale next to them but on a much bigger scale. Donkeys were being reluctantly guided down steep alleyways loaded high with goods. Sights, sounds, smells, commotion was happening every where. There was a thriving energy and vibrancy to the place. Looking up you could see overhanging wooden buildings with beautifully carved cedar wood fronts. Some of the streets were covered over, some were open, others were dead ends. Some of the buildings were simply held up with wooden struts as they leaned forward seemingly ready to lurch over at any given moment. It was an amazing sight and a wonderful place to visit. But the highlights of the tours are generally the shops themselves.

As part of the tour you’re taken to leather shops, carpet shops, silk shops, metal workers and even a herbalists. Upon arrival at the leather shop I was handed a piece of mint. I wasn’t sure what it was for but took it anyway. I was then guided up a tiny winding staircase, past various racks of leather goods and through to the back of the shop, where I could look out over the tanneries. It was then that I realised what the mint was for. The smell from the tanning process was a little pungent to say the least. It didn’t particularly bother me, but I could certainly understand how some might find it a little overbearing. But it was a fascinating sight all the same. There were lots of different pools in which different stages of the treatment takes place in order to turn the raw hides into the slippers, bags, jackets and other goods. The shop manager explained that the workers can even develop arthritis from spending so much time working in the water. He then illustrated the quality of the goods to me by brazenly pulling a cigarette lighter from his pocket and holding the naked flame against a jacket to demonstrate that it didn’t even leave a mark.

Next it was time to see the carpets that Morocco is so famous for. I was guided into one of the spectacular buildings that were once residential homes. A whole extended family would occupy the various rooms in the expansive building. The space is now used for a shop and the walls are adorned with magnificent carpets of all different shapes, sizes, colours and designs. I was sat down, given tea and subjected to a friendly but pushy sell. I began to grow a little interest, enough to enquire about prices. I didn’t actually need a carpet, but I could think of someone who might appreciate one. I was then told that the carpet I was looking at cost just shy of three hundred pounds. I can think of a lot of things to spend three hundreds pounds on, but a two metre squared rug isn’t one of them, so I politely declined. But to be fair, it was explained that it takes an astonishing 35 days to make a metre of carpet, and they last generations.

After the carpets was the silk shop. As I was ushered in a man was instructed to set himself up on the weaving machine and begin working, while the shop keeper explained to me the process of weaving the silk. I once visited a Victorian cotton factory in the Derwent Valley and have seen the exact same machine as an exhibit. I was a little surprised to find a device that I’d once seen in a museum being used in every day life, but it was very interesting all the same. The silk shop owner was even more pushy than the carpet shop owner to sell me goods. Even to the point that when I shook his hand to leave he wouldn’t let go! By that point he’d moved from trying to sell me some of his finest silk clothing through various products until he was simply trying to sell me a small sheet of material. It was very nice piece of material I admit, but I couldn’t help wonder what he expected a thirty-two year-old bloke to do with a random piece of material. I can just about manage reattaching buttons to trousers. But I’m not much of a sewer. He said I could use it as a scarf, but it wasn’t really my kind of thing. It was more Oscar Wilde’s kind of thing.

The guide then escorted me out and onto the street before we eventually arrived at a metal workers. As I walked through the door the shop manager immediately issued a command to one of his workers who hurriedly rushed off and grabbed a half-finished plate and hammer and began enthusiastically hammering away while the manager explained to me the process of making the wonderful multitude of goods that filled the numerous shelves everywhere one looked. The poor worker was blind in one eye and the shop manager explained that this is a common complaint for such workers as the detailed work puts such strain on the eyes.

Lastly it was a herbalists. Various leaves, ointments and oils were rubbed onto my hands and wrists while their soothing and relaxing properties were explained to me as I rather awkwardly stood, listened and nodded while thinking, ‘I don’t even go in for Radox baths, I am way out of my depth here.’ The lady shop manager seemed genuinely disappointed when I thanked her for her time and left without purchasing anything. But to be honest, I had no idea what any of it was, or what it was supposed to do. In the end I didn’t actually purchase anything during my tour. I think my guide was a little disappointed at this, I know they get kick-backs for any sales. But the truth is, I’m not really much of a shopper and I didn’t particularly need any of the goods offered. I did later begin to wonder if perhaps I should have purchased one of the metal tea sets. It would have been a nice little memento, and I was beginning to get quite accustomed to the mint tea that’s served everywhere. Oh well. But despite that, I most definitely enjoyed my tour. Three hours it took in total. I was surprised as the time truly flew. So I thanked my guide and headed back to my riad to relax before venturing out for some tagine.