As expected, the delay shifted our plans. Although we were able to make a new flight south, it was on such short order that our bags were left behind. Air France extended us some 400 Dirham each, the currency of Morocco, to soften the blow of having neither change of clothing nor any plan to stay in Casablanca for the night. Fortunately the Dirham is almost exactly worth an American dime and the easy conversion factor made future price negotiations easier under sometimes-stressful situations! So we broke out the guidebooks and chose a downtown neighbourhood with a selection of hotels.
The train to the two downtown train stations is directly downstairs from the airport and the trip cost only 30 Dirham each for the 40-minute ride. The Moroccan railway is online at www.oncf.org.ma, although only in French. Their small timetables are easy to obtain and read, considering there is essentially only one line across to North of the country, from Marrakech to Casablanca and then either North to Tangier or further West through Fez to Oujda. Basic French did not pose too much difficulty, since it is rumored that we studied the language another lifetime ago. I would strongly suggest learning a few basic Arab and Berber phrases to be polite. Since French was overtaxing my brain, I displayed little aptitude for anything beyond the 'Pissahha' when commencing to eat or drink, this being the equivalent of 'Bon Apitite' or 'Cheers'.
With only the backpack to transport, we ignored the phalanx of red 'petite taxi' waiting at the station and walked the couple miles to the hotel area. In hindsight, taking a cab probably would've been preferable since the streets are poorly marked and the entire trip probably would've cost only a dollar or two. The cabs, however, rarely turn on their meters for tourists and ask that you 'pay what you want' upon reaching your destination. It is best to politely ask that they turn on the meter, although the request will surely be ignored. At least it shows you're paying attention. Your estimated payments will either is vastly extravagant to them or looked upon with scorn, neither of which are pleasant alternatives. My estimation for a 15-minute ride would be in the 20 to 30 Dirham range.
Casa, as the locals call it, is the largest city in Morocco. We had planned on bypassing it because, despite the romantic image of Bogart and Bacall, it is a somewhat generic, featureless metropolis. This was our first experience in a Islamic country and Casa was to be the least conservative place we visited. Younger women there rarely covered their heads and the streets were filled with urban professionals or laborers. Men dress casually and almost always wear long shirts and pants. It was strongly suggested to do the same and I agree, having felt self-conscious at only rolling up my sleeves. The temperature at this time of year was comfortable. I dressed in a light, long-sleeved shirt and sport coat during the day and perhaps an additional sweater at night. The extremes were greater further south, especially in the mountains.
We arrived at the Hotel de Paris, located along a strip of tourist budget accommodations. There's not much to recommend it other than its location, which is off a pedestrian walkway. The rest of the auberges directly fronted a busy thoroughfare. The room featured a hot shower, TV and a balcony. After checking in, we walked around quite a bit and were left well enough alone. We found a local eatery and enjoyed a nice meal that was actually more Italian than Moroccan. Although the French were expelled in 1956, Morocco's history is full of foreign visitors leaving their mark or being

Day 2 : The Marrakech Express
The following day we secured our misplaced luggage and took the train to Marrakech. This time we opted for a taxi to the Medina, or Old City. Most of the larger towns will feature an old Arab section surrounded by a Ville Nouvelle, built by the French. The king at the time of independence was Mohammed V and so, in his honor, the largest boulevard is usually named for him. His son, Hussan II, rules the country now and his picture is everywhere you look.
Our hotel, the Hotel Ali, was located right by the major marketplace, the Djemaa el-Fna, 'Assembly of the Dead'! This area apparently appeals to the budget adventurers and their double occupancy rate of 14 Dirham was attractive to us as well. The room included hot water and passable bedding. The hotel was undergoing renovations as this was still prior to the high tourist season, which begins in the later spring. This fact relieved much of the apprehension about being closed out of a place to stay, which happened only once the whole trip. Another nice factor was the suite of Internet computers at the back of the lobby. We took our first fix of email before walking out to explore. The connection speed was sometimes glacially slow as at least a half-dozen PCs shared a single ISDN line. And then there's the matter of the French/Arabian keyboard?
At night, the center of the Djemaa el-Fna is filled with food vendors. To one side crowds watched street performances. The key, we discovered, was getting past the first wave of hustlers to eat at the stalls. We fell victim to two ploys by being sluggish and easy marks. The first night out, a veiled woman appeared at Pam's side to show her some henna body art. The next thing we knew, Pam's hand was in a vise-like grip while this woman did a quick design with a menacing looking hypodermic needle. Naturally, for this little 'demonstration' some payment was shrilly demanded. I believe we gave her a few coins and fairly ran to the safety of the food court. It is said that there are police in the square, but we saw no evidence of them.
The stalls in the center were piled high with food. There were several with a broad selection while some specialized in eggs, fish or snail dishes. We opted for a stand with the standard brochettes (Skewered meat), kafta (Ground meat), couscous and vegetables. Walking down the center of the aisle, every worker tries to entice you in every known western tongue to sit at his or her establishment. My typical approach of choosing the place with the most natives was useless given the crush of tourists. Still, the food was fresh and, although the portions tended to be small, good and reasonable. I'd guess we spent perhaps $8 to feed us both.
Ready for a walk, we took to the side alleys and explored. Near the central market are the stores. While technically speaking I believe the term 'souk' defines a market for the local residents, usually somewhat specialized in the region's wares, the name was applied liberally to any collection of shops that catered to the tourists. Crowding near the Djemaa el-Fna were any number of vendors selling woven goods, metal work and ceramics. All eye contact or momentary hesitation brought a multi-lingual shopkeeper running to entice us to enter and view their inventory. The chorus became more and more familiar to us as the trip progressed, as all that was promised was a treat for our sense and the best price possible. Entering an establishment meant losing at least a quarter hour, with more and more product offered for our approval. We found our best tactic to be walk down the center of the street, pausing as little as we could stand. The best exploration came when we left the beaten path and wandered without direction, in wonder at the intricately carved and sometimes massive doorways. Men seemed disinterested, the women usually looked disapprovingly, but the wide-eyed children usually offered a smile and a hopeful 'Bon nuit'. The streets were muddy and too small for automobiles, but posed no limits on the moped riders who wove among the crowds of pedestrians.

Day 3 : My Birthday in Morocco
The next day, the sun was out and we took a walk into the Ville Nouvelle to see about renting a car. Since our trip was to include a visit South to the Sahara, we needed to explore our options. The new town felt nothing like the Medina. Here were the broad boulevards bordered by villas and cafes. For all the Mediterranean blandness of, say, Orlando, Florida. Several of the smaller rental agencies were closed, so we made it further down the strip and found the local National Rent a Car. We next stopped at Hertz and were told that we needed something larger than the subcompact Fiat Uno to make the trip to the edge of the desert. Upon leaving, a friendly person outside Hertz led us to another small rental company, conveniently located just upstairs. Every young man in Morocco seemed to imply that they had the most impeccable connections and could procure the greatest bargains by sheer force of will. Everyone was helpful, possessive and on the make. We made a few more stops before returning to Hertz. Strangely, even they were in a position to bargain. Although the smaller company promised we could drop off in Fez, our final destination, despite not having a branch there, Hertz had a Fez office as well as one in between. The security made the decision easy and we reserved a Toyota compact for the next morning. The cost was 2,300 Dirham with unlimited miles and all the insurance.
On our journey, we had also looked into the possibility of taking a bus, but neither the private buses leaving from the typically scary station, nor the national CTM lines had anything useful given our tight schedule. We also took in the sights of the El Badi palace and the tinsmiths' square, where we bought some light fixtures.
We returned to town and settled into our new digs, the Grand Hotel Tazi, just around the corner from the Hotel Ali. This upgrade to our accommodations was due to it being my birthday. And a very happy 42nd it was! Pam took a public 'hammam', or bath. This is something of an important public forum for women to meet. I checked out the men's version next door and, judging only from the clientele exiting, I had to assume that this crowd was those for whom bathing was a seldom enjoyed luxury. I passed and took refuge in the great Moroccan pastime for men - sitting at the front of the nearest cafe. This total separation of the sexes was one of the most difficult aspects of Islamic lifestyle. Some of the more fashionable cafes or patisseries had a back or upstairs section that would tolerate a woman's presence. As for sitting out on the sidewalk or enjoying the television inside the establishment. The nearest equivalent might be a bar, probably circa 1850. Since Islam technically forbids drinking, the local mint tea was continually referred to as Moroccan or Berber 'whiskey'.
We again hit the market and fell prey to another hustle. I had a monkey placed on my person before I could even object. Ha ha, cute monkey. Nice monkey. Please don't bite me or defecate on me! The obligatory photo was taken. I made the mistake of asking what he wanted for this valuable service and was naturally quoted some astronomical price. I had the good sense to keep only small bills and coins in one pocket and so pulled out a 20 Dirham note and, amid much protestation about how $2 was way too small compensation for his two second's work, we pressed back into the safety of the food stalls. I expected the entire area to take on an exotic scent, but the open air and the liquid gas stoves kept the odors to a minimum. At least the monkey was clean! We bought some fruit, figs and supplies for our road trip the next day.

Day 4 : From the Mountains, to the Valleys?
The ride was an exhilarating climb through the Atlas Mountains. The roads looped up and around tight hairpin curves. Sometimes the edges of the highway were disconcertingly close, but the road quality was good as was the signage and the skill of the other drivers. Occasionally a shepherd would appear on the barren landscape. More often, roadside merchants peddling an assortment of fossils, minerals and geodes would assault the car. Some of the geodes were blazing red and gold, colors I had never seen before in my visits to lapidary exhibitions. The guidebooks provided warning that such hues were almost always 'enhanced' chemically along the way. Some of the determined sellers practically played chicken with the car on mountain roads, asking to be removed from the gene pool.
We ended our drive searching for and finding the Hotel Timboctou in Tinerhir, which turned out to be a very nice and modern establishment with a swimming pool and attached restaurant. The bed was large, the ceilings high and the bathtub generously proportioned. We struck out on foot for the center of town. While were walking, a couple young Berber men sidled up. The Berbers are the natives and historically have been an indomitable force from the mountains and desert. They represent some of the nomadic, tribal existence still in force in such forbidding and desolate circumstances. Since they constitute something of a majority in most places and are proudly unassimilated, it is as if the population of the United States was a majority of Native Americans. Under an absolute monarchy however.
Well, they seemed earnest and friendly enough and we were still a little green. Not for long. We were asked if we'd like the rare opportunity to see actual Berber crafts being made in an authentic kasbah. Would we ever! I felt like an intrepid explorer, being invited into the arcane and mysterious Arab culture. The kasbah itself is a vestige of Arab fortress architecture. It is one configuration where an entire community could be safely ensconced within a walled building. These were maintained by wealthy strongmen and sultans and most were in serious disrepair. Given the poor quality building materials and the severity of the environment, I read that the life expectancy of an unmaintained kasbah was something less than 20 years. In fact, kasbahs were easy to lay siege to due to their inability to exist in anything but an arid environment. An invading force needed only divert water to the foundation of the structure, then wait for the whole building to crumble.
We wandered a labyrinth of passageways, replete with children playing soccer and tiny shops filled with authentic fashions. What a treat and what kind young hosts we thought in our innocence... We were led up a flight or two of stairs and brought to a room that contained a couple looms with half-finished carpets, some colored yarns, a bare fluorescent lighting and a butane burner. We removed our shoes as is custom and was introduced to our host, who spoke no English, and his wife, Fatima, who spoke only Berber. Fatima was charming, taking Pam to the side to wordlessly show the qualities of the wool. When henna was mentioned, she quickly jumped up and returned with paste for a hand design for Pam. We were offered the omnipresent mint tea and then asked if we would like a little lesson in the authentic art of Berber carpet making? We said yes...
A carpet was laid out and described. The first is always the wedding carpet woven by a young maiden to lend a warm and fuzzy sentiment to the proceedings. Several are produced with elaborate embroidery followed by a simple design called something like the 'old woman' or 'grandmother' motif, given that the poor darling's eyes were failing and this was their only way to contribute towards their family's meager existence. You can actually feel the tears welling in the corner of your eye imagining arthritic, half-blind grannies somewhere out in the desert painstakingly stitching such a fine rug for your selfish enjoyment.
At this point there is actually an informative lesson in the design of the carpet. The center motif represents the kasbah or home. There are cross-like symbols that can represent the four tribes, the constellations or anything else that apparently comes in groups of fours. Geometric shapes are described as tents, camels, widgets and the ever-popular 'key to eternal bliss'. There was a dissertation on the qualities of the different wools and the natural dyes used, which are the most durable and superior to any chemicals known to man. At this point my mind turns to the art of Islam. Since the Qua'ran forbids anything that is too realistic in that such hubris would be an affront to the Almighty, the arts tend to be intricate, symbolic and decorative.
By the time Fatima's brought out the tenth carpet with no end in sight, I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that this isn't just being done as an act kindness and edification and might prove difficult to extract ourselves from this situation. We could, of course, have been shown the fine handicraft of a proud artisan and left truly without obligation. We could also be thrown down the well of the Tinerhir kasbah. My mind raced with possibilities! Thankfully the flood of carpets drew to an end, having trickled to a stop with hall and stairway runners and small prayer rugs. We were asked to utter a Berber phrase for each carpet, as they were re-folded to indicate if we liked or didn't like the work. As they were being put away I started to feel bad for our kind host. How sad he seemed that I was not fancying any of his fine work. What of poor Fatima? How could I look her in the eye without giving at least the encouragement that I enjoyed the fruits of her labor. Pam and I decided that three rugs deserved another look instead of being ignobly returned to their folded condition. They were proudly draped over the looms and a pad of paper and pen magically appeared at our host's side.
After some dancing around the subject, the matter of their value was brought up. Now that we had been conducted into the class of carpet connoisseurs, now it was time to match wits. Well, two examples fell by the wayside because their extensive embroidery brought opening prices of several hundred dollars. The usual argument of this being an 'investment' was made. I suspect there was some reference to the poor souls who depended on the carpet trade to keep them from destitution or worse. I can't recall, because my ears started ringing and Pam's head was about to explode. Now the paper came into play as all that was left was consideration of a lesser quality example, blue and roughly stitched. Written down was his 'best offer' of 2300 Dirham. I was asked to write down my offer, without obligation of course...
At this point I realized my position was about to change. If I wrote anything on that pad, I was committing to the dance that would surely end with me taking home both a carpet and a story. I was just hoping that the carpet would provide the more valuable part of the equation. I tried to stall, explaining that I didn't want to put down an offer that would insult him or Fatima. I stonewalled a bit longer and suddenly Fatima was barking something in some very harsh tones. I swear that I half expected her eyes to glow red and her head to start spinning! Feeling a bit dry in the mouth, I consulted with Pam and scratched out 750 on the pad. Pandemonium... Had I taken leave of my senses? How were the Berber widows and orphans expected to exist on such a pittance? I felt as if I had just wiped my posterior on this priceless work of art. Much haggling, especially as they divided Pam from my side and conquered my self-doubts. We shook hands on 1000 and I justified it in my head: Let's see, a trip to the back of a kasbah's worth at least $10. All that mint tea? Let's not forget about Pam's henna design and all the great storytelling mileage sure to come out of this circumstance. By my reckoning, I had made out like a bandit beating the old camel trader and paying something like $12 for the nubby rug in my mind. Fatima couldn't wrap the package fast enough for us to beat our retreat, $100 poorer yet wiser in the ways of the world.
We walked back and visited an eatery suggested both by our hosts and the guidebooks. Finally, our first example of real Moroccan cuisine: A meat and egg tajine. The tajine is both the name of the ceramic cookware used to make the dish and the stew itself. The ingredients are placed in the bottom and cooked under a conical cover. We enjoyed good eating and relief to be out with our new suddenly not-as-innocent guides.

Day 5 : Lost in the Dunes?
Just outside Tenerhir are two of the great gorges of the High Atlas Mountains, the Dadas, which was several miles behind us and the Todra just outside of town. Our friendly Berber from the night before promised us that he gave camel rides just 3km up into the gorge and we should visit him in the morning. Although the gorges represent some of the great attractions for Morocco, we had no time for them. Still, the sign for Todra beckoned as we pulled out of town and we decided a quick look wouldn't hurt. Up the small and semi-paved road we crowded with tour busses and official 4x4s. This was obviously a popular destination. There was a wide area on the side of the road with a lookout over the green, palm filled valley below. We pulled off and parked next to a bus and there was our previous night's guide! He was dressed in exotic garb, looking quite the picture of Arabian nights. He proffered a ride and Pam was quickly wrapped in a turban and ascended a camel. This being a nice photo opportunity, we offered payment for the quick ride, but true to his word, our guide actually refused. We said our quick goodbye and went back down the hill to the highway.
There was a stop at Ouarzazate, which is a nondescript town, seemingly built for tourists. There were plenty French, English and German speakers to be found, but I'm not sure why since there was nothing to write home about. We pressed on to Erfourd, which is the end of paved roads. We were told that perhaps our Toyota might be robust enough to journey all the way South to Merzouga, but we had our reservations. We pulled into town, and noticed a line of white official 4x4s, waiting to transport people down further South. Not wanting to jump into the fray, we pushed on and got gas for the car downtown. Immediately we were sitting ducks for several men offering themselves up as guides. The books made it sound easy enough, since there was a semblance of a road and a line of telephone poles to follow. We declined their services since we had other options to explore.
Our next stop was the inn in Erfourd that had an associated hotel in Merzouga and arranged transportation. Obviously this one was geared for the wealthier tourists because we couldn't believe the price they quoted of over $100. In search of respite, we drove the wrong way down a street that ended with a dour military guard and impassable chain. As we were negotiating our u-turn, a young Arab who introduced himself as Ali appeared on his moped. He showed his official looking tourist license as well as testimonial photographs of the many visitors he had ferried South to the dunes. We tried half-heartedly to give him the slip, but he followed relentlessly, buzzing after us like some blue turbaned bumblebee. We inquired of him if it were possible instead of employing a guide and subjecting our car to the desert, to find a 4x4 tour operator who might serve as taxi. He led us to an official establishment where, again, the price was steep. It was mid afternoon and we were eager to be on our way. It seemed the only option left was a taxi at the outskirts of town and I dreaded offering myself up to the multitudes. With assurances that our car was capable, a reasonable price and assurances we could stop at any accommodations we chose, we entrusted Ali with the navigation and turned the car over to his care.
He soon left the somewhat secure roadway and began choosing from the dozens of intersecting tracks on the hard plain. It is my firm conviction that the routes required from Erfourd to any points South are simple and straitforward, yet the 4x4 operators make the paths as disorienting as possible for the sheer sport of messing with the minds of newcomers. Ali was feeling quite jaunty and devil-may-care. I should've been suspicious of his one semi-lazy eye. Or him being the only Arab we met wearing sunglasses. Or the big ditch he was driving towards, with no intention of slowing down.
In our two days being transported around the Western Sahara, neither Pam nor I ever saw another ditch like this one. It stood out like the Grand Canyon, a natural wonder and here was this idiot launching our rental car into limbo. We landed nose first into what was thankfully soft sand. Ali looked over at me surprised, glasses askew. His expression was a cross of a small child caught in a lie and someone just awakened after not enough sleep. The car, which has stalled, was restarted. We stepped out to survey the damage. I was livid, gesturing widely at all the room he had to steer the car and how could he possibly choose this, the singularly worst possible route. He offered some wan excuse about the sun in his eyes while I bit my tongue to resist screaming what a pathetic excuse for a sand dwelling race he must be. Perhaps he's a Amazonian Eskimo who was switched at birth. Sarcasm never translates well, so we asked him kindly to return us to Erfourd. He complained bitterly. We demanded to go back. He looked close to tears and talked to Pam in Italian since I'm smoldering in stony silence at his elbow as he pointed the Toyota Northward.
Pam had a dream the night before about the car falling into a hole. Now that it had proven prophetic, she was convinced that the worst was behind us and we could return to Erfourd and start all over again. Ali complained that it was a great embarrassment for him to return like this. I could only hope it would ruin him to slink back into town, but kept my opinion to myself. There was always the possibility of another, larger ditch for him to kill us all in some sick, twisted tourist Jihad. I exhaled only when he had been returned to his moped and Pam and I were alone in the car. We would've liked a moment to explore our options but, for some reason, Ali was right back at my window. I did my best rabid dog impression and snarled at him a few times until he fell back. Soon there was another face in my peripheral vision and I started feeling like so much chum in the water. I was snapping at Pam, alternating between manic aggression and despondency. The dunes and the tranquility the represent may as well have been on the moon about now.
Pam was undeterred and so threw ourselves at the final option - the 4x4 taxis. Mohammed, our new best peripheral friend, began negotiating with Pam in their most fluent common language, Italian, which seemed strangely well known for such a place. Part of me was enjoying the show, but I was exhausted and shut down from the drama and had no stomach for insinuating myself in the transaction. Pam struck a deal with Mohammed, who teamed with Hassan as a driver. For $55 they would take us wherever we wanted tonight and be our transportation throughout the following day until the afternoon. My only care was they take us where we wanted to go. Ali had agreed to do this for us in theory, but was obviously steering us toward a destination of his choosing. We put our car in an amenable hotel's parking lot and climbed in the Land Cruiser.
Pam, Mohammed and Hassan engaged in an Italian conversation while I twisted uncomfortably. I had quit smoking a couple weeks prior and in Morocco it seemed everyone smokes. Certainly everyone in the car that evening did and I wasn't exactly in the best mood. Some carcinogens felt like just what I needed about then.
It was getting dark and, instead of stopping at every hotel along the route, it was decided that we go to the place Mohammed suggested and take our chances. We pulled up in the dark. The stars were putting on a show. Pam and I walked on the dunes that started only a stone's throw from the front door.
That place, Le Lac du Sahara, had no electricity. The meal took a long time to prepare, but was excellent and reasonable. The room was something like $8 for the night. In any case, we were the only guests and so our entourage, the inn staff and we had the entire large dining room to ourselves. We shared it with the hotel's white Persian cat, Mimi. Talk about taking a wrong turn! That long haired cat was as out of place as a snow leopard. We negotiated our camel ride for the morning. We watched the moon rise up over the desert. We listened to the men have an impromptu Berber jam session on the drums. We went to bed early.

Day 6 : Back to the Mountains
Sure enough, at 6am sharp, our camel driver knocked at our door. I guess I can't complain since it was the only time we really had to wake up early which is antithetical to a vacation in my book. It was cold that early and I was glad I had a winter coat from New York among my possessions. We climbed on the camel and hung on. A camel pitches awkwardly when they rise and you sit very high up compared to a horse. Our guide walked, pulling Pam's steed to which mine was tethered. I was reminded of the expression 'Unless you're the lead dog, the scenery never changes', but decided that if Pam were my scenery, I never want it to change anyhow.
We took some pictures as the sky glowed, grew pink and then exploded into blue, but there's no way it can be done justice with words. We walked out perhaps four to six kilometers around a very large dune to an oasis, looking like every French Foreign Legion movie you ever saw. There were several low, dark Berber tents sprinkled among the palm trees. We dismounted at our guide's tent and tried to take it all in.
There's a place where the pink sand meets the blue sky that was almost too intense for the mind to register. It practically vibrates, cold and electric. The moon itself was frozen in the firmament, a welcome dot of white and a familiar entity in a strange place such as this. The sand was so fine that it made no sound underfoot. Every contour from the souls of our shoes was faithfully reproduced in bas relief. There were some birds. It was quiet.
We were given mattresses to sit upon and a tray was placed on a low table with our breakfast of coffee, bread, cheese and jam. All too soon we were on the camels again and heading back the way we'd come. Pam was wishing for video to record the scenery - The wind would blow a veil of sand about the dunes. They appeared to be alive and breathing.
Life moves at a different pace in the desert. At Le Lac du Sahara there was little to do other than take a shower (The water heater takes a small wood fire for operation), drink mint tea in the sun and play with Mimi. Everyone's relaxed. Life was very good.
Our 4x4 awaited and Hassan had promised something of an adventure on the way back. I hoped this would include climbing on the dunes a bit more since this was a rare opportunity. Some plans were made with Mohammed in Arabic, who walked Pam and I through the palmery. It's actually an interesting look at a whole new agrarian economy. The town's central irrigation system feeds the plots of land, each tended by a family. We walk among the date palms and fields of green grass. There's renovation work on the ditches. The people were somewhere between suspicious and curious about our presence here instead of out on the dunes where we clearly belonged. We exited the complex and hit the arid and barren town of Merzouga. This place everyone covers themselves, but I believe it has more to do with the environment than religious mandates. We were awaiting Hassan and the Land Cruiser when Mohammed took us to the town's 'museum'.
The walls were lined with carpets and there's a table for our inevitable mint tea. At least now Pam and I knew what to expect. We warned the shopkeeper and played along with the game. Yes, henna and saffron make orange. A single fringe means one woman made the carpet. The camels are in there as are the tents and all the rest of it. We drank our tea and declined interest in all that's offered. Plan B is the small room of trinkets, including jewelry, turban fabric and a bizarrely stuffed young antelope. At least Hassan was waiting now at the car. Now I'm miffed because we wasted an hour of valuable dune time.
We reminded them on the way back that Pam would like some sand to take back. We found an area, but the sand was not quite as silky as it was in the interior. Still, the dunes from any vantage are a sight to see.
Goodbyes said, we climbed into our increasingly forlorn looking rental and headed further North. We hoped to make it through the Ziz valley before nightfall, but were hungry enough to stop at Er-Rachidia for lunch. The city is busy, with both a military base and a university to add to the feeling of prosperity. We parked the car and went looking for a restaurant recommended by the guides. It was closed and yet a young man who said he enjoyed the opportunity to practice his English led us to another eatery. We reached our destination and said goodbye. We actually said goodbye. For our entire trip, this would be the one unselfish act of guidance. There was no expectation of a tip or an offer to visit his cousin the shop owner. We were shocked.
A further surprise awaited us at the restaurant. We needed some tissues and there was a small boy with cigarettes, candy and packs of scented Kleenex for sale. We had ordered our food and were playing and feeding the local stray cat population when we asked him for a pack. He gave us one and we realized, for the price we thought we heard him say, we should buy two. After all, some of the local toilettes were less than completely furnished. We paid the 5 Dirham and got a single pack in return. The cosmopolitan couple at the nearby table caught the boy's attention and began chastising him, obviously for ripping us off. His attitude was that we were merely stupid marks to be relieved of our change. They appeared embarrassed at this reflection of their proud city. Somehow or other another package was brought to our table by a spectacled man, looking every bit the professor. He introduced himself as an ornithologist and apologized for not being able to entertain us at his home, but his schedule was too tight. We were thoroughly charmed.
We left in the late afternoon and were treated to the Ziz in all its glory. The valley is filled with palmeries. Then, through the valley we were treated to some extraordinarily changeable environments, from barren desert to plateaus similar to a smaller-scale Monument Valley. We pulled into the town of Midelt, with the snow-topped Atlas range in the background, to secure lodging. Naturally a young Berber man approached us as we found our second hotel. The first was rejected for being too cold and, in fact, none of the rooms were to have heat despite the distinct chill in the air. He brought us to our third choice, the Hotel Roi de la Biere, where we found a room downstairs with the promise of a hot shower after dinner at least.
It was clear that our guide would not leave our side. He offered to show us something special before dinner, a gallery of local goods produced by women under the auspices of a Franciscan convent outside of town. Since Pam and I had read about this project in both guidebooks, we decided to take the tour of the good work. We walked in the door and were greeted by an earnest young man and? carpets! There was a tray laid out for the mint tea and the usual lines were recited: 'A treat for your eyes', 'no obligation', 'An honor for me' and so on. Pam and I protested but were actually won over by this enthusiastic and unpolished salesman. We decided a spot of tea never hurt anybody.
The carpets were unrolled, unfolded and displayed with flourish. We took great glee in anticipating our host's next lesson. In fact, we threw him off his carefully prepared script on more than one occasion and flustered him with our expertise on his subject. When given the opportunity to vote 'tea' or 'nay' on each rug, Pam held out for the orange. I sat back to watch her engage the process. He quoted more than $100. She countered that she had only $45 to spend and, if she couldn't have this carpet for that price, she really liked only this particular shade of orange. He retreated to the back room and could find nothing even close to the color she wanted. Looking thoroughly miserable, he was forced to enlist his father-in-law to try to pry Dirham from this obstinate American. The elder man, who spoke only Berber, produced blue rugs, red runners, and white carpets. Nothing was shown even close to orange so we stood up to leave. Now there was panic in the air. A side door was unlocked and the trinket room was offered as a last gasp gambit. No sale, so we prepared to leave. The poor fellow was in a panic. $50 was the best he could do. Pam, taking pity at this point, conceded the $5 difference and shook his hand. As he shook mine, there was a little extra squeeze to non-verbally communicate his displeasure. We never did figure out what relationship the nuns had to Islamic folk art.
The town was closing down, despite the central street having been the site of a large souk only a couple hours earlier. We were steered to one restaurant and ordered a couple dishes. Customarily we were left alone to eat, but were joined again for tea afterwards. Our guide conferred with the cook and came up with the exorbitant, for the area, price of 140 Dirham. It was obvious that we were being milked for all he could get away with. At least the water was indeed hot enough for a long shower and the bed comfortable.

Day 7 : Get us to Fez!
In the morning we were eager to get on the road as soon as possible and still, our guide was waiting for us outside, offering to show us to a local caf頦or breakfast. Since there was something that looked suitable not 50 yards away, we declined his offer. He asked for an American dollar. We were taken back by such a direct request and so the gratuity was given, even though we felt like he had already squeezed us. The next village on our trip North was the small town of Zaida. There were tour buses stopped in town although we couldn't tell why. We did see a selection of ceramics and tajines for sale at the side of the road. There were local women shopping here, so we stopped for another round of deal making. Here we met our carpet vendor from the night before. Although I thought there might be hard feelings from last night, our business was apparently behind us and we were greeted as old friends. We packed up and headed into the Middle Atlas Mountains.
Lunchtime found us in the modern town of Azrou. This apparently had some French history and a very different feel than what had come before. Additionally, the architecture now sported pitched roofs because of the possibility of snow. Some roofs were actually home to large cranes. We walked about, shopped, changed money and had coffee. In between we ate a lunch of fried fish, which are caught locally. There was a line of eateries on the main street, each with a waiter hawking the same tajine dishes each time we passed by. Then there was this hole in the wall that employed no enticement other than the delicious smell of freshly cooked trout. We entered and felt uncomfortable at first since this was strictly a local joint and we were seated elbow to elbow at large tables. Obviously we were give special treatment because of the paper placemat and small tomato and onion salad. The meal was excellent, even if our clothes smelled like fish for the remainder of the vacation. When it came time to pay up my mind could not register the price. Pam and I had guessed at a low price, but neither expected the total to come out to less than $4 for the two of us!
Winding our way to Fez, we were forced to pass directly through Ifrane. This being a modern university town, it was a showpiece of shady streets, stately mansions and public parks. Our drive also featured some winding mountain roads and microclimates of hardwood forests.
Soon we could see the pollution that hung over Fez, so our trip to the country was officially over. Pam navigated us inside the walls of the Medina, but the driving was limited and we were in a large square with buses, taxis and parking. The hustlers were less bothersome here on the outside of the old city, but we were at a quandary about where to stay. The books listed several inexpensive hotels within what looked on the map to be easy walking distance, but we were loaded down with bags and didn't know where to park the car. Pam went in to find Hotel Central and reported it seedy but acceptable. I took my turn, naturally being pounced upon by the nearest youth to act as my faithful sidekick. The place was a hole.
We came up with an alternate plan to park the car at the lot and walk further in to the Hotel Batha. Supposedly this establishment was mismanaged in the past, but one of the books said it was trying to lure back high-end clients. We had learned by this time to approach policemen or professionals when asking for directions. Even though a shopkeeper may be physically attached to his business, there is always someone hanging about more than happy to personally deliver you to your destination, so long as it involves a detour or two along the way. The Hotel Batha was just a short walk away, just beyond the city walls. They had one room available and immediately I knew this would be for us. It probably qualifies as a 3-Star hotel and the rate was less than $30. Better yet, we could drive the car to the curb, unload it and call Hertz to come pick it up. Things were looking up!
After settling in, we set off for dinner. We met a wandering American, Carol, and invited her to join us for coffee. We returned to the city gate that we first entered Fez and enjoyed Carol's company, an English conversation and the casual street scene. Once we sat down, we were left alone except for the omnipresent shoeshine boys. After a shower we met Carol again for dinner at a rooftop restaurant and had a nice meal.

Day 8 : Treading the Fez
The Hotel Batha didn't have any vacancies for our last night in Morocco, but the staff was kind enough to let us leave our bags behind the counter. This way we could spend the day in town and take a night train back to Casa.
The streets and alleys of Fez are truly obscure and difficult to navigate. Our path took us downhill towards the center of town. There is a large mosque in the middle that I assumed from the maps would be our landmark, but it had no central square that we could find and multiple entrances, so we used the tin market as our easy-to-locate feature and made our way from there. The guidebook maps of Fez are mostly useless. I'm sure someone prints large folding maps, but we already looked like the tourists. Looking lost would only encourage any number of helpful companions. We eventually did attract one who was so young and earnest that even the locals stopped and smiled.
We had nothing in particular to find. Pam was interested in the drums and instruments that Fez is famous for. I had seen a picture of a dyer's souk and thought the colorful yarns and wool would make for a nice photo opportunity. From the tin worker's square, we headed down further and further. We encountered long corridors of foods and sweets. Expressing an interest in a nougat shop, we were given tastes of all the flavors. We walked beyond the city walls to try to get our bearings. The minaret of the central mosque was apparent, but we couldn't make out any other landmarks. Grudgingly, we allowed ourselves to be guided after pointing at pictures of the souk in the book. It turned out everyone we encountered assumed for some reason that we wanted to see the tannery. We were almost led there by mistake on one occasion and the stench was overpowering. Why dead animals being flayed and skinned would be considered a tourist attraction is beyond me.
It turned out that we had passed the dyer's alley several times. The reason it wasn't apparent to us was because everything at that time was apparently being died black! In any case, now that we found it, it drew us back at every opportunity, making that market something of an inside joke between us. We found a drum shop, we bargained, we ate and wandered deeper and deeper. One our several young guides (Believe me, in Fez its well worth fifty cents or a dollar to get back to terra cognita!) knew where the henna souk was located, so that was our next stop. After the hit-and-run applications at Marrekech and Tenherir, Pam was ready for a professional. A shopkeeper went to get his wife and mint tea.
I knew that mint tea made me an immobile target. I sipped while Pam was getting her hand tattooed and casually glanced at a pile of junk piled high by a wall. This was a strategy to get me into a shop to see the 'real' goods. A walled-eyed man directed me to his shop, which was little more than a thin passageway. I walked further and further in, with him pressing from behind. The claustrophobia was coming over me and so I grabbed a couple items and brought them outside. How much for one? For both? It went on and on. I was momentarily confused and he started wrapping up the silver 'hand of Fatima' good luck charm and blue necklace for a price higher than I was willing to spend. I stopped him and started the negotiations anew. By this time his neighbor joined him. Pam was in the care of his wife, so he could take the opportunity to tell me what a great deal I was getting. Pam bought some native cosmetics and we moved off with her carefully protecting the design drying on her hand.
When we stopped at a tiny, more local boutique on the street, we realized how much more we had spent at the souk. Of course, its probably just for tourists and nobody who lives in Fez would be caught dead shopping there. Still, it was a fun little niche, set off from the bustling streets. Actually, while the streets of Fez were crowded, there were no motorized vehicles allowed. That doesn't mean there weren't plenty of donkeys and asses laden with goods. There were also cats everywhere. I read that the cat is the one animal singled out by Mohammed in the Qu'ran for favorable treatment.
Pam and I continued to wander. Since real estate is so precious in the heart of the Medina, there was no sit down restaurant to be found. We ducked into a caf頴o rest and then headed back to the fresh food markets. The selection there is something to behold. We bought fruits, cheese, bread and four kinds of olives, all delicious and unbelievably inexpensive. The return route to the hotel was entirely uphill and seemed to go on forever!
We packed our bags and ourselves into a petite taxi and made the 7pm train to Casa. I believe the 1st class tickets cost only $10 per person. We ate our food and played with our respective Palm Pilots. There were two hotels close to the Casa Voyageurs station when we pulled in around 11:30. There was a low-rent flea bag hotel across the street from the station, but that was not how we wanted to spend our last night. The Isis is a chain of 3-Star hotels and they had one even closer at hand, but they were full. We boarded a Grande Taxi (Meaning an old Mercedes diesel instead of the cramped subcompact Petite variety) and took off for the Hotel Casa. Since it wasn't in the guides or close to any known neighborhood, we still don't know where it's located. This time the driver turned on his meter, but quoted us a price far in excess to what we read. We indignantly paid what we saw displayed, not understanding his protestations. The front desk at the hotel explained there's a nighttime surcharge for taxis, so I ran outside to correct the situation.
The room wasn't large, but the bed was more comfortable than most. We bathed and watched some impressively overacted Arabian soap opera on the television.
Day 9 : Epilogue
We took our complimentary continental breakfast at the hotel and hired a cab to take us to the train. From there we made our flights. The extra bag that we bought to hold our loot survived the baggage handlers and we made it back before President Bush ordered the bombing of Baghdad!
Next time perhaps we can make it to the coast, or the Rif mountains, or spend more time in the gorges and desert, or visit Volubilis, where Scorcese filmed 'The Last Temptation of Christ'. We're already thinking about a return visit and thought it might be fun with a group. If anyone's interested, don't hesitate to contact us.
My final advice for travelling Morocco - Keep your sense of humor. Most of the Moroccan people we met were friendly and fun. Don't ignore them just because they're hustling for a buck or two. Enjoy their company and their mint tea. And lastly, brush up on the relative value of carpets, if only by reading the ads in the paper because, like it or not, you will end up in a carpet shop before your trip is over!
Salaam.