Change In Plans

This post is about our dinner this evening in a restaurant in the souqs of old Marrakesh. Nothing dramatic or extraordinary happened, but the whole experience reflects how different Morocco is.

Even though our afternoon walk back to the Riad Alayena hotel had been stressful, and took a lot longer than expected (these facts were related), we decided to stick with our plan to have dinner out on the town. Both kids were tired (Zola even took a highly uncharacteristic nap), but we figured that an early and quick dinner, followed by a walk in the night air, would be perfect.

The Riad’s manageress made a reservation for us at a popular place called Cafe Arabe. Because it is Ramadan, the earliest reservation we could get was for 8pm. So much for the ‘early’ part of ‘an early and quick dinner.’

As the crow flies, Cafe Arabe is probably about a mile from Riad Anayela. Because the Baird Family can not fly, and because the medina’s narrow streets could take us hours to navigate, we called a ‘petit taxi.’

The ancient Dacia taxi somehow managed to navigate from the nearest gate in the walls (called Bab Kheshish) deep into the medina’s labyrinth towards our hotel. When the road got too narrow, the driver, Youssef, sent someone on foot the last 50 yards, into the alley where the hotel was located (called Derb Zerwal), to let us know he had arrived.

Youssef executed a neat 183-point turn to reverse direction, and we started driving back toward Bab Kheshish. Maybe because the fifth call to prayer had just sounded, the streets were largely deserted. Tallulah fell asleep almost immediately.

Five minutes later, as we exited the medina, Youssef asked (in French), “Where are you going? To the big square?” I guess there was a communication breakdown between the hotel and Youssef. Fortunately, and uncharacteristically, I had a scrap of paper with the name and address of Cafe Arabe on it. After a few confusing minutes, we were on our way again.

We drove through the remnants of a huge flea market that had been held just outside the medina walls, and then onto the anarchic 3-lane ring road that encircles the old city. After driving 3-4 miles, we re-entered the medina on the westen side (if the medina walls were a clock, we had exited from Bab Kheshish at about 2, and were re-entering at about 8).

We drove into a new labyrinth, with many more small shops, all of which were open, and with many more people on the streets. When Youssef could go no further, he indicated that the restaurant was “five meters” down the street we were already on. We woke Lu up, and walked off into the medina.

“Dad, how much is five meters?” Zola asked.
“About 15 feet. The driver may have exaggerated how close it is, but I’m sure it is right up here somewhere,” I responded, confidently.

We walked for several minutes, past dozens of tiny shops, selling clothes, shoes, baked goods and sweets, leather products, toys. We walked past small cafes filled with men drinking coffee after a long day of fasting. We passed hundreds of people on the street. When we asked directions, many people offered to show us to “a much better restaurant,” before they indicated that Cafe Arabe was a little further on. We dodged dozens of mopeds, scooters, and bicycles.

Finally, a well dressed young man escorted us the last 200 yards (and two turns) to Cafe Arabe. When we arrived, he said (in English) “You pay me 50 dirham,” which is about $6. I felt proud for negotiating him down to only 20 dirham.

At Cafe Arabe, we climbed three flights of stairs to a stylish open-air terrace. Seated, Moroccan-style, on a semi-circular sofa, both kids fell deeply asleep after ordering. Zola did not even drink his hot chocolate.

India and I had a pleasant dinner, barely distracted by our snoring children. The waiter kindly packaged up the kids’ pasta dinners, which would have been otherwise untouched.

When it was time to leave, we woke up Zola. India supported him in walking sleepily back down the stairs (like a coach assisting an injured player from the field). I carried Tallulah and the stroller.

We walked the gantlet of activity back to where the petit taxi had dropped us. As agreed, Youssef pulled up at 10pm on the dot. We all loaded in, and drove back out of the medina.

Youssef took us back around the anarchic ring road, which was much more crowded than it had been at 8pm. All manner of car, truck, moped, donkey cart, horse and carriage, bicyclist and pedestrian, hurtled along the road, miraculously not smashing into each other. Zola and Lu, of course, fell asleep again in the taxi.

After we turned back in to the medina at Bab Kheshish, we realized how packed the streets had gotten. The flea-market area now hosted dozens of little pick-up soccer games, involving scores of kids (many of them about Zola’s age). Again, we passed hundreds of pedestrians, a few full cyber cafes and many people sitting and talking. At a barber shop, we saw a man getting shaved, and a little boy getting his hair cut.

Finally, we arrived back at Derb Zerwal, within 50 yards of our hotel. The night manager from the Riad, named Badr, met us, and helped us get the sleeping kids back inside and up to bed.

In retrospect, we probably could have stayed in. Riad Alayena would not have been able to provide a big dinner (they would have had to start in the afternoon, and besides, the water in this whole section of the medina has been shut off for most of the day). They would have found something for us, though. It will be interesting to see if the kids remember anything about this small adventure.

This post is about our dinner this evening in a restaurant in the souqs of old Marrakesh. Nothing dramatic or extraordinary happened, but the whole experience reflects how different Morocco is.

Even though our afternoon walk back to the Riad Alayena hotel had been stressful, and took a lot longer than expected (these facts were related), we decided to stick with our plan to have dinner out on the town. Both kids were tired (Zola even took a highly uncharacteristic nap), but we figured that an early and quick dinner, followed by a walk in the night air, would be perfect.

The Riad’s manageress made a reservation for us at a popular place called Cafe Arabe. Because it is Ramadan, the earliest reservation we could get was for 8pm. So much for the ‘early’ part of ‘an early and quick dinner.’

As the crow flies, Cafe Arabe is probably about a mile from Riad Anayela. Because the Baird Family can not fly, and because the medina’s narrow streets could take us hours to navigate, we called a ‘petit taxi.’

The ancient Dacia taxi somehow managed to navigate from the nearest gate in the walls (called Bab Kheshish) deep into the medina’s labyrinth towards our hotel. When the road got too narrow, the driver, Youssef, sent someone on foot the last 50 yards, into the alley where the hotel was located (called Derb Zerwal), to let us know he had arrived.

Youssef executed a neat 183-point turn to reverse direction, and we started driving back toward Bab Kheshish. Maybe because the fifth call to prayer had just sounded, the streets were largely deserted. Tallulah fell asleep almost immediately.

Five minutes later, as we exited the medina, Youssef asked (in French), “Where are you going? To the big square?” I guess there was a communication breakdown between the hotel and Youssef. Fortunately, and uncharacteristically, I had a scrap of paper with the name and address of Cafe Arabe on it. After a few confusing minutes, we were on our way again.

We drove through the remnants of a huge flea market that had been held just outside the medina walls, and then onto the anarchic 3-lane ring road that encircles the old city. After driving 3-4 miles, we re-entered the medina on the westen side (if the medina walls were a clock, we had exited from Bab Kheshish at about 2, and were re-entering at about 8).

We drove into a new labyrinth, with many more small shops, all of which were open, and with many more people on the streets. When Youssef could go no further, he indicated that the restaurant was “five meters” down the street we were already on. We woke Lu up, and walked off into the medina.

“Dad, how much is five meters?” Zola asked.
“About 15 feet. The driver may have exaggerated how close it is, but I’m sure it is right up here somewhere,” I responded, confidently.

We walked for several minutes, past dozens of tiny shops, selling clothes, shoes, baked goods and sweets, leather products, toys. We walked past small cafes filled with men drinking coffee after a long day of fasting. We passed hundreds of people on the street. When we asked directions, many people offered to show us to “a much better restaurant,” before they indicated that Cafe Arabe was a little further on. We dodged dozens of mopeds, scooters, and bicycles.

Finally, a well dressed young man escorted us the last 200 yards (and two turns) to Cafe Arabe. When we arrived, he said (in English) “You pay me 50 dirham,” which is about $6. I felt proud for negotiating him down to only 20 dirham.

At Cafe Arabe, we climbed three flights of stairs to a stylish open-air terrace. Seated, Moroccan-style, on a semi-circular sofa, both kids fell deeply asleep after ordering. Zola did not even drink his hot chocolate.

India and I had a pleasant dinner, barely distracted by our snoring children. The waiter kindly packaged up the kids’ pasta dinners, which would have been otherwise untouched.

When it was time to leave, we woke up Zola. India supported him in walking sleepily back down the stairs (like a coach assisting an injured player from the field). I carried Tallulah and the stroller.

We walked the gantlet of activity back to where the petit taxi had dropped us. As agreed, Youssef pulled up at 10pm on the dot. We all loaded in, and drove back out of the medina.

Youssef took us back around the anarchic ring road, which was much more crowded than it had been at 8pm. All manner of car, truck, moped, donkey cart, horse and carriage, bicyclist and pedestrian, hurtled along the road, miraculously not smashing into each other. Zola and Lu, of course, fell asleep again in the taxi.

After we turned back in to the medina at Bab Kheshish, we realized how packed the streets had gotten. The flea-market area now hosted dozens of little pick-up soccer games, involving scores of kids (many of them about Zola’s age). Again, we passed hundreds of pedestrians, a few full cyber cafes and many people sitting and talking. At a barber shop, we saw a man getting shaved, and a little boy getting his hair cut.

Finally, we arrived back at Derb Zerwal, within 50 yards of our hotel. The night manager from the Riad, named Badr, met us, and helped us get the sleeping kids back inside and up to bed.

In retrospect, we probably could have stayed in. Riad Alayena would not have been able to provide a big dinner (they would have had to start in the afternoon, and besides, the water in this whole section of the medina has been shut off for most of the day). They would have found something for us, though. It will be interesting to see if the kids remember anything about this small adventure.

Top 5 Most Spectacular Things We Saw in Spain

#1 - Temple of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona - hands down winner
#2 - The drive from Port de Soller toward Pollenca/Lluc in Mallorca (specifically the road to sa Calobra and the Torrent de Pareis becah) - we counted at least 29 switchbacks on the 12 km from the main road down to sa Colobra. They were filming a motorcycle commercial on the road as we drove down
#3 (tie) - Madrid’s parks, squares, fountains and boulevards. There was no single place in Madrid that was truly spectacular, but taken together, the grandness of the city is remarkable
#3 (tie) - Barcelona’s magic fountain. Particularly the way we saw it, stumbling on the view from above after wandering in Montjuic Park, and descending to sit right next to the dancing colored waters, was amazing.
# 5 - view from the castle at the top of Montjuic Park in Barcelona. 360-degree view of the Mediterranean, the city, and the mountains surrounding.

Top 5 Most Thought-Provoking Places and Experiences in Spain
#1 - Festival of Fire for St. Bartholomew’s Day in Soller, Mallorca. Once we realized that our children would not be critically injured, we appreciated that we had stumbled upon an ancient, pagan, truly strange tradition.
#2 - Temple of the Sagrada Familia - Gaudi’s workshop, and the well curated exhibits explaining how he drew inspiration from nature, and the models and drawings in the crypt, and the sculptures on the various facades were all very provocative
#3 - Joan Miro Museum in Montjuic park in Barcelona. The audio commentary was very weird (in English, at least), but seeing Miro’s work over several decades, and understanding the symbolism a little was great. The Lego room was best of all.

#4 - Ferdinand & Isabella’s Palace in Madrid - seeing the royal residence and the arms and armor museum
# 5 - Las Ramblas in Barcelona - this is the one-kilometer pedestrian zone which runs from the Plaza de Catalunya down to the Columbus statue. It is packed with open-air pet shops, street performers, cafes, news stands, and thousands of locals and tourists alike. Very intense evening walk.

Top 5 Most Fun Experiences in Spain

#1 - Aqualand in Palma de Mallorca. We only spent about two hours at this waterpark, but Zola and I would have used all of our votes on this. He and had a truly amazing time there.
#2 (tie) - Tibidabo Amusement Park in Barcelona. Most of the rides are vintage 1980s, but we had hours of fun, and the setting (on a mountain high above Barcelona) is spectacular. Someone called it “Coney Island with views,” which is pretty accurate.

#2 (tie) - Montjuic Park slide and playgrounds - Tallulah used her votes for this. The 30-foot slide was pretty remarkable.
#2 (tie) - Paddleboating in Port de Soller, Mallorca. We paddled way out along the rocky coast to the edge of the harbor, and snorkeled and swam in the light surf. A very enjoyable morning.
#5 - Cable car and funicular rides in Barcelona - there seem to be a lot of them, and we tried to ride them all.

We tried to identify a list of “things we would skip” if we were going to Spain again. Zola summed it up by saying, “I would do everything again. I wouldn’t skip a thing.”

This short post describes some of the phrases and words that we have found ourselves using frequently in our first five weeks of travel. Like any closed system of people, our family is definitely developing our own vocabulary, to match the rhythms and practical needs of travelling together. Here are some of the favorites:

“Cowboy up, cupcake!” - this comes from Alexandra Fuller’s new book, ‘The Legend of Colton H. Bryant.’ Basically, it means “stop whining and get on with it,” which has become a core part of our parenting repertoire. India and I, and then Zola (surprisingly, because he is only 8), all read this book while we were in Mallorca. Another phrase from the book which we use frequently (and was Colton Bryant’s simple philosophy on life) is “Mind over matter. I don’t mind, so it don’t matter.”

“We did a Dingle.” - this refers to any activity which didn’t go well, due to poor preparation and/or communication by Mom and Dad. It refers to our comically mishapful day trip from Ennis to the Dingle Peninsula in Ireland in June. Since then, the main Dingle has been our trip to Toledo, Spain (see the post from roughly August 22)

“Cough it up, boy” - this has become Zola’s, Lu’s and my way of asking for pretty much anything. I think India is a little tired of hearing it. It refers to a conversation at Zola’s camp this summer, between a counselor and a camper who was trying to sneak a video game into his pack on an overnight trip. This phrase was used dozens of times last night when Zola crushed me in French-language Monopoly.

“Can I play DS?” - Zola uses this phrase within 2 seconds of becoming bored. It means that he wants to play Pokemon on his Nintendo hand-held game. We have not been letting him play much, but he is relentless in asking, and generally good-natured about the denial of his requests.

“James Carlock” - Tallulah has been using this as the catch-all name for many unnamed boy animals we have come across. It refers to a very cute little boy who was her friend at camp this summer. The camel that she and I rode in the Sahara was James Carlock, and she was very concerned about where James Carlock’s Mommy was, whether James Carlock was too hot or too cold, how James Carlock’s tummy was feeling, and whether we could take James Carlock home with us. Yesterday we went for a donkey ride in Skoura, and her donkey was James Carlock, as was a tiny kitten we were introduced to when we were invited into someon’s house. This morning, as Lu and I played with a chess set, she named her king James Carlock.

“How’s your tummy?” - this is self-explanatory, but refers to the greater (Lu and me) or lesser (India and Zola) extent to which our bodies have struggled to adapt to Moroccan food and water. Someone tild me that in french this is referred to as Achmed’s revenge.

“Deux lait chaude avec chocolat, s’il vous plait”

- French speakers shudder, but this has been the invariable drinks order from both kids (through me) since we got to Morocco. The chocolate-milk powder is really good.

“Zola, write your ‘My name is…’ ”

- for our roadschool, this is like the home room bell. India has Zola writing a short paragraph every morning, to practice handwriting, and to signal the start of school.

“Non, merci. Non, merci”

- in the touristy parts of Marrakech’s medina (the souqs and the Jemaa el-Fna), we have said this hundreds of times, in response to offers to visit a shop, have a picture with a snake, get a henna tattoo, etc. The hustling is not overly aggressive, but there is a lot of it.

As we travel, I’m sure there will be many more like this. It isn’t quite the same as learning French (or Arabic), but maybe we are learning something.

This very short post is about the abandoned water wells in the desert, beside the road, near Al Jora, Morocco.

We are driving west, from the edge of the Sahara up into the highlands. Just outside of the town of Al Jora, the landscape next to the road is dotted with scores of small hills with flat tops. They look like tiny volcano craters (or rounded termite mounds): about 6-8 feet high, and maybe 20 feet in circumference. They stretch several hundred yards in every direction. The desert around them is flat and brown and dry (as you might expect).

These are all abandoned wells. We got out to look, and discovered that there is a hole (2-3 feet across)in the cone of each hill. The hole descends into blackness. We asked our guide, who said that each well is roughly 200 feet deep, and dry at the bottom. They had been used over hundreds of years to irrigate nearby fields and provide drinking water. When I pitched in a large stone, we did not hear it hit.

Having small kids around all of these abandoned wells triggered some kind of deep-evolution parental protection response in both India and me. Neither of us is a particularly nervous parent, but our hearts raced, we maintained physical contact with each child, and basically wanted to just get out of there. It was a very strange sensation, as if we had somehow stumbled into a room of loaded pistols. A parental nightmare, in the literal sense, would be running amidst these wells, searching for a lost child. I shudder at the thought.

One hundred yards up the road from where we stopped, still amidst the wells, was a Berber-tented ‘rest stop,’ serving tea and selling souvenirs. Ironically, the sign for the rest stop read “Place of Relaxation.” Not for parents of young kids, I’m afraid.

This short post is about Fes, Morocco, and how our feelings toward the city have changed over the four days we have been here.

To tell the truth, I am still trying to figure out how I feel about Fes. Having had a (very good) guide for the last two days, we ventured out on into the medina on our own today. We stuck to the Talala Kbira, the main track (8-10 feet wide in most places), avoiding the labyrinth of the side alleys and darkened souks. We felt comfortable and not lost throughout. By the end of the walk, even Zola was shouting “Belek!” (which means “Get out of the way!) when donkey caravans muscled past us in the narrow walkway.

Also, yesterday we took a taxi over to the Ville Nouvelle (the “new new” part of the city that the French built in the early 20th Century). The trip to the Ville Nouvelle, on an unsuccessful quest to buy Zola an English-language copy of the final Harry Potter book, reassured me that there is a diesel-filled, vibrant, modern, small emerging-market component to Fes, in addition to the medieval Fes - el Bali.

On one hand, I am saddened and confused to see half a million people living in the medina in conditions only slightly better than they would have had 500 years ago. So many people doing tedious, low-value-add, dangerous, and/or degrading physical tasks unnecessarily. (See the photo at left of men in the giant tanning vats, stomping on skins with a mix of pigeon excrement, water, and vegetable dyes). There did not seem to be an abundance of the “my children will have better lives than I have had” spirit, which I have always thought integral to human nature. There was definitely not a lot of room for kids to run around, or people to be alone.

On the other hand, this city, and this way of life have persisted for over 1,000 years, so they must be doing many things right. The culture of family, community, devotion, worship, are very powerful and stabilizing. Life expectancy in Morocco is over 72 years, and many other social indicators (e.g., infant mortality) are well above what I would have expected for a country at Morocco’s income level.

At an emotional level, though, it is bewitching to stand on the hotel roof at sunset, looking out at the sprawling rooftops of the seemingly motionless medina, with the mountains in the distance, listening to the call to prayer echo from dozens of mosques.

We leave for the desert tomorrow. We still need some time to think about Fes.

This short post is about something funny that Lu said on our second or third night in Spain.

I was carrying her on my shoulders , on our way back from a late dinner in Madrid. Conspiratorially (or as conspiratorial as a 3-year old can be), she whispered in my ear:

“Daddy, I don’t like Spain.”

“Why not, angel?” I asked.

“Because it is full of Spanish peoples”

“But Lu, it is their country, and we are just visitors here.”

“But Daddy, they all keep speaking Spanish!!”

Several days later, and apparently after great reflection, she told me:

“I like Spanish people now.”

This is progress, I think.

This long post is about our first two days in Fes, which is the cultural and intellectual capital of Morocco. Whatever I wrote about Tarifa, Spain being “more like Morocco than like Europe” was complete nonsense. Now that we are here, during Ramadan, and staying far within the walls of the old city (the medina), we feel as though we are truly out of the normal comfort zone for the first time on this trip.

The overland journey from Tangiers (where we lingered only enough to meet our driver and load our bags) to Fes was surprisingly long and desolate. There was only dry farmland for most of the ~300 km drive. There were a few small market towns, but mostly a whole lot of nothing.

We took a short side trip to the ancient Roman regional capital of Volubilis, which has been partially restored. Volubilis is basically a half-completed archaeology dig, with very limited curatorship, and only a handful of signs in English. My brain already hurts from shifting from bad Spanish and into non-existent French. The kids liked the ruins, although it increased Zola’s preoccupation with death and dying. Tallulah wondered when the Romans were coming back, and whether they would be upset about their town being ruined.

We arrived in Fes at about 5pm. Strangely, Morocco is 2 time zones behind Spain (eg, our ferry left at 11:00 am, and arrived at 9:45am). A porter from our hotel, Riad Fes, met us at the city gate, and helped us wheel our luggage through a maze of narrow streets, through three locked gates, and into the lobby. Within two minutes of arriving in the city, I was hopelessly disoriented.

Riad Fes is truly spectacular. It is a traditional Fassi home that has been restored and merged with two of its neighbors to create a boutique hotel. The lobby (where I am sitting now) is the enclosed courtyard of the main house: with intricate tile mosaic, and more intricate plaster-relief and wood carvings covering every square inch of the cavernous room. Remarkable artisanship as far as the eye can see in every direction.

The young women at reception asked us whether we wanted to hire a guide during our stay, and India and I (maybe a little haughtily) brushed off the suggestion.

Just before sunset yesterday we went for a walk, hoping to to find an ATM. We spent about 20 minutes trying to navigate in the medina, including many dead ends, false starts, and a moderately unpleasant harrassing by a would-be guide (”This is not Afghanistan, Mr. American, this is not Iraq! I will show you Americans how to behave here”). Gratefully, we found our way back to the Riad Fes.

Upon our return, when I immediately asked for a guide for the following day, the women at reception were very gracious. I am pretty certain I heard them laughing as I left the reception area, though. My guess is that they have seen that particular movie a few times.

We spent nearly seven hours today with an excellent guide, named Ghali, who walked us to all of the major sites of old Fes, and patiently answered about 500 inane questions from me. Zola’s eyes were as wide as saucers for the entire tour: sharing the narrow passageways with donkeys, and merchants, and wheeled carts, and thousands and thousands of people. Lu attracted a lot of attention (and a few friendly pats on the blond head) as she rode in her stroller across the cobblestones.

Fes is definitely not like anything India and I had seen before, not even in Marrakech, on our earlier trip to Morocco. Very intense, and very close. The tilework and the plasterwork are truly awe-inspiring, and the richness of history in this thousand-year-old city is almost overwhelming. More on all of that later.

We are feeling a lot more comfortable, and excited about our next few days in Fes.

This very short post is about leaving Spain for Morocco.

This morning we packed, had breakfast, and checked out of the hotel. Overall, we really liked Tarifa and we liked the Posada La Sacristia, where we stayed the last two nights.

Our heavily laden little caravan rushed through the narrow streets of the old city, making for the ferry terminal. We desperately need to shed more stuff, like 40% of what we have.

Like every other ticketing/boarding experience we had in Spain, that process was quick and efficient. We waited in long lines at security and passport control, walked across the dock, boarded the fast ferry.

80% of the passengers on the ferry appear to be Europeans on package day trips. Tangier appears to be the Tijuana of Africa. We stood out with our heavy baggage and with our kids. Once on board, everyone got into another long line for Moroccan immigration.

The ferry left about 10 minutes late, which was literally the only thing we found in Spain that did not leave exactly on time.

The ferry flies a Moroccan flag, and on board there is a mosque. The direction to Mecca must be fixed with a compass, but I couldn’t see it. The Diet Coke label is in Arabic, and the can has a pull tab (how retro). Not in Kansas anymore.

That said, the kids are eating Pringles, and staring at a Tom & Jerry cartoon on the lounge TV. They are happy and comfortable.

We will be in Morocco in another 20 minutes, then we have a long drive down to Fes. The real adventure starts.