Chapter 11 - Days 13: Fes to Estepona(177 miles)

Chapter 11 - Day 13  Fes to Estepona  (150 miles)

The sun was still below the horizon when we packed up our tents the next morning.  We'd all awakened early, despite our jam-packed final day of events and experiences in Fes. Our visit to the Chief of Police's opulent Riad, on the previous evening, had been so luxurious and restful, that we were all sufficiently relaxed to enjoy our final night's sleep in the campsite's cool desert night air. 

Breakfast was a simple yet elegant meal of coffee and croissants!  We were aiming for the noonday  Ferry from Tangier to Algeciras. From there we would slowly wend our back through Spain and France, and eventually, return to England. To avoid tedium, and to allow us to visit as many new Spanish cities as possible, our drivers had chosen a more westerly return route through the Iberian Peninsula.

The long road over dusty plains and through the Rif Mountains to Tangier was, in places, barely more than a dirt track.  So we all felt like real adventurers, as we were tossed around like beanbags every time the Love Bus hit a pothole. I was glad that our tents, packs and cooking gear had been tied securely to its roof.  Would that we, ourselves, had been as secure within the vehicle! But seat belts were uncommon during this era, so some of us literally did bounce off the roof and windows.  Not naming names, but....Ouch!

Frequent random physical catapulting also discouraged sensible conversation - or any other kind of interaction during that trip. Most of us just slipped into an alternate reality - or, in my case, 'stun' mode!  We held on to whatever was bolted down, and bravely tried to ride out the bumps as our stalwart vehicle negotiated the terrain.

This was definitely NOT our finest hour!

Unbidden, thoughts, memories and feelings of the past few days flooded into my mind during that four-hour theme park journey.  Apart from the nastiness at the tannery, I had really enjoyed my time in Morocco and would miss it, and its friendly people, till my next visit - whenever that would be.   Luxuriating under sunny skies in warm 75F weather in mid-April was a real treat, and a far cry from the chill winds and grey rain-showers that we had left behind us, in London.

My soul had absorbed a rich tapestry of cultural and commercial experiences in Fes,  but I craved still more time to explore this city's ancient educational roots.  We had camped there for five nights, and I, personally, had visited as much of the Medina as I could manage on foot. 

On my next visit, I would once again visit the Medina, but I would also make time to explore more of Fes' architectural heritage, with my new camera!  I also promised myself that I'd ride a camel, for the experience, and for the fabulous photo opportunity.  Meanwhile, I would research how to cook the way Moroccans do, since their cuisine suited my palate.

Thanks to our youthful guide, Azim,  our baker's dozen travelling group had been well advised, protected, guided, entertained, educated and, especially on our last evening, treated like royalty. We had willingly paid Azim quite a handsome stipend for his excellent services, since he had truly made us feel that we were as special, to him, as his own personal family!

Azim's relatives had also been very warm and gracious towards us, and solicitous of our needs, both at the Moroccan Restaurant (Day 1) and at the home of the Chief of Police (Day 4). Even the local artisans and merchants of Fes had seemed genuinely delighted to cater to our needs and purchasing requirements.  Their combined welcome made me feel that most Moroccans have a happy soul.

I have often wondered what has happened to - and for - Azim since 1972.  Did his entrepreneurial genius lead him to brave new worlds of business?  Or did he follow his family's political and military template?  He'd be 51 years old in 2013. I wish him well and hope that he still has that twinkle in those mischievous brown eyes.  I will never forget his cheerful laugh and his wonderfully infectious smile! 

We stopped for a fruit snack at a warm but windy viewpoint near Ouezzane that gave us a panoramic view of the dessert landscape we had just crossed.

(excerpt taken from http://receptours.net/en/25/sub-page)

Ouezzane, a town in northern Morocco, north of Fez at the southern border of the Rif Mountains.  It was once a place for Andalusia's Jewish refugees. 

photo by kind courtesy of galenfrysinger.com 

The city is well known in Morocco and throughout the Islamic world by being a spiritual capital for it was home for many of the pillars of Sufism. 

Many Jews of Morocco consider Ouezzane to be a holy city and make pilgrimages there to venerate the tomb of Rabbi Imran Ben Diwan, an eighteenth century rabbi who lived in the city and whose burial site is associated with a number of miracles.

While we munched on the last of our tasty Moroccan tomatoes, Leanne quietly confessed that part of her reason for travelling to Morocco had been to satisfy her life-long attraction to brown-skinned men.  Then she blushingly revealed that she had actually done so, whilst in Fes.

The entire group fell silent, listening intently, as Leanne continued her story:  

Early on our 2nd full day in Fes, Leanne had met a dark and handsome (though not particularly tall!) Moroccan man, who had impulsively invited her to his home to meet the rest of his family that same evening.

Given my less than savoury experience with some of  'the locals', Leanne hadn't wanted the drivers to know her plan, or for the rest of us to worry about her.  So, she had told only her colleagues, with whom she was travelling, that she was 'going out' and should not be considered missing if she didn't return till the next morning.

Apparently, having a big, buxom, blue-eyed blonde visiting in one's house was a rarity in Fes. Indeed, it might still be rare, for all I know!  When Leanne had visited this fellow's family, it seemed to her that every male in the vicinity had turned up to look at her, touch her fair skin, ask her extremely personal questions, and just be seen with her. 

All the adulation had made her feel like a celebrity and she totally lost touch of time - and place - and, methinks, her sanity!  Yet, the next morning, escorted by three tired looking Moroccan men, Leanne was indeed returned safely to our campsite. Despite sporting a huge smile, she had waved away all of her girlfriends' questions with a shake of her hand, promising to explain everything to them after she had slept.

By evening of the following day, Leanne had slept, but had yet to reveal anything about her solo adventure. Only after we had put many miles of rough road between ourselves and the city of Fes, did she deign to explain her overnight excursion.

Listening to Leanne describe her private adventure in Morocco, made me curious as to what kind of experiences the others had encountered - and what they had learned about life, or themselves, whilst in Morocco.

I was particularly interested in knowing which aspects of this region's culture and customs my travelling companions found the most enlightening, intriguing or challenging - and why!

The drivers, knowing that our road would likely prohibit prolonged or animated conversation, suggested that we each think about our unique Morocco experience while travelling to Tangier. Those who wished could share their own individual stories later, over a proper restaurant lunch on the ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar to Spain.

My mind then slid into neutral so that I could more clearly view the many events and experiences I had attracted in Morocco.  In only a few short days, I had enjoyed so many different experiences in this exotic land, that my rich and varied memories had become engrained in my psyche: 
Photo by kind courtesy of susanreep.com

• Tangier: where I sold my watch for the group's lunch, and played street football
• The scent of orange groves, the flavour of local tomatoes, lamb tangine, couscous and mint tea    
• Camels on the dunes at sunrise;  dancing in the wind in my djellaba    photo by kind courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/sallyrango/5061545997
  
  
  
  
• Moroccan warmth, humour and hospitality
• Constant sunshine; dry air and the happy mingling of exotic aromas
• Fes' secure campground swimming pool and facilities; the armed guards and lockable gates
• Azim and his entire clan, and how they catered to our needs in Fes
• The Tannery incident and its emotional impact on our entire group.
• Anton's compassion and kindness, our hilarious shopping trip and romantic outdoor supper.
• The authentic Moroccan restaurant and
• Our visit to the Police of Chief's sumptuous home and its revelations

After several days of unscheduled relaxation by the pool, or strolling and shopping in ancient souks, my mind and body had rebelled mightily against having to hurry up and get on the road again. 

The 177-mile direct road to Tangier skirted the dry foothills of the Rif Mountains. In 1972, its more rugged areas were poorly maintained causing our drivers to decrease speed without notice, adding to the already considerable discomfort of their passengers.  Despite leaving camp before 8am, we only just managed to connect with the noon ferry crossing to Algerciras. 

photo by kind courtesy of afar.com

Weary from our 4-hour journey, most of us shared a late lunch in the ferry dining room.

But everyone was a bit shell-shocked and I, too, was very introspective.

Only Leanne, it seemed, was ready - or willing - to elaborate on  her unique experience of Morocco - and Moroccan men.  That she was the only one still smiling after our rather vigorous journey from Fes, spoke volumes.

Our destination for that evening was, once again, the elegantly groomed beach at Estepona.  After four days of sleeping on desert baked soil that was as hard as concrete, my entire body relaxed at the mere thought of sleeping on the soft sand tonight.

Two hours later, refreshed by the strong winds and a ferry meal, we disembarked in Algeciras and headed eastwards towards the same private hotel at which we'd eaten supper on our outward journey to Morocco. 

We campers were not permitted to set up our tents on the beach till well after dusk.  But our hosts suggested that, whilst waiting, we change into our swim gear and enjoy the facilities, with the hotel guests, on that deliciously private beach.  

photo by kind courtesy of marbella-guide.com 

And that was how Anton managed to acquire several sunset as well as sunrise photos from the very same beach in Andalusia!   

The Mediterranean was still too cold for a swim, especially after the warm waters of the campsite pool in Fes. But frolicking on the beach with the rest of the group was great fun.

We all relished this time to play and stretch our muscles after that long bumpy trip from Fes, especially since nobody knew when - or if - England's beaches would ever be warm enough to permit such carefree activities.

Later that evening, we enjoyed a light supper, lovingly prepared for us by the staff.  Then, just after sunset, we pitched our tents for the night.   Most of us turned in very early, so weary were we after our adventures in Morocco.  I don't even remember my head hitting the pillow! 

Sleep, the great restorative, was exactly what we needed.  Tonight we fondly remembered the thrills of exploring a tiny bit of Morocco. But we had precious little time to grieve leaving its enticements.

The whole of Spain lay ahead; 

and Espana had assembled for us an extraordinary
extravaganza of exotic experiences  

Little did we know that our most exciting

Andalusian Adventure 

was to begin the very next day...
;
;
;
;
;

Coming Soon!

Section 3 - Chapter 12

Estepona to Seville

My Road to Morocco- Day 14

Chapter 7 - Day 8:Tangier to Fes (230 miles)

Day 8 Tangier to Fes  (230 miles via coast route)

I had just enjoyed the best sleep ever, waking up so early that the sky was only just brightening.

  

Anton and his camera had already left the tent. So I changed into my new Moroccan djellaba before heading out to greet the morning.

After so many dreary months of wearing scratchy winter woolens in England, the djellaba's soft cotton felt so gentle against my skin.  

Stepping outside, the air was chillier than expected and I considered grabbing my long woolen cardigan. But I was really counting on the soon-to-be-rising sun to warm me up. So till then, physical exercise would help ward off the chill.

A series of low dunes, to the west, sheltered our camp from the worst of Atlantic Ocean gusts. And completely unaware of just how gusty those winds would be near the top of it, I chose to climb up the nearest dune. 

I could already taste the salt in the air, and was so eager for my first sunrise glimpse of the Atlantic lapping at the edge of the African continent that I forged ahead, literally throwing caution to the wind!

In hindsight, my lightweight djellaba - while a romantic notion - was completely the wrong choice of garment for climbing a dune!  But not until an errant gust threatened to rip my clothing from my body, did I realize my folly.  

Holy Hannah that wind was strong!  

Before I could stop it, the wind blew underneath my garment, expanding it like a conical sail.  I had to act quickly to wrap my djellaba more closely around my hips and thighs, to avoid flashing the entire campsite

Thank heavens the other campers were still sleeping,

for I surely did NOT need witnesses to that embarrassing moment.

My struggle to stand upright, atop that dune, had, however, been worth every effort, as I was immediately rewarded by a sight one would never, ever, see in England.

camel photo by kind courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/sallyrango/5061545997

A caravan of camels was being ushered down the beach by a boy, with a stick! 

This camel train made no audible sound, and the animals seemed resigned to the journey, and also to their handler.

Oh, how I wished I'd remembered to bring my camera with me!

At that precise moment,  I spied Anton, partly hidden on the beach side of the dune, clicking his camera furiously as the camels passed by him.  

Surprised not to have noticed him there before, I now surveyed the area more closely. Those undulating dunes offered a photographer many sheltered nooks. And those strong ocean winds drowned out all but the most robust sounds.

To the west, the slow dawn painted the water's edge in a sheen of silver, for the sun had not yet risen to turn it into gold. 

The sharp, chill wind made me shiver. But I couldn't leave yet - the sun would surely rise behind me above the eastern horizon, if I could stand shivering for just one more minute!

Only I could freeze 

 in April in Morocco!

During England's frigid winters, I stayed warm with friends in heated discotheques!  So, I reasoned, the physical gyrations that worked for me in London, would also work for me in Tangier!

photo by kind courtesy of cynicalidealism.tumblr.com

Dancing like a mad lady, I played on and with the wind. Using my hands to calm the sail-like momentum created by twirling, I managed to remain decently clad.

But if I paused, a mischievous gust would flip my dress up.  So I twirled a lot, stopping only when I was comfortably warm.

Anton and his cameras completely disappeared from my sight after the camels had passed by us.

I knew he had to be somewhere close-by waiting to take his 'famed' sunrise photos. But he did not call out to me and, since the beach and wind provided excellent shelter, I could neither see nor hear him any more.   

Struggling to remain clothed despite the wind, I eventually wound my djellaba tightly around body, then took stock of my surroundings. 

photo by kind courtesy of www.moroccansands.com                 

Ahead was a broad sandy beach, the tide now retreating. Smoother at the water's edge, the sand became darker and coarser as beach met dune grasses. 

Suddenly, a startling 
 b r i l l i a n c e 
illuminated the scene.

I watched in awe, as the sun painted the ocean with gold, enjoying the play of light on the distant waves. That sleepy and surreal, soft and silvery morning, had suddenly burst into full Technicolor glory.

The sun's warmth on my back was most reassuring!  This day had most definitely begun! I was so excited I couldn't wait to get back to the camp and wake everyone up.  I was eager to begin the final leg of our journey to Fes.

 

Making a mental note to ask Anton to send me a copy of his camel and sunrise photographs, after he'd processed and developed his film, I happily skipped down the dune and back to camp.

As it happened, there was no need for me to awaken anyone! Stragglers, with morning hair, were already heading to and from the showers.  When camping, sunshine is a powerful alarm clock.

By the time I had rolled up my sleeping bag, taken a hot shower, and added much needed underwear and my thick, warm, long cardigan to my thin djellaba, I was ravenously hungry. 

We were again seated at the same long picnic table at which we had eaten supper the night before. It was set for breakfast, and already laden with food, supplied and prepared by our British campsite hosts.  

I was happily surprised to see a big pot of hot porridge brought to the table along with the toast and tea - in Morocco yet!  But surprise didn't prevent me from helping myself to a large bowlful, so soon I felt warm and cosy inside and out. 

photo by kind courtesy of  allthingsherbal.com

The milk was goat's milk and tasted quite different from the pasteurized cow's milk, sold in glass bottles, in Britain.

But that morning, on that Tangier beach, cold raw goat's milk was the perfect accompaniment to our outdoor breakfast.

photo by kind courtesy of cie-oxford.com

Our hosts joined us with their cups of tea, to let us know that we needed to reset our clocks and watches before leaving Tangier for Fes that morning.

We had completely overlooked the fact that 

Morocco observes Greenwhich Mean Time 

throughout the whole year.

Our timepieces, therefore, needed to be adjusted back to GMT - an hour earlier than British Daylight Savings Time and a full 2 hours earlier than Spanish time. Though our bodies thought it was 8am, local time in Morocco was only 6am! 

Our hosts told us that, because of the time change, they had been preparing breakfast at dawn on the first morning, for every summer group that camped with them - for the last 16 years. 

I was impressed that they had taken the time to make us porridge on this chilly morning too!  Bless them! 

The previous night,  our two drivers had ordered a huge picnic lunch for all of us, which we now collected and would eat en route to Fes.  

 photo by kind courtesy of worldatlas.com

The sunny day was so welcoming we unanimously decide to take the scenic route along the coast, driving south towards Rabat before turning eastwards towards Fes.

The temperature rose substantially, as we drove towards the interior desert region. Soon able to shed my bulky cardigan, I decided that wearing a light cotton djellaba had, after all, been the correct choice of apparel for that day.

Motoring inland, I noticed a lot of old Mercedes trucks and cars around.  Naively, I expected to see camel trains, but not German-built automobiles.

Our drivers explained that when they had money, Moroccans spent it on cars and trucks. Much like the rest of the world, it seemed.

It was a long, slow drive to Fes, with several stops for photos, but we eventually ate our picnic lunch in an orange grove, en route to our destination city.  

Along with the usual sandwiches, for which the British are famous, our hosts had packed some local fruits and delicacies, like figs and Moroccan tomatoes!  

Moroccan tomatoes photo by kind courtesy of freshtomatoesexport.com

In Morocco, tomatoes grow as large as grapefruit, and were sweeter than any tomato I had ever eaten.  

Although they added an unexpectedly sweet flavour burst to our salad, I preferred to eat them as a fruit. So I would cut one tomato in half for dessert, sharing the other half with someone else.

Eaten alone, our Moroccan tomatoes became a quick and delicious treat, as well as a high vitamin content, anti-oxidant snack that helped to keep all of us healthy during our stay in exotic Morocco.

Not surprisingly, Morocco is today one the largest exporters in world of tomatoes and an unchallenged product leader in terms of Moroccan truck farming.

Orange Grove photo by kind courtesy of en.wikipedia.org

Picnicking in an orange grove was another 'first' for me.  

The collective skins of so many fruits still growing on the tree have such an especially pungent aroma.  The clean, crisp scent was not at all musty or unpleasant, but lifted our spirits, turning that picnic surrounded by orange trees into an aromatherapy treat for us all.

  

Orange’s greatest claim to aromatherapy fame is its ability to affect moods and to lower high blood pressure. In fact, just sniffing it lowers blood pressure a couple points. You don’t even need to buy the essential oil; simply peeling an orange and inhaling its aroma releases its beneficial effects.

 Of course, aromatherapy was still 

a decade or so away from being trendy

One of the girls wanted to pick an orange from the tree, just to taste how sweet it was compared with Moroccan tomatoes.  But our drivers actively discouraged such pilfering, reminding us all that the laws for theft - even of a single orange - are much more stringent on the African continent than in Europe.

So many things to know and 

remember, when travelling!

for more information about Morocco, press this link

We arrived in Fes by mid-afternoon and were immediately greeted by an energetic 10 year old boy with shining eyes and the widest smile ever seen.  

His name was Azim, and he informed us that he would be our guide while we were in Fes.  And to prove that he was trustworthy, his uncle - the Police Commissioner - had invited all of us to his home for 'refreshments' on our last evening in Fes.  

WOW!  

What a warm welcome!

Azim, though young in years, was an animated, delightful soul who already spoke several languages fluently, including English, French, Spanish and Arabic.  

Since Morocco's national languages are Arabic and French, his language skills alone, could prove very useful.  But Azim assured us that he was also "a most efficient and well-informed guide" for our travelling crew.  And because he already liked us, he was willing going to give us a BIG discount!

We were powerless to resist the charm and enthusiasm of this pint-sized business magnate!

Azim then jumped aboard the Love Bus and guided us to our gated and guarded campground, informing us that the guards had real guns with real bullets in them, so we would be safe there.

He also confided the best times and places for shopping and sightseeing, where to eat and where to purchase the exact kinds of merchandise we wanted.

He then cheekily told our drivers that he would personally be willing to escort any unescorted ladies who required his services during our visit to Fes.  

This precocious 10-year old behaved more like a well-seasoned entrepreneur than like any child of my acquaintance. By the efficient manner in which he delivered pertinent information, I had the feeling he'd been a liaison for tourists since he was a toddler.

Before he left us alone to set up our camp and relax for the evening, Azim reiterated that, in Fes, any lady not escorted by a gentleman, risked being abducted or worse.

Was he kidding?  No, he was not...

Our drivers had been similarly forewarned, and insisted that, whenever she wanted to leave the campsite, each lady should do so only in the company of her chosen bodyguard. Anton smiled at me then, and I knew, without words, that he would be my personal bodyguard in Fes! 

Having been reassured of our security at camp, we were grateful to learn that our modern campground offered modern conveniences!  In a week of one night stops, there had been no time to do laundry.  But here in Fes, we had all the essentials -  hot showers, throne toilets - yeah! - working laundry machines and a swimming pool. 

photo by kind courtesy of http://www.motodreamers.com

Early evening temperatures in camp were in the balmy 70s.  So, whilst waiting for our washing machines to finish their loads, a few of us enjoyed a leisurely swim in the clean, clear pool. 

It was a sanitary, civilized and relaxing introduction to Fes.  And, as an added bonus, even the heaviest denim jeans dried to a crisp in that semi-arid climate.

After swimming, we ate lightly, finishing the remainder of our substantial lunch pack! Then we completed our laundry and took to our tents.  

Sleep came easily to us all that night.  Our ultra early start, followed by a marathon day of driving plus the 2-hour time change meant we were asleep much earlier than most of the other travellers that night. But we did not care - dreamland beckoned and we willingly surrendered.

As a group, we were about to enjoy three glorious days in Fes. We were all eager to begin exploring! And I had rarely felt as excited about my life as I did then.  

Less than 24 hours later, our youthful enthusiasm would provoke some alarming life lessons that nobody would soon forget.

Coming Soon! 

Section 3 - Chapter 8

Fes  (Days 1)

 Medina, Mint tea, Maniacs and Meditation,

  My Road to Morocco - Day 9