Blame it on the devil. Easier that way.
Blame it on bad choices and she the apostasy.
Send her to therapy, blame it on abuse.
Send her to doctor, blame it on genetics,
But what the use? Nobody got it easy
And nobody got it right. She a woman,
Is she? Ah well, there the problem, See?
Woman, she got no right to this world,
She made for one use. Put her in with oven
And cover her in grease. She break her body
Having child, she carry babies till her back a hump.
You say it the Twenty-first century? No matter,
She still got no choice. Only woman have baby,
And baby want Mama. Only mama nurse baby,
Only Mama know the pain. Women they go to work,
And they come home to more. Men say I lie?
Go now. Ask the Devil, he give 'em what for.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Requiem Shark
Quoniam si voluisses sacrificium, dedissem utique
He slices waters, on the search
For something still, he is an old
Master of bloodlust and the kill.
Detritus and the dead no longer
Kill the pain, and his need grows,
Searching for the living, the pulsing.
She gathers waters like a crop,
Her smooth belly curved to cup
The currents and slap the weeds.
The hunters call her "Virgin of the Sea"
She's only legend, a mystery.
Deep leads to deeper,
To places the hunter and virgin don't go,
They are made for the shallows
The places where the sun still reaches.
And so, circling each other, contact is made.
It's not fate; it's coincidence.
Fate is too beautiful a word for
Wrong place, wrong time.
She lies, beautiful belly up,
In the sun as she once longed to be,
A sad sea cow. He sings no dirge for her.
He slices waters, on the search
For something still, he is an old
Master of bloodlust and the kill.
Detritus and the dead no longer
Kill the pain, and his need grows,
Searching for the living, the pulsing.
She gathers waters like a crop,
Her smooth belly curved to cup
The currents and slap the weeds.
The hunters call her "Virgin of the Sea"
She's only legend, a mystery.
Deep leads to deeper,
To places the hunter and virgin don't go,
They are made for the shallows
The places where the sun still reaches.
And so, circling each other, contact is made.
It's not fate; it's coincidence.
Fate is too beautiful a word for
Wrong place, wrong time.
She lies, beautiful belly up,
In the sun as she once longed to be,
A sad sea cow. He sings no dirge for her.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Travel Logs: Morocco, Part 2
Humans have this amazing thing called endorphins. Those crazy little chemicals have a way of wiping out traumatic experiences from the brain. This is why I can remember almost nothing about delivering my daughter without an epidural. I do remember immediately afterward when I jumped up from the bed, insanely happy and energetic, and a nurse entered the room and stared at the empty bed and then at me and said, "Are you the patient? Why are you up?" I felt great, because my body had done the wonderful natural thing it was supposed to, and now my brain was telling me that nothing terrible had happened, I had survived the trauma.
When we left for Morocco, it was for a 6 day trip. 11 days later, we returned by airplane, train, taxi, and van. It wasn't supposed to happen that way, of course, but all the misery of trying desperately to get home has been wiped out of my brain. I can't really relate many details about it, because I'd rather just forget it, and my brain is working hard to wipe the memory out.
Here's the bare outline of what happened, for those who still want to know:
Thursday evening: Our plane does not depart Morocco. We are told to come back in the morning for a flight to Dusseldorf, Germany, which is nowhere near home, but it's in Germany, so we say "sure." Ryan Air is taking no responsibility for us, as this is an "act of God" and out of their hands. We call our riad and they send Ali back to pick us up, so we can stay another night in Fes.
Friday: We show up at the airport only to see Dusseldorf is cancelled. Ryan Air offers us a flight to Madrid that afternoon as the only option for getting to Europe. Everything north of Spain is shut down due to the volcanic ash cloud (from Iceland...let's not forget how bizarre this whole thing is). We say yes to the Madrid flight because my stomach cannot take another tagine or cup of mint tea. Breck is still vomitting. All I want is to get back to western civilization, where everything is not covered in dust and minarets do not drone. We sit in an olive grove outside the airport all afternoon (see photo), picnicking and napping, like the locals do, until our Madrid flight, which does take off. We reach Madrid and realize the situation is not any better here. There are no trains to France or Germany for days. All rental cars are gone, and all buses are full. We spend the night at a nice hotel (The Confortel, Pio XII) for a good price.
Saturday: We spend the majority of the day at the rail station, standing in lines, talking in Spanglish to the ticket agents and trying to figure out what the hell is going on. We accomplish nothing. We decide to spend another night and see if flights start going out again. We see the sol of Madrid, watch a mariachi band and dancer perform, shop, eat dinner.
Sunday: We go to the rail station, accomplish nothing. The rain in Spain falls mainly on Madrid. Both children are puking on a regular basis. There is no news in English on the television, so we watch in Spanish and try to guess what they are saying from our limited memories of Spanish vocab. Life sucks.
Monday: I threaten Joel within an inch of his life: Go to the damn station and buy us a ticket to Barcelona or somewhere, I don't care where as long as we get out of rainy Madrid and move northeast toward Germany! He returns with tickets to Barcelona. We ride a lovely ICE train to Barcelona, which turns out to be an incredibly beautiful city. But the situation on the ground is no better there...rail station agents informs us there are "no regional trains that are going over the border to France" because, as usual, the French are striking. I volunteer loudly to prostitute myself to get home. Joel looks at me and says, "I hope you're not serious," but looks doubtful, he's learned not to underestimate my penchant for insanity. We check out the nearby bus station, where there is a mob scene with people of all classes fighting to get on a bus going to France. A cabbie sees our distress and volunteers to take advantage of it with a 400 euro cab ride to Montpellier, France. "DEAL!" I scream, practically jumping over Joel to shake the cab driver's hand. We have already booked a hotel for the night, so we tell him to pick us up in the morning at 7 am. We go out to the wharves where all the gorgeous yachts are docked on the Mediterranean inlet, eat at an outdoor cafe, spend silly money on wine and fish to calm our misery. Think life is not so bad and maybe we will come back to Barcelona some day under better circumstances.
Tuesday: Three and a half hours and (430 euros less) later, we arrive at the Montpellier rail station, and see that a train is leaving for Lyon in 30 minutes (the Spanish ticket agents are lazy ass liars...trains are running fine in France). An agent assures us we don't have to wait in line for a ticket, we can just jump on and pay the conductor after we depart. There is a mad scramble to get on and we do not get seats, we have to settle for sitting atop our bags on the floor of the dining car. I feel we have reached an all-time low, but the conductor has pity and never asks us to pay, so we ride for free and I am satisfied. We get off at Lyon and see a train to Strasbourg leaving in 30 minutes, but think our kids can't handle riding for 4 hours on the floor again. We settle for tickets to leave that evening and call our friends back at home to see who will drive the hour from Heidelberg over to the French border town of Strasbourg to pick us up. Anne and Matt say they will be there at 10:30 pm when we arrive. They seem like saviors when we meet them at the station, we are bedraggled and stinky from wearing our clothes over and over (I've hand washed in the bathtub of hotels until I have blisters on my hands) and the kids from puking on theirs. They have brought Joel and I each a big bottle of German beer...they have read our minds. Our kids stay awake until they see the German border and cheer, then fall asleep...Germany is home to us.
Postscript: We spent more money trying to get home than we did on our actual vacation to Morocco. Goodbye tax return.
Post post script: Iceland, I would have visited you, but I spent the money for that trip on your stupid volcano. Forget you.
Post post post script: I do not believe in "acts of God"...I believe in acts of Satan.
Post post post post script: On the upside, I now consider myself a "seasoned" traveler.
When we left for Morocco, it was for a 6 day trip. 11 days later, we returned by airplane, train, taxi, and van. It wasn't supposed to happen that way, of course, but all the misery of trying desperately to get home has been wiped out of my brain. I can't really relate many details about it, because I'd rather just forget it, and my brain is working hard to wipe the memory out.
Here's the bare outline of what happened, for those who still want to know:
Thursday evening: Our plane does not depart Morocco. We are told to come back in the morning for a flight to Dusseldorf, Germany, which is nowhere near home, but it's in Germany, so we say "sure." Ryan Air is taking no responsibility for us, as this is an "act of God" and out of their hands. We call our riad and they send Ali back to pick us up, so we can stay another night in Fes.
Friday: We show up at the airport only to see Dusseldorf is cancelled. Ryan Air offers us a flight to Madrid that afternoon as the only option for getting to Europe. Everything north of Spain is shut down due to the volcanic ash cloud (from Iceland...let's not forget how bizarre this whole thing is). We say yes to the Madrid flight because my stomach cannot take another tagine or cup of mint tea. Breck is still vomitting. All I want is to get back to western civilization, where everything is not covered in dust and minarets do not drone. We sit in an olive grove outside the airport all afternoon (see photo), picnicking and napping, like the locals do, until our Madrid flight, which does take off. We reach Madrid and realize the situation is not any better here. There are no trains to France or Germany for days. All rental cars are gone, and all buses are full. We spend the night at a nice hotel (The Confortel, Pio XII) for a good price.
Saturday: We spend the majority of the day at the rail station, standing in lines, talking in Spanglish to the ticket agents and trying to figure out what the hell is going on. We accomplish nothing. We decide to spend another night and see if flights start going out again. We see the sol of Madrid, watch a mariachi band and dancer perform, shop, eat dinner.
Sunday: We go to the rail station, accomplish nothing. The rain in Spain falls mainly on Madrid. Both children are puking on a regular basis. There is no news in English on the television, so we watch in Spanish and try to guess what they are saying from our limited memories of Spanish vocab. Life sucks.
Monday: I threaten Joel within an inch of his life: Go to the damn station and buy us a ticket to Barcelona or somewhere, I don't care where as long as we get out of rainy Madrid and move northeast toward Germany! He returns with tickets to Barcelona. We ride a lovely ICE train to Barcelona, which turns out to be an incredibly beautiful city. But the situation on the ground is no better there...rail station agents informs us there are "no regional trains that are going over the border to France" because, as usual, the French are striking. I volunteer loudly to prostitute myself to get home. Joel looks at me and says, "I hope you're not serious," but looks doubtful, he's learned not to underestimate my penchant for insanity. We check out the nearby bus station, where there is a mob scene with people of all classes fighting to get on a bus going to France. A cabbie sees our distress and volunteers to take advantage of it with a 400 euro cab ride to Montpellier, France. "DEAL!" I scream, practically jumping over Joel to shake the cab driver's hand. We have already booked a hotel for the night, so we tell him to pick us up in the morning at 7 am. We go out to the wharves where all the gorgeous yachts are docked on the Mediterranean inlet, eat at an outdoor cafe, spend silly money on wine and fish to calm our misery. Think life is not so bad and maybe we will come back to Barcelona some day under better circumstances.
Tuesday: Three and a half hours and (430 euros less) later, we arrive at the Montpellier rail station, and see that a train is leaving for Lyon in 30 minutes (the Spanish ticket agents are lazy ass liars...trains are running fine in France). An agent assures us we don't have to wait in line for a ticket, we can just jump on and pay the conductor after we depart. There is a mad scramble to get on and we do not get seats, we have to settle for sitting atop our bags on the floor of the dining car. I feel we have reached an all-time low, but the conductor has pity and never asks us to pay, so we ride for free and I am satisfied. We get off at Lyon and see a train to Strasbourg leaving in 30 minutes, but think our kids can't handle riding for 4 hours on the floor again. We settle for tickets to leave that evening and call our friends back at home to see who will drive the hour from Heidelberg over to the French border town of Strasbourg to pick us up. Anne and Matt say they will be there at 10:30 pm when we arrive. They seem like saviors when we meet them at the station, we are bedraggled and stinky from wearing our clothes over and over (I've hand washed in the bathtub of hotels until I have blisters on my hands) and the kids from puking on theirs. They have brought Joel and I each a big bottle of German beer...they have read our minds. Our kids stay awake until they see the German border and cheer, then fall asleep...Germany is home to us.
Postscript: We spent more money trying to get home than we did on our actual vacation to Morocco. Goodbye tax return.
Post post script: Iceland, I would have visited you, but I spent the money for that trip on your stupid volcano. Forget you.
Post post post script: I do not believe in "acts of God"...I believe in acts of Satan.
Post post post post script: On the upside, I now consider myself a "seasoned" traveler.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The Travel Logs: Morocco
or: "It's All Fun and Games Until the Monkey Gets You"
For our spring break we decided to go to Fes, Morocco, mostly because it sounded exotic and accessible. We could check the continent of Africa off our list, and Ryan Air flies there from Frankfurt-Hahn for super cheap. We went sort of "fly by the seat of our pants," if you will, with few expectations and even less information. I ordered a Lonely Planet Morocco guide from Amazon.UK, but Deutsche Post screwed it all up and didn't get it to me in time, so we left with no maps or guides to plan our time. This gave my DH anxiety, as he never does anything without extensive planning and packing for every imaginable scenario. I had booked us at a typical bed and breakfast called a "riad" in Fes Medina, and set up a loose itinerary for our 5 days with the owner, who happens to be British. So we landed at the airport in the outskirts of Fes, hoping a taxi had been sent to pick us up as planned; I was thrilled to see the taxi driver, Ali, standing there holding a sign with "Borkert" in all caps. Everything seemed so foreign from the instant we landed. We had been deposited in another universe, as far as I was concerned; as we drove to the heart of the city, we passed olive groves and more people walking on foot than I had ever seen. Clad in kaftans and head coverings, they trudged the sides of the road, the lucky ones leading a donkey laden with belongings. Poverty assaulted my eyes; I kept thinking Isn't Morocco the sophisticated tourist-friendly part of Africa? I found out quickly, it was friendly, but not refined in any sense of the Western word.
Our riad was an oasis of calm, open-roofed with an inner courtyard replete with fountain and blue and white tiling. The rooftop terrace was the perfect place to sit and listen to the sounds of boisterous medina life while drinking delicious hot mint tea. I had some lovely moments sitting up there in the sun looking out over hundreds of rooftops and listening to the muezzins droning the call to prayer from their minarets. Our first full day in Fes, we set off into the medina, which is an incredible labyrinth of pedestrian-only alleys, housing over 260,000 people in a relatively small area. A trip to Fes is not for Sanitizer Moms (you know, those women who walk into Chili's in the U.S. and proceed to wipe down the high chair with antibacterial wipes before they let precious baby sit) or anyone opposed to getting shit on their shoes. The medina is the largest carless city in the world, so beasts of burden are used to haul in merchant supplies, which means donkeys crapping all over the place. Despite the crap, litter, and random street cats everywhere, Fes holds a medieval charm so primitive one cannot help being entranced. The buildings all look the same from the outside, but step inside, and you are treated to exquisite mosaics and wood work you will never see in the western world. The gardens are like a secret you happen upon, riotous with hibiscus, bouganvillia, and antique roses, and bowered by lemon-scented orange trees. We discovered the medina with the help of a guide, who shepherded us around with a mercenary cunning. Aziz spoke excellent English and seemed to know every place and everyone, he took us to all his favorite shopping spots so he could get a cut of the profits when we bought something. This is common practice in Morocco, everyone has a hand in the pot, everyone gets a piece of the tourist's pie. I confess it felt a little odd at first, as we realized he kept excusing himself to go the the "bathroom" but we knew he was in fact going to collect his percentage from the merchant. Fes is famous for its artisans, and they are happy to show you their creative processes before they take you to their showroom. We visited potters, weavers, woodworkers, and leather-tanners, and they always showed us their workers and even encouraged us to participate. I sat at a loom with four Moroccan women as they showed me how to weave a rug, I was terrible and clumsy of course, and they were deft and furiously fast. We visited the tannery pits, a quintessential Fes experience, as the terrible smell wafts throughout the town, leaving its imprint on your mind. We watched men waist deep in the tanning and dyeing pits, which hold odd combinations like lime and pigeon shit, and my DH remarked that these people must have missed the industrial revolution and that their life expectancy couldn't extend past 40 working in those conditions (see photo of pits). At the ceramics factory, one of the men painting tiles and vases stopped to paint a fake-henna tattoo on little Helen's hand. Everywhere we went, people were so friendly, not only because we represented the American tourist dollar, but also because we had brought small children to visit. Moroccans LOVE children, especially blonde blue-eyed ones, and everywhere we went, men of all ages stopped Helen to give her a kiss. My favorite was a little barefoot boy on the street who wasn't even a head taller than Helen; he grabbed her by both shoulders and planted a big kiss on her cheek, then ran back to his older brother who scolded him for his boldness. Everywhere we went, people complimented us on having children so young, this is highly esteemed in muslim culture.
After two days of seeing the sights in Fes, we took the next two days to see nearby towns with our "tourist taxi" driver, Ali. The first day we traveled to Sefrou, Ifrane, and Azrou. Ali took us first to Sefrou, to visit a wrinkled old woman named Ayesha, who lives in a cave (see photos); after the obligatory mint tea, she showed me how to wear a head covering like a proper muslim, and tried to teach me how to balance a full bucket of water on my head as she does every day. I could barely stand the weight of the bucket, and there is no way I could carry it for any distance. She nimbly walked around her cave, demonstrating how she transports water with no hands and she showed no sign of discomfort. This woman was easily in her seventies, and could be a pro weight-lifter. Amazing. Ifrane was less remarkable to me; it is a former French resort town that has been built up to look like a Swiss village, completely out of place in Morocco. Everything was so new it was jarring after being in Sefrou, and we left as soon we'd lunched. On to Azrou, or more specifically, the cedar forests outlying the town, where Barbary apes live in the wild. These macaques (tailless primates) are the only monkeys left in northern Africa. I should explain at this point that our entire vacation in Morocco centered around seeing these monkeys; they were the only thing my kids really cared about. We even used this as our favorite form of bribery for months beforehand, threatening "Stop right now or I will leave you at home while we go see the monkeys in Morocco!!!" It worked every time. So there was a lot riding on this outing. We stopped at a cliffside overlook to view the middle Atlas mountains, and saw a pet Barbary ape tied to a trinket stand. The owner encouraged our kids to feed his monkey, hoping to sell us something in the process. The ensuing monkey attack was captured on video and I've posted it here on the blog for your viewing pleasure. After it happened, I began to wonder a bit about rabies and random monkey diseases (didn't HIV come from monkeys????), but tried to put it out of my head and hope for the best, after all, our kids were thrilled and Breck wasn't put off by having his hair pulled by a macaque. So on we went to the opening of the forest where guides with horses waited to sell us their monkey-scouting services. My DH refused this service, being the self-reliant person that he is, and we wandered the woods like idiot tourists for a little while, spotting zero monkeys. A guide slyly followed us until we gave up and mounted his horse and were led straight to a pair of macaques sitting high up in a cedar tree. A male was soon lured down by our bananas and pistachio nuts, and we had a blast feeding him, I feeling quite triumphant when he came up and took banana out of my hand.
Things look so different in hindsight. I felt rather proud of our adventurous spirit that day. I mean, how many American parents take their kids to see wild monkeys and let them get close enough to be attacked? Only very stupid ones. I would mark the monkey attack as the point where the trip took a downward turn. That night, instead of enjoying beer and apple-flavored sheeshah (hookah) with my husband on the rooftop terrace, I had to make an unexpected visit to the toilet to vomit. Whether I got food poisoning in Ifrane, or some monkey affliction in Azrou, I don't know, but I spent all night sick as a dog.
The next morning it was off to the Roman ruins at Volubilis and Moulay Idriss, in spite of me feeling like a weak and nauseated waif.
I can't say much about Volubilis; it was really lovely and picturesque, the countryside resembling mediterranean Europe, and the ruins looking like any other Roman ruins, except the Moroccans let your crawl all over them, unlike the Italians at the Forum. The ancient columns have huge nests atop them, inhabited by large storks, kind of a bizarre sight. After Volubilis, I refused to visit Moulay Idriss because I was so car sick and wanted to go back to the riad. This town is the site of the founding of Islam in Morocco, and is closed to non-muslims after dark, there are no hotels there.
The last day in Morocco (or what was supposed to be the last day) Breck started vomitting fiercely and frequently. Our hosts were kind and tried to help him recover, but there was nothing that could stop the illness. I went on one last foray into Fes medina with Aziz to find the perfect fabric for my best friend. After all manner of shady exchanges, Aziz took me to a part of town he said was "rough, you know, like Queens in New York." There were no tourists here, and I didn't have enough money for my fabric, so Aziz threw his forms of identification at the owner, grabbed the fabric and me and dragged me quickly out of the shop. He assured the owner he would come back with the money as we ran down the alley. He circumvented two women trying to enter a taxi and put me and himself in instead to go to the ATM. Apparently my tourist dollar was more valuable than their dhiram. I felt really badly about this episode, because the repression of women is such an absolute part of life there. You will only see men sitting in the outdoor cafes, sipping their tea and smoking, women are not allowed this luxury. Women are only seen going to market and then returning home, they are not meant for public life. They cook, clean, raise children, and in their spare time may weave to make some income. Divorced single women have it worst, for they must support their children, and so they work hard weaving rugs for the Fes cooperative which (hopefully) gives them a better price for their product.
That afternoon we bid our hosts goodbye and drove to the airport with Ali, who I'm sure was exhausted of our children, though he tolerated them smilingly and graciously. Breck vomitted on the floor in the customs line, and they gave us a wheelchair and put us at the front of the queue for boarding. We were waiting to board when suddenly, with no explanation, the Ryan Air employees walked away from their desk. A murmur of confusion went up in the crowd. The employees returned with photocopies of their policy regarding flights cancelled due to weather (in French). We couldn't read them, but as chaos erupted in Arabic and French and the world "Annulle" was passed down, we began to gather we weren't flying out. Thanks to a volcano in Iceland.
To Be Continued.....
For our spring break we decided to go to Fes, Morocco, mostly because it sounded exotic and accessible. We could check the continent of Africa off our list, and Ryan Air flies there from Frankfurt-Hahn for super cheap. We went sort of "fly by the seat of our pants," if you will, with few expectations and even less information. I ordered a Lonely Planet Morocco guide from Amazon.UK, but Deutsche Post screwed it all up and didn't get it to me in time, so we left with no maps or guides to plan our time. This gave my DH anxiety, as he never does anything without extensive planning and packing for every imaginable scenario. I had booked us at a typical bed and breakfast called a "riad" in Fes Medina, and set up a loose itinerary for our 5 days with the owner, who happens to be British. So we landed at the airport in the outskirts of Fes, hoping a taxi had been sent to pick us up as planned; I was thrilled to see the taxi driver, Ali, standing there holding a sign with "Borkert" in all caps. Everything seemed so foreign from the instant we landed. We had been deposited in another universe, as far as I was concerned; as we drove to the heart of the city, we passed olive groves and more people walking on foot than I had ever seen. Clad in kaftans and head coverings, they trudged the sides of the road, the lucky ones leading a donkey laden with belongings. Poverty assaulted my eyes; I kept thinking Isn't Morocco the sophisticated tourist-friendly part of Africa? I found out quickly, it was friendly, but not refined in any sense of the Western word.
Our riad was an oasis of calm, open-roofed with an inner courtyard replete with fountain and blue and white tiling. The rooftop terrace was the perfect place to sit and listen to the sounds of boisterous medina life while drinking delicious hot mint tea. I had some lovely moments sitting up there in the sun looking out over hundreds of rooftops and listening to the muezzins droning the call to prayer from their minarets. Our first full day in Fes, we set off into the medina, which is an incredible labyrinth of pedestrian-only alleys, housing over 260,000 people in a relatively small area. A trip to Fes is not for Sanitizer Moms (you know, those women who walk into Chili's in the U.S. and proceed to wipe down the high chair with antibacterial wipes before they let precious baby sit) or anyone opposed to getting shit on their shoes. The medina is the largest carless city in the world, so beasts of burden are used to haul in merchant supplies, which means donkeys crapping all over the place. Despite the crap, litter, and random street cats everywhere, Fes holds a medieval charm so primitive one cannot help being entranced. The buildings all look the same from the outside, but step inside, and you are treated to exquisite mosaics and wood work you will never see in the western world. The gardens are like a secret you happen upon, riotous with hibiscus, bouganvillia, and antique roses, and bowered by lemon-scented orange trees. We discovered the medina with the help of a guide, who shepherded us around with a mercenary cunning. Aziz spoke excellent English and seemed to know every place and everyone, he took us to all his favorite shopping spots so he could get a cut of the profits when we bought something. This is common practice in Morocco, everyone has a hand in the pot, everyone gets a piece of the tourist's pie. I confess it felt a little odd at first, as we realized he kept excusing himself to go the the "bathroom" but we knew he was in fact going to collect his percentage from the merchant. Fes is famous for its artisans, and they are happy to show you their creative processes before they take you to their showroom. We visited potters, weavers, woodworkers, and leather-tanners, and they always showed us their workers and even encouraged us to participate. I sat at a loom with four Moroccan women as they showed me how to weave a rug, I was terrible and clumsy of course, and they were deft and furiously fast. We visited the tannery pits, a quintessential Fes experience, as the terrible smell wafts throughout the town, leaving its imprint on your mind. We watched men waist deep in the tanning and dyeing pits, which hold odd combinations like lime and pigeon shit, and my DH remarked that these people must have missed the industrial revolution and that their life expectancy couldn't extend past 40 working in those conditions (see photo of pits). At the ceramics factory, one of the men painting tiles and vases stopped to paint a fake-henna tattoo on little Helen's hand. Everywhere we went, people were so friendly, not only because we represented the American tourist dollar, but also because we had brought small children to visit. Moroccans LOVE children, especially blonde blue-eyed ones, and everywhere we went, men of all ages stopped Helen to give her a kiss. My favorite was a little barefoot boy on the street who wasn't even a head taller than Helen; he grabbed her by both shoulders and planted a big kiss on her cheek, then ran back to his older brother who scolded him for his boldness. Everywhere we went, people complimented us on having children so young, this is highly esteemed in muslim culture.
After two days of seeing the sights in Fes, we took the next two days to see nearby towns with our "tourist taxi" driver, Ali. The first day we traveled to Sefrou, Ifrane, and Azrou. Ali took us first to Sefrou, to visit a wrinkled old woman named Ayesha, who lives in a cave (see photos); after the obligatory mint tea, she showed me how to wear a head covering like a proper muslim, and tried to teach me how to balance a full bucket of water on my head as she does every day. I could barely stand the weight of the bucket, and there is no way I could carry it for any distance. She nimbly walked around her cave, demonstrating how she transports water with no hands and she showed no sign of discomfort. This woman was easily in her seventies, and could be a pro weight-lifter. Amazing. Ifrane was less remarkable to me; it is a former French resort town that has been built up to look like a Swiss village, completely out of place in Morocco. Everything was so new it was jarring after being in Sefrou, and we left as soon we'd lunched. On to Azrou, or more specifically, the cedar forests outlying the town, where Barbary apes live in the wild. These macaques (tailless primates) are the only monkeys left in northern Africa. I should explain at this point that our entire vacation in Morocco centered around seeing these monkeys; they were the only thing my kids really cared about. We even used this as our favorite form of bribery for months beforehand, threatening "Stop right now or I will leave you at home while we go see the monkeys in Morocco!!!" It worked every time. So there was a lot riding on this outing. We stopped at a cliffside overlook to view the middle Atlas mountains, and saw a pet Barbary ape tied to a trinket stand. The owner encouraged our kids to feed his monkey, hoping to sell us something in the process. The ensuing monkey attack was captured on video and I've posted it here on the blog for your viewing pleasure. After it happened, I began to wonder a bit about rabies and random monkey diseases (didn't HIV come from monkeys????), but tried to put it out of my head and hope for the best, after all, our kids were thrilled and Breck wasn't put off by having his hair pulled by a macaque. So on we went to the opening of the forest where guides with horses waited to sell us their monkey-scouting services. My DH refused this service, being the self-reliant person that he is, and we wandered the woods like idiot tourists for a little while, spotting zero monkeys. A guide slyly followed us until we gave up and mounted his horse and were led straight to a pair of macaques sitting high up in a cedar tree. A male was soon lured down by our bananas and pistachio nuts, and we had a blast feeding him, I feeling quite triumphant when he came up and took banana out of my hand.
Things look so different in hindsight. I felt rather proud of our adventurous spirit that day. I mean, how many American parents take their kids to see wild monkeys and let them get close enough to be attacked? Only very stupid ones. I would mark the monkey attack as the point where the trip took a downward turn. That night, instead of enjoying beer and apple-flavored sheeshah (hookah) with my husband on the rooftop terrace, I had to make an unexpected visit to the toilet to vomit. Whether I got food poisoning in Ifrane, or some monkey affliction in Azrou, I don't know, but I spent all night sick as a dog.
The next morning it was off to the Roman ruins at Volubilis and Moulay Idriss, in spite of me feeling like a weak and nauseated waif.
I can't say much about Volubilis; it was really lovely and picturesque, the countryside resembling mediterranean Europe, and the ruins looking like any other Roman ruins, except the Moroccans let your crawl all over them, unlike the Italians at the Forum. The ancient columns have huge nests atop them, inhabited by large storks, kind of a bizarre sight. After Volubilis, I refused to visit Moulay Idriss because I was so car sick and wanted to go back to the riad. This town is the site of the founding of Islam in Morocco, and is closed to non-muslims after dark, there are no hotels there.
The last day in Morocco (or what was supposed to be the last day) Breck started vomitting fiercely and frequently. Our hosts were kind and tried to help him recover, but there was nothing that could stop the illness. I went on one last foray into Fes medina with Aziz to find the perfect fabric for my best friend. After all manner of shady exchanges, Aziz took me to a part of town he said was "rough, you know, like Queens in New York." There were no tourists here, and I didn't have enough money for my fabric, so Aziz threw his forms of identification at the owner, grabbed the fabric and me and dragged me quickly out of the shop. He assured the owner he would come back with the money as we ran down the alley. He circumvented two women trying to enter a taxi and put me and himself in instead to go to the ATM. Apparently my tourist dollar was more valuable than their dhiram. I felt really badly about this episode, because the repression of women is such an absolute part of life there. You will only see men sitting in the outdoor cafes, sipping their tea and smoking, women are not allowed this luxury. Women are only seen going to market and then returning home, they are not meant for public life. They cook, clean, raise children, and in their spare time may weave to make some income. Divorced single women have it worst, for they must support their children, and so they work hard weaving rugs for the Fes cooperative which (hopefully) gives them a better price for their product.
That afternoon we bid our hosts goodbye and drove to the airport with Ali, who I'm sure was exhausted of our children, though he tolerated them smilingly and graciously. Breck vomitted on the floor in the customs line, and they gave us a wheelchair and put us at the front of the queue for boarding. We were waiting to board when suddenly, with no explanation, the Ryan Air employees walked away from their desk. A murmur of confusion went up in the crowd. The employees returned with photocopies of their policy regarding flights cancelled due to weather (in French). We couldn't read them, but as chaos erupted in Arabic and French and the world "Annulle" was passed down, we began to gather we weren't flying out. Thanks to a volcano in Iceland.
To Be Continued.....
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