my two Youssefs

It is difficult to completely convey what it is like to travel here. I say “convey,” not “describe.” I don’t believe I exaggerate by claiming to be able to give a good description of life out here, though I readily admit the chip on my shoulder. That said, as for conveying, it’s just hard to wrap your head around days like these until you experience them. I therefore accept that this blog will never convey everything, and you’ll have to spend at least a couple of weeks out here to feel it out for yourselves. It will be scary and stressful, but this is just all too amazing not to see for yourself. I took up Youssef_b on his offer, probably more as an excuse to chronicle the escapades than any other reason. And so the adventure goes on:

My family’s time in Fes being limited, I first took them to the famous tanneries in the morning. Shower time was amazingly time-consuming as always and, despite the best of intentions, we weren’t ready to leave until 9. It remains a mystery why I decided to wait for the maid for another hour. Finally fed up with waiting, I texted EB to let her know that the maid had not arrived on time. Perhaps this was a sure sign she was indeed our thief… So we made like fetuses and headed out for our rainy adventures. Lesson learned (duh): one umbrella, regardless of size, is never large enough for three to share. A pocket umbrella, however, is hardly enough for one.

The tannery continues as it has since the tourists arrived sometime during the latter half of the 20^th century: the experience begins with a relentless onslaught of locals smelling credit cards (a feat considering the stench in the air): “welcome, come in, you don’t need to buy anything.” They’ve pulled you into their shop before you can react, with a sprig of mint to shield the nostrils and promises of great views; a harmless man offers an explanation of the goings-on down below (and of course becomes your shadow for the duration of the visit). You look, sample their overpriced (tourists shop here, not locals) wares before pushing aside your shadow who is now asking you for a tip.

I headed us toward where I imagined the closest taxis would be, as we had to meet up with Youssef_a, the driver from the crazy midnight Casablanca journey. I instead walked us the long way to the pickup spot through a miscalculation of our position. Still, we were right on time, though Youssef_b was getting ansi and had called twice already. In all honesty, so was I: it was 11, we hadn’t yet hit the road, and we were still hoping to visit several towns an hour out of Fes.

Suffice to say that, as far as tourism was concerned, the day was a bust. The souk (market) at Azrou, our first and farthest stop, was rendered one giant mud pit—I was glad my sister imported my boots. It was great to see and experience nonetheless—amazing produce  and hundreds of shoppers out braving the sleety rainy mess. Next stop: the cedar park where there was snow on the ground and the apes, smarter than I am, were safely tucked away in their homes, up in the trees?  Youssef_a, Youssef_b, and I watered the trees before moving on, obligatorily backtracking through Ifrane for a much needed pot of tea before taking the turn toward Sefrou, Youssef_b’s birthplace. Youssef_a was tired of getting out of the car by this point; we should have taken the hint.

The rest of the afternoon seems like a whirlwind. We stopped in a town by Sefrou for a good ninety minutes, being offered food and awkwardly drinking tea at an old friend’s dilapidated house. We browsed his third-hand shop next door, and then my prayers were answered when Youssef_b agreed that we were too short on time for a meal. So we booked it to the waterfall for a quick peek. We next ran to the cemetery along with his old friend, where we snapped a group photo and escorted Youssef_b as he lit candles in remembrance of his mother (dead at the age of 38) and other, more distant relatives. Then it was off to the medina, where we spent twenty minutes waiting for Youssef_b to drop off some gifts to a friend before being taken to another friend’s scary-weird (there were stuffed animals—taxidermy-style—staring at us from every-which direction) spice shop and offered awful souvenirs. All the while I’m whining to Youssef_b about our fast-approaching dinner at Mo’s, telling him that we must leave immediately for Fes. He doesn’t get it, keeps insisting that Moroccan’s always run an hour late (I’m not Moroccan). We stop to see another now-defunct synagogue/charity center.

Bless his heart, really. Here we are getting more annoyed by the minute (my mom could hardly stand him anymore, with his endless errands and friends detracting from our tourism), and he continues to try and be a good tour guide. I reminded my mom (and myself) that these outings are more about the crazy adventures of sweet old men than the sights in Lonely Planet. Youssef_b kept insisting we accompany him back to his apartment for tea/snacks, but I held fast to mission: get out of the taxi. All’s well that ends well: we made it to Fes perfectly on Moroccan time and had an amazing dinner at Mo’s, a fun reunion of my mom and sister with EB’s.