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BY JACEK GREBSKI

The Fez Medina, donkeys in the streets, bazaars, merchants selling wares, an eternal maze of small winding alleys covered in canopy, endless shops lining both sides. As we entered, I recall being stopped by a North American who asked us what we were doing there – didn’t we know it was dangerous? As quickly as he appeared he disappeared again, into the throng of people running about their business. Lost in this city at once so commercially vibrant and so out of touch with modernity.

Our friends took us down a puzzle of streets and alleys to a restaurant where we dined with them. The food was astoundingly delicious and we treated our hosts to the meal, after which they led us through a further labyrinth to their home where they invited us in for dessert. The medina house boasted a large inner courtyard with plants and trees and rooms on each side of the inner courtyard. We were offered comfitures and tea by mother and sister, and sat huddled in discussion over our plans and ideas.

We described our plan to take a bus from Fez to Erfoud in the south, about 80 kilometres from the Algerian border, and spend New Year’s Eve on Erg Chebbi by Merzouga. However the brothers tried to convince us that the nationalised bus company had sold out of tickets, that the only way to go was by cab for an estimated cost of €1500, and that instead we should just stay with them. We decided to take our chances at the bus station, after all – the desert was the mission.

The Fez bus station was hectic – we had no idea where to go, who to ask for directions, what busses were going where. It seemed as if we were the only clueless ones there. Nonetheless with the help of our French-speaking friend we managed to buy a ticket on a private bus headed for Er Rachidia, and from there Erfoud and Merzouga were just a stone’s throw away.

I must say we felt quite proud after purchasing the tickets, despite the warnings of our Fez friends we had managed to get closer to our final destination.

On the bus transient men selling last-minute trinkets, knockoff Rolex watches and faux tiger balm accompanied us, jumping on and off as we made our way through the curvy streets outside the city. Slowly exhaustion began setting in and one by one we started to doze off, the bus climbing the mountains, the temperature outside falling, the temperature inside falling?

One of the bus windows was apparently permanently ajar, and the cold air and wind coming in from the outside had dropped the temperature to below zero. Even in a U.S. Air Force issue Bomber Jacket I felt the cold penetrating through my bones, my gloves and hat were futile, and my toes felt like icicles at the ends of my feet. Luckily we’d bought some of the faux tiger balm from one of the bus merchants and proceeded to rub it on in order to create a false feeling of warmth.

Reflecting now, I can honestly say I’ve never been so cold in my life. The Atlas Mountains were snow-peaked and this we’d not prepared for. But as I sit here relating this story, it’s not the cold that I remember most vividly, it’s the millions upon millions of stars that inhabited the sky that particular night. It was magical, magnificent – the mere recollection makes me want to leave cities behind forever just to be able to gaze at them once more.

With the stars as my friends on this cold journey throughout the night we eventually made it to Er Rachidia, where we were to catch the final bus that would take us to Erfoud.

The climate on this side of the mountains was different, dryer – the desert was close, we could tell. Not only by the lack of humidity in the air, but by the people and faces. Darker and more weathered, men now boasted not only Jalabas in larger numbers but also turbans, Tuareg blue. We were getting close.

I don’t recall why, or what exactly happened, but in our exhaustion three of us found ourselves separated from the rest of the group. Someone said there was a bus going to Erfoud; someone else said there wasn’t. Someone wanted to take us by taxi; someone else said no more busses until after the New Year. We finally caught our friends’ gazes in another bus, and ran to the door. The bus driver and others blocked us out with the excuse that it was full, and we were pushed from it, trying desperately to communicate to our friends.

Left on the dusty parking of the bus station, we watched the bus pull away. What could we do? No phone, no idea where we were going, what was the hotel called? And as the silhouette of our success moved away, from behind stood two figures with bags in hand; they’d jumped off the bus to join us.

Previous misinformation aside, I believe the locals felt bad for us and when a new bus arrived a few minutes later they indicated that it was in fact heading for our destination. Last stop the hotel Auberge Sahara, a splendidly run, Berber stronghold structure, built out of grass and mud at the absolute foot of the Erg Chebbi dune sea.

We’d done it. Rolling dunes, vast blue skies and quiet. Quiet like you’ve never heard before, the only sound – your breath. It was amazing and well worth the adventure that took us there, not only for the beauty, but for the trial and the lifelong bonds that we made trying to get to the edge of the desert.

Read up a bit more on Morocco.
: In Morocco by Edith Wharton
: Lords of the Atlas by Gavin Maxwell
: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

BY JACEK GREBSKI

Spending New Year’s Eve in the desert was the idea. However, the reality did not live up to our expectations. This is an account of what not to do in Morocco during Eid al-Adha!

The easiest way to get to Morocco is by plane, and several discount airlines fly directly to any major city in Morocco from either Spain or France, with flights as cheap as €40 return. So if you’re cash-conscious and flying from across an ocean, you may want to look into flying to France  first and then continuing to Morocco. For our part we decided it would be a splendid idea to take the ferry from Algeciras in Southern Spain across the Strait of Gibraltar to Tangier.

The ferry ride itself is short, but figuring out what to do on the other end of the Strait is an novel experience. Upon landing we were processed though immigration fairly easily, however ports – as ports tend to go – aren’t the friendliest of places, and we were swindled to take a cab ride to the medina where we would spend the night. Despite the fact that the Moroccans travelling with us advised against it, we figured we’d jump into the past and live out our Saharan adventure.

To get to the Tangier medina from the port is quite simple, you walk two hundred metres from the port into the city and then head up a few flights of stairs. However, this little titbit was unknown to us and instead we paid a cabby to take us there for €10, which roughly turns out to be €0.05 per metre. London cabbies eat your hearts out.

Walking up the stairs into the heart of the medina we soon realised why we were advised against it. Somber and somewhat unsafe, this area of the city could be described as its red-light district. We walked the streets at night brushing off solicitations for unwanted services until we reached our hotel, a building that had long forgotten its former glory. Three floors up a winding staircase with loose floor tiles; this first experience of Africa was certainly interesting.  Our room boasted five single beds with old iron frames, squeaky windows with wooden blinds in place of glass and paint that was older than our combined ages peeling off the wall. The manager requested that we pay up-front. We paid  five euros each. That was definitely an expensive cab ride. We made the best of the situation and headed off to dreamland where surely things would be less adventurous. Time, 3:00am give or take. Dawn was not far off, and it came quicker than we had expected. Woken up by Morning Prayer, the large tower from the Mosque in the medina stood proud.  It was surreal and new awakening.

The medina looked more natural now, the small streets and white buildings had a certain charm to them that at night was marred by the seedy underbelly of this port town. We headed to get breakfast and proceeded to the train station. For our next stop Fez, where we would catch an overnight bus into the desert. Or so was the plan.

At the train station we were greeted by a swarm of angry men in Jalabas or conventional Western clothing and women in Muslim garb, yelling at police officers who were refusing them entry. It was the Fête, and they were trying to head home to their families. How could we – foreigners with no knowledge of Arabic or Berber – get into the station?

Luckily for us our party included a Japanese man who spoke fluent French.  After a quick discussion the police officers let us slip into the station to the jeering, can-throwing and general dismay of the less fortunate crowd behind us. We purchased our tickets, waited for the call to Fez, and followed the crowd onto the pier once the train had arrived and opened its doors to the “general public”. Seats filled up within moments, bags were placed in the alleyway, people sat on each other’s laps – a typical rush-hour Tokyo metro experience in Northern Africa.

There’s a certain romanticism about trains, a commonality between the passengers that doesn’t really exist in any other mode of transport. You hardly ever share your food, drink, or stories with travellers on a plane or bus, but on a train nearly always, and here we did the same. Using signals we talked with our Moroccan counterparts, laughed, smiled. During the trip we talked to two brothers who worked in Spain, they were heading back home to Fez for the Eid al-Adha and invited us to their home within the old city, again the Fez Medina. This is where it all came to life.

Read the conclusion.

Want to know about Morocco? why not try these great books?

: In Morocco by Edith Wharton
: Lords of the Atlas by Gavin Maxwell
: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho