A tool and his money...

The train into Fes was late, and when it finally arrived, it was dark and drizzling rain. From the station, Fes didn't look promising - just another dirty city. I had just walked across the street from the station, ignoring about a dozen touts (the guys who come up to you offering to "help" you find a place to stay, eat, or buy drugs - in no particular order)  but was approached by a guy who spoke English, sort-of, and I decided to take advantage of that as I really knew nothing at all about Fes. Plus, he wasn't quite as scary as some - he had most of his teeth (people's teeth in Morocco tend to be pretty yellow, brown, and/ or missing.) which he showed off quite a bit. He sort-of reminded me of an arabic Alfred E Newman - very smiley. He took me to a cheap hotel, and then after, to an overpriced restaurant where I had a good tagine of lamb with prunes and almonds. There, he explained I was lucky because his brother happened to be in Fes for the Hand-Craft festival. The brother showed up, and except for a Sylvester the cat lisp, spoke better english than his brother. He explained that he lives in New York now, selling Moroccan goods and making a decent living. The next day he picked me up at the hotel in a cab, and we went to the medina, which is the 1300 year-old old walled in city. The ones I saw in Tunisia were usually made up of grimy, very windy, very narrow, cobblestone footpaths winding their way through a variety of contiguous trinket shops. This one was no exception, and I would have been completely lost but for my new friend. He bought me a breakfast of traditional Moroccan lentil soup and guided me through a maze of activity, stray dogs and cats, odd smells, and the occasional loaded down donkey, to a carpet shop where we had super-sweet mint tea (the first of about 1000 cups of the stuff I'd have over the next week) and he started shopping for rugs. He explained Americans tended to like the brightly colored ones, and after about 20 minutes, had picked out the ones he needed.

Once he went to pay, the manager approached me and explained the carpet buisness: It's a government run co-op employing unmarried women and widows who hand make each rug using only the best wool, using all natural dyes. They can take over a year to make, and unlike other places, they get paid a fair wage. A person can buy only six at a time and, unlike everywhere else, the prices are fixed, so you don't have to haggle (it's a government thing). I explained I wasn't in the market for a rug, that I didn't even have a house to ship it to. But he told me that I could have it shipped to any address I wanted, and that, being the end of the year, I could get a discount. He also showed me a book of his other customers: Europeans, Australians, Americans, many of whom come back each year and buy a few rugs to re-sell and help pay for their trip, often for three to five times what they pay. I tried to waffle a few times, but he convinced me and I eventually decided to go ahead and pick one up for myself, knowing that he was probably exagerating... but even if I could sell an expensive one for double, I could make a nice profit. My friend came back and seemed a little put out that I was horning in on his business, but eventually helped me pick out a good one. It was pricey - $3000 - but I figured it was a pretty good investment. My credit card company declined the payment, but somehow, though it took me about 20 minutes to get ahold of a live person to get the card re-activated after it was cancelled in London, the dealer had them on the line immediately so I could authorize it, which I did. I got the dealers buisiness card, promised I'd send him a T-shirt from Wyoming, and left.

My only excuse is that I think the mint tea must have been drugged. Unbelievably, I bought a carpet that cost more than my last car. In fact, it cost more than anything I have ever bought, ever. And it was, most likely, all a scam. From the second I stepped off the train platform, I suspect. I've checked online, and a lot of people have been courted with the same basic story, some have even been fed dinner and given a nice place to spend the night with a well-off family (all Moroccan re-sellers in the greater NY area) before being taken to buy a rug.

There's a sucker born every minute. This one was born in January, 1975.

Immediately after, I was given a tour of the medina, including the tannery, in use since 1100 AD and the university, founded in 859 AD. Later, I met up again with the "carpet re-seller from NY" and had mint tea in a very posh hotel where Bono of U2 once stayed and drank mint tea. He told me about a young Spanish/ Moroccan guy who now lives in Germany and was on his way to the Sahara, and that I should join him, as I would thank him forever if I got to see the incredible beauty of the area! Mr. "I live on 73rd street." (I was thinking that was Harlem, which I could see him in. I was reminded later 73rd is actually Central Park, which if had I remembered, would have been the tip-off as he might have actually had the cash to get those teeth fixed.)  He then told me that he could arrange a 3 day trip for us for 500€ each. ($1500 total) Zach from Hamburg then came in, a very clean-cut young man who was half Spanish/ half Morrocan and spoke five languages pretty fluently. He was on his way to the desert to finalize plans for a big New Years party at a little tourist hotel a friend of his owns. He was also surprised to hear about the $750 price tag, so we decided we could do the trip on our own for a lot less. I was so glad to meet a fellow backpacker who knew the area and could speak the language. We packed up and headed out that afternoon. It's remarkably cheap to get from one place to the other in Morocco, and we wound up paying a private driver only 150€ the next day to drive us over the mountains and to the desert. It was a long trip - we left at 7:30 and got there at about 3:00, but saw some pretty cool scenery and collectively drank a couple quarts of mint tea along the way. Morocco reminds me a lot of the American west - huge expanses of desert with snow-capped peaks in the distance. Of course, we don't have snow monkeys. (They kinda look like snow monkeys, anyway, but I don't know what they really were.)

We met up with Zachs friend, Hafid, drank mint tea, and drove out to the hotel, past the vast red dunes of the Sahara. It was a quaint little casbah-looking place, with a nice garden out back that grew all the hotels vegetables. I was given a run-down room (Most all I saw in Morocco seem to be, for what I was paying - about $13/ night.) and stayed up that evening eating a communal plate of couscous, drinking mint tea, and watching 60-year old Fi-Fi the belly dancer from Belgium dance to Berber music and African Drums. The next morning I had a breakfast of Malawi (crepes) jam and olives with mint tea.

Zack had stuff he needed to do in town, so suggested I take the day to run around in the desert with a camel and Berber guide. Despite nearly getting bucked off the first camel before I was given a more tame one (reminded me of those electric-bull rides), we set off. It was fun - I asked about a million questions - "What's this track in the sand?"; "How do you say "camel" in Berber?; "That's Algeria? Right there on that ridge? Really?" Too bad he didn't speak much English. Around noon, we stopped at a Berber's adobe homestead. (It's how I've started thinking of a lot of these places - what seems like shacks in 3rd world countries are actaully not unlike how my great grandparents lived in the early part of the 20th century.) Maybe that why the old guy living there reminded me of my great-uncle John - uninteligible, but really nice. He never put down the binocs he was watching the camels with, but smiled and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up when I said I was American.

We had another plate of the same couscous for lunch, dranks some mint tea, had a nap, watched a Berber guy fix his little run-down 70's vintage sky-blue motorcycle, and eventually took off again across the sands. I sang "American" songs to  Hasan (I think that was his name.) liek Ghost Riders in the Sky and he sang Berber ones in return. That night we camped in another Berber families out-tent, had the same couscous, again, mint tea, again, and I gave a small blue flashlight that matched his blue tunic. It was Christmas, after all, though I think the gesture may have been lost on him.

The next day, back a the Casbah, I waited for Zack to show up so we could continue on our way. He showed up about noon, hungover, in car with Hafid. Apparently I had missed quite the party and a lot of wine. (A bit rare in Muslim Morocco.) He explained that he wasn't ready to leave yet, and hadn't found us a ride, so it would be a good day to tour the local sites in town. Hafids brothers took me around and it was a pretty good day overall, though I was starting to worry a little about time, knowing I had a flight to catch in a few days. That night all the rooms were full, so after another night of couscous, mint tea, African drums, and Fi-Fi, I slept in the Berber tent out back. I was plenty comfortable, though it was surprisingly chilly at night.

The next morning we all piled into the car, and Zach explained he was going to stay a couple more days. I kind of hated loosing my guide and new friend, but felt I knew enough now to get around. We all wound up at Hafid's fathers trinket shop, where I was shown more rugs and drank more mint tea. The brothers and a few other friends were hanging around for no particular reason that I could divine. We were talking about where I was going next, when Hafid started writing something down in Arabic. I asked if it was directions for where I needed to go. "No.....it is, uh... yes, for you, a special price - 3500 Diram. I didn't charge you for the first ride in the jeep"

That's over $400, folks. A lot of money in the US, a heck of a lot in Morocco. And for what I got in return, a complete rip-off.
Seems I had been set-up, again.
I was pretty mad, so took Zach outside and chewed him out for not telling me, but he had no sympathy. Probably since some of my money probably paid for all his wine and weed. (On a side-note,  I was told it's legal there, and its seems that it grows really, really well.) I also explained that there was no way my bank would let me withdraw that much. In a huff, I gave Hafid 3000, then listened to a big argument between him and Zach. I still got the traditional double-cheek psuedo-kiss as I said goodbye, so I'm pretty sure I was a lot more upset about the deal than he was. Zack walked me to the collective-taxi drop off, where I used the almost the rest of my money to get a taxi to the next town, where I started hitchhiking to get where I needed to. A number of people picked me up, including a German woman and her Moroccan boyfriend who also felt that I shouldn't have been charged more that 750.

So, I'm left wondering what really happened. Did Mr. Lispy know Zach? Do they all know Hafid? Do they pass the chump on a regular basis, or was it just his lucky day that I showed up and went along with it? I still can't figure it, but I learned a valuable lesson from it all.

DON'T TRUST ANYONE!!

Just kidding - I still trust most people, I just make sure I ask the price first, knowing they are probably charging me the "tourist price" - about 5x what it's actually worth. And I'll never, EVER, hand over my credit card for home furnishings again.

Off with a Pop...

As most of you already know, I did not leave the States without incident. Here is what happened...

The last few weeks before leaving were pretty hectic; my idea to get rid of most everything I owned took far more time than I expected, and I was still frantically running around doing just that up until the moment I left. I ended up packing moments before my good friends Colin and Heidi picked me up and drove me down to Denver. There, I met up with my other good friends Tim and Becky. I stayed with them that weekend, and they dropped me off at the airport the following Monday.

Then it got interesting.

I had just handed over my bag at the checked baggage counter, and started to walk away when I heard a commotion behind the counter. Everyone was getting very excited and talking about noises and burning smells. I stared at my large green and black backpack, the Albetross, lying there, wishing desperately that it wasn't mine. I then started answering a lot of pointed questions from the manager, then security, then the police, and eventually, the FBI.

One of those blasted party poppers that you throw on the ground, which I remember wrapping in something soft so they wouldn't go off, had somehow ended up in my bag. And, despite being jostled and moved around all weekend, one managed to go off right then. Typical.

After the fire department cleared the terminal, and once the bomb squad found the things, everyone became a lot more relaxed. Joel, the FBI agent, was actually pretty darned funny. (It may actually be a technique to get potential lunatics to confess their sins.) Still, I missed the flight and wound up spending the night in the airport. Too bad, too, as I could have watched it on the nightly news. I got to read about it online, though: http://www.thedenverchannel.com/news/26122639/detail.html 

 The next day, after apologizing profusely to British Airways, they let me on the next flight.


London was good- I met a cousin there I wasn't even aware of and found to be a wonderful kindred spirit. But, despite the mulled wine and wonderful cozy pubs, it was just too cold and I got my ticket to Morocco.

Then, it got interesting, again.
But that's for next time...