Taza, pt.2

It’s one of those funny quirks of life is that the day before a trip tends to be absolutely awful.  Unlikely obstacles gang up to throw themselves into your path with a conspiratorial glee, like packs of cowardly dogs.  Such was the case the day before my trip to Taza.  Read previous entry for details.

Sometimes, though, the pre-travel day is so miserable that the actual day of the trip feels bad for you and turns out extra cool just to compensate.  It’s nice when fate takes a little pity on you while it’s kicking you in the gut.

As I’d said in my last post, some friends and I had planned on a day trip to the nearby town of Taza, which apparently had mountains and canyons and spectacular vistas and whatnot. 

I was a little leery of taking our little rental car, battered and ancient as it was, up the twisting Moroccan mountain passes.  Actually, I was goddamn terrified.  Mountain roads in developing countries are death traps – tiny little dirt ledges cut into the sheer mountainsides, barely wide enough for two cars to pass abreast.  Add in the fact that stepping behind the wheel will turn the most sober and responsible Moroccan into a murderous psychopath and you’ve got a recipe for an exciting little drive.

All this was on my mind as I went my first faltering miles into the maze of the Rif Mountains near Taza, but soon I was just having too good a time to worry much.  Anyone who likes driving can’t resist a good twisty mountain road – the spectacular views, the tight turns, the all-too-reasonable fear of death.

We passed a canyon at one point with a little waterfall cutting down the center and couldn’t resist the urge to get out and explore a little.  It was a little eerie just how similar it was to the Jemez and southern Rockies where I grew up, so I was feeling nostalgic as I hopped and skipped like an eight-year-old down the dirt path on the side of the canyon. 

I was a ways ahead of my friends when I got to the bottom, where the waterfall emptied out into a pond that was the perfect shade of pure blue.  (Julian – it was pure water).  It was a magical place, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so: a group of young Moroccan guys were hanging out nearby, cooking fish and brewing tea.  When they saw me they hopped up and came forward, waving.

To be honest, I was a little leery at first, and I made sure to keep the pond between us, which must have seemed pretty rude.  But it was hard to shake the constant litany of warnings I’d gotten since arriving in Morocco about how dangerous it is and how careful you have to be whenever you’re go anywhere that’s slightly off the beaten tourist track.  Apparently around every corner robbers wait in malevolent silence, ready to murder you, steal your valuables and desecrate your corpse. 

It’s bullshit.  The only time I’ve had any concerns for my safety here was when I trespassed on someone’s property.  They were understandably pissed, and came after me to make sure I hadn’t stolen anything or done any damage.  Every other time I’ve met someone in a situation that might be dangerous, they’ve turned out to be incredibly friendly.  I’m not saying that there aren’t desperate and violent people out there, I’m just saying that the vast, vast majority are wonderful, welcoming people are delighted to see a Westerner get away from the normal tourist spots to see a little of the real Morocco. 

These guys were no different.  Once I’d gotten over my timidity and came to join them they shared their tea and fish and we relaxed in the sun for a while.  My friends all spoke Arabic much better than I did, so once they joined us we were able to have a decent conversation and enjoy the day together.  It felt like being back in Peace Corps, which was great.

After we said goodbye we loaded back up into the car and made our winding way to the Friouato Caves.  I’ve been to tourist cave systems in America, like Carlsbad Caverns – lit with electric bulbs, accessible via carefully groomed pathways, with helpful plaques every hundred feet to tell you what the big lump of rock you’re looking at is supposed to be. 

This was not like that.  The initial descent was down a tiny concrete stairway cut precariously into the side of a giant chasm that plunged over 700 feet straight down.  My friend counted 658 stairs before she lost track.  Once at the bottom we donned our hardhats and headlamps and squeezed through a crack in the wall, into a tight, long tunnel that cut deeper into the earth without the helpful assistance of stairs, lights or sanity.

At that point we were spelunking, and we found out, as millions of spelunkers have before us, why it’s called that.  Caves are wet.  Each stalactite might only loose a drop every couple hours, but add that up over millions of years without a decent maid service and the whole place gets pretty damp.  Every surface was slick with a kind of muddy, calciumated, gritty ichor that clung to your clothes and skin.  It certainly which made climbing interesting.  Each of us slipped and fell at least once, and by the end we were coated with mud and slime. 

At one point the only way forward was to cross deep pools of stagnant cave water, which we managed with the aid of some bridges the cave owners had helpfully set in place.  When I say bridges, of course, I mean planks of rotting wood less than a foot wide, slippery as a dog’s nose.  I can’t remember the last time I’ve had so much fun walking ten feet.

That’s another thing I love about being in developing countries.  A tourist attraction like this could never exist in America; the lawsuits would be through the roof.  Liability insurance would be more than all your operational costs combined.  You’d have to put in those electric lights and concrete paths and stupid little plaques, and no one would get to walk the planks.  You’d have to tame the place.

After climbing back out of the caves and changing out of our filthy clothes, we piled back into the car and got on the road.  I was enjoying the drive, and on a whim I took a random turn that led down into a small valley.  For some reason people I travel with don’t like it when I do stuff like that.  We were all in a pretty good mood, though, so there weren’t too many arguments when I said I just wanted to see the bottom of the valley then come back up and rejoin the main road. 

Maybe it’s my vanity talking, but I always get the vague feeling that fate likes it when I do shit like this.  It tends to reward me with random coincidences and strange adventures.  This time, we saved some German hikers. 

We saw the three of them about three-quarters of the way down, struggling up the road and about ready to drop.  Their massive backpacks swaying back and forth made them look like exhausted blonde hermit crabs.  It was two men, a woman and their dog, and they had gotten lost hours earlier and wound up at the bottom of the valley, a couple dozen miles from their truck, which was at the top of a nearby mountain.  We squeezed one of the men in and ferried him to his car.  I assume he went back to pick up his friends, although for all I know he could have just high-tailed it out of there.  Still, karma points are rare these days, and you pick them up when you can.

At that point it was getting on to dinnertime, and none of us had eaten since breakfast.  The German who’d come with us told us about a restaurant he’d heard was in a nearby village, so we set off to find it.  It wasn’t in the village he’d mentioned, or the one after it, or the one after that.  People we stopped on the road kept assuring us it was just a little ways ahead, always just one village away.  Every so often we saw a small cardboard sign pointing the way, taunting us. 

After over an hour and a half of questing through the mountains we finally stumbled on one of the most beautiful hotels I’d ever seen.  This place was like a fairy tale castle, with gardens, towers, and a sprawling villa.  Thrilled, starved, and in a state of shock we stopped the car outside the gate and rang the bell.  No answer.  We knocked, we banged loudly, we shouted – nothing.  A few passing locals assured us that there were people inside, though, and since it was either find them or drive starving back to Fez, I climbed the wall. 

I felt like kind of a jerk, sneaking onto this spectacular estate that someone had clearly put so much time and money into.  Chalk it up to hunger, desperation, and a completely unjustified feeling of justification – we’d come so far! 

Waiting for me on the other side was a massive German shepherd, a monster straight out of mythology whose ancestors must have mated with a bear at some point in his evolution.  The damn thing looked like a direwolf.  He stared at me with eyes that cut straight through the rational front of my mind and into the reptilian hindbrain, where fear lurks, the part that still remembers being a shivering primate, hiding from predators in the Mezosoic nights.  Then, without breaking eye contact, the hellbeast wagged his tail, lay down, and rolled over for a belly rub. 

He followed me cheerfully as I explored the sprawling grounds of the hotel, complete with swimming pools, a performance area, and a vegetable garden large enough to feed a village.  I thought the place was deserted until I accidentally scared the hell out of some cooks when I wandered into the dining room.  They said the owner was away for the evening and the kitchen was closed. 

My Arabic wasn’t really up to the task of begging for my dinner, so I called in my friend Caitlyn, who’s been studying in Fez for the last eight months and is as close to fluent as makes no difference.  She also speaks French, and is generally a useful person to have around, a kind of linguistic Swiss army knife.  Somehow she managed to convince them to open the kitchen and cook us dinner, because she has powers I do not understand.

I was hoping for just a sandwich or some soup or something.  Instead they rolled out a four-course dinner, with salads, fresh breads, a fruit and cheese plate, and a main course of grilled lamb and mushroom.  It was incredible, easily the best meal I’ve had in Morocco.  They topped it all off with a desert of diced fruit and cream in bowls of rosewater topped with cream.  I didn’t even know that rosewater was a thing you ate.  The whole thing was like a dream - I kept expecting us to get turned into swine or something. 

Stuffed and happy, we loaded back into the car and made our way back to Fez.  Every so often you get a good day, and when you do you gotta squeeze all the day out of it you can.