Virtual Magazine of Morocco on the Web
Morocco Week in Review 
September 8, 2008

Nekoosa resident joins Peace Corps in Morocco.
September 5, 2008

Trina Marie Woiak of Nekoosa, has been accepted into the Peace Corps. The 22-year-old will be departing for Morocco on Monday to begin pre-service training as a youth development volunteer. Upon her December graduation, Woiak will be teaching English in youth and women’s centers.

Woiak, a graduate of Nekoosa High School, is the daughter of Phil and Kim Woiak. She attended the University of Wisconsin-Oshkosh where she earned a bachelor’s degree in communication and sociology. She was an active member of the Oshkosh Student Association, served as president of Phi Mu Fraternity, and volunteered for student legal services. She also studied abroad in Tanzania, Africa.

During her first three months of service, Woiak will live with a host family in Morocco to become fully immersed in the country’s language and culture. After acquiring the language and skills necessary to assist her community, Woiak will serve for two years in Morocco.
http://www.postcrescent.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080905/WRT0101/80905101/1805/WRT01
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In Morocco, With Worlds to Learn.
 By ANDY WEBSTER  Published: August 23, 2008

The lessons of the documentary "Crossing Borders" — and the film is not subtle about them — are so self-evident, you might think there’s no need to convey them. But that would be a mistake. In 2007, the German filmmaker Arnd Wächter brought four college-age Americans to Morocco to join four Moroccans of similar age for a weeklong tour of their country.

What resulted was a document of conversations interspersed with compelling travelogue images (not, fortunately, restricted to the most scenic quarters). Besides more obvious choices on the itinerary (riding camels, for example), the group visits Tangier, the Rif Mountains and, notably, Sidi Moumen, a Casablanca shantytown, where the eight meet with some youths, play a pickup soccer game and have a small dance party.

The group’s sometimes enlightening, sometimes fractious exchanges touch on subjects like Islamic perceptions of the West and vice versa, the war in Iraq (fleetingly) and (more fleetingly) the role of women in Arab society.But the Americans all hail from East Coast cities; you wonder how, say, a Texan would fare in such company. The American women — one black, the other Jewish — are given woefully scant camera time. And the barrage of testimonials to the group’s rapport proves repetitious (and self-congratulatory) after a while.

But there is another persistent refrain: that these two parts of the world need to communicate and get to know each other better. And that can never be said often enough.

CROSSING BORDERS
Opened on Friday in New York and Los Angeles.
Written, produced and directed by Arnd Wächter; directors of photography, Jorge Sousa and Paul Pryor; edited by Mr. Sousa, Jose Iglesias and Mr. Wächter; music by Rhett Brewer; released by Morocco Exchange. At the Village East, 181-189 Second Avenue, at 12th Street, East Village. Running time: 1 hour 37 minutes. This film is not rated. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/23/movies/23crossing.html?_r=1&ref=movies&oref=slogin
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New improvements mark start of Moroccan school year.
By Sarah Touahri for Magharebia  2008-09-05

The Moroccan government is launching the new school year with promises to improve school facilities and reduce overcrowding. More schools will be built and underprivileged families will receive aid to send their children to schools. On September 11th, the 2008-2009 academic year will begin in Morocco, with a 4% increase in the number of registered students and new efforts by the government to improve the education system and the living standards of school faculty all over the country.

From increasing school meals and the number of students in boarding facilities to building new schools, the government is budgeting millions of dirhams to step up the pace of development projects as part of the emergency plan of 2009-2012, according to Latifa Labida, Secretary of State for Higher Education and Training. "We are talking about giving schools the attention they deserve," Labida said in an interview, "and bridging the confidence gap between schools and their social surroundings."

The government has long expressed its desire to improve the education system. Officials promised to provide better housing for teachers in rural areas and to reduce overcrowding, so that the quality of education can be improved. With over seven million students attending some 9,400 schools all over Morocco this year, controlling school drop-out rates is a priority on the government's agenda. The hope is to introduce an integrated strategy to reduce school drop-outs by 50%, and to counter the problem of teacher absences, particularly in rural areas.

The government will also provide training for more than 8,600 school principals and officials in an attempt to improve the managerial capabilities of education administrators. Particular attention will be paid to rural areas, said National Education Minister Ahmed Akhchichine. According to his records, 80% of schools in rural areas do not have toilet facilities and lack other infrastructure like water and electricity.

Already, 3,000 schools are under rehabilitation, Akhchichine said. The government plans to build about 1,000 new secondary and high schools. But some people are still critical of the government's efforts to improve public education. Ahmed Maâdoumi prefers to send his daughter to a private school although he can barely afford the fees. "I pay a quarter of my salary every month to cover her school fees," Maâdoumi said, "but I cannot send her to the local state school because the classes are crowded," he said.

According to the education minister, however, a new initiative will be launched this year to provide aid to underprivileged families to encourage them to send their children to schools. "In other words", said Akhchichine, "we are going to help families financially so that they can keep their children in school." "My experience as a teacher in a rural area has shown me that school drop-outs are due first and foremost to poverty," said teacher Mohamed Bahloul. "The children have to work to help their parents. So the state has to look after these students so that they do not leave education."

The budget for the new initiative is 50 million dirhams, with a possibility to increase as needed, Akhchichine said. Other international experiences were taken into consideration while preparing the initiative, he said, citing countries like Mexico, Bolivia and Brazil as successful examples. "We shall also be trying out other arrangements to change the thinking of some families, who prefer to send their children to work at a very early age," Akhchichine said.
http://www.magharebia.com/cocoon/awi/xhtml1/en_GB/features/awi/features/2008/09/05/feature-01
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Cereal production falls in Morocco.
2008-08-31

Moroccan cereal production in 2008 reached 8.3 million quintals, down 26% compared to the average of the last five years, Le Matin reported on Saturday (August 30th). To meet the domestic demand for cereals, Morocco counts on import. Among the countries exporting the largest amounts to Morocco are the United States, from which 25.9% of Moroccan imports originate, followed by France (19.9%), Argentina (16.4%) and Canada (10.6%).
http://www.magharebia.com/cocoon/awi/xhtml1/en_GB/features/awi/newsbriefs/general/2008/08/31/newsbrief-08
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Morocco's financial sector weathering global storm, OBG.
London, Sept. 5

Morocco's financial sector is weathering the global storm, said, on Thursday, Oxford Business Group (OBG), noting that the country is on track to continue its plan to float. Morocco's efforts to open capital accounts and move towards a more flexible exchange rate are continuing, despite the disruption to the financial sector worldwide caused by the global credit crunch, said the publishing and consulting group, quoting a report by Moroccan central bank "Bank Al Maghreb".

The OBG underlined that the Moroccan dirham is currently pegged to a basket of currencies, mainly the euro and the dollar, adding that several factors have contributed to the strengthening of Morocco's financial system. Non-performing loans (NPLs) are running at 6.5% of the total, down from a worrying 19% four years ago, the London-based group it added.

Interest rates have dropped; while the flourishing of non-agriculture sectors such as tourism, fertilizers, construction and automotive industries have also helped diversify the Kingdom's economic base, OBG pointed out, stressing that foreign direct investment (FDI) has soared with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) expecting it to equal 3.8% of Gross Domestic product (GDP) this year, up from 1.5% in 2004.

All of this, OBG said, has made it possible for the government to implement reforms aiming at facilitating money movements out of the country. Previously, restrictions acted as a barrier to capital flight, to which the country was vulnerable because of bank instability and the economy's reliance on a fragile agricultural sector prone to the risk of drought, the group noted.

According to the Oxford group, while growth was curtailed to 2.7% last year due in large part to a contraction in agriculture, the government and IMF are expecting it to bounce back to more than 6% this year. This should support the authorities in favor of a more liberal capital movement and currency regime. Given the fact that Morocco's economic fundamentals, and those of its financial system, have strengthened considerably in recent years, the time seems to be ripe to step up liberalization, OBG concluded.
http://www.map.ma/eng/sections/economy/morocco_s_financial/view
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BTC granted Morocco € 7.46 mn in 2007.
Brussels, Sep. 2

The Belgian development cooperation agency (BTC) had allocated € 7.46 million in its 2007 budget to Morocco to finance projects in priority sectors such as water, rural development and vocational training. In its 2007 annual report published Monday, the agency stressed that the special nature of cooperation between Morocco and Belgium was confirmed by the development of the Indicative Cooperation Programme (ICP) 2006-2009, which has a budget of € 40 million.

This new ICP, said the document, reflects the aim of both partners to move beyond a project-based approach towards a program-based sectoral approach. The ICP is designed to strengthen the overall capabilities of the targeted rural population as well as of the public institutions responsible for providing the services concerned.

The ICP is fully in line with the anti-poverty strategies and priorities of the Moroccan Government, including, in particular, those underlying the National Human Development Initiative (INDH), which aims to reduce socio-economic inequalities and poverty through capacity-building, economic efficiency and human development.

The program sets three priorities: the first is to provide access to drinking water and to implement wastewater collection and treatment projects in the targeted rural areas; the second concerns agriculture and, more specifically, rural development in southern Morocco; thirdly, the program aims to provide training placements for early school leavers in the rural areas.

BTC spends more money on development projects every year. With € 213 million, BTC achieved an annual turnover in 2007 that increased no less than 28 % compared to the year before. In five years (2003 – 2007) BTC doubled its activity volume.
http://www.map.ma/eng/sections/social/btc_granted_morocco/view
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Consumers finally protected.
05/09/2008

The Moroccan consumer has always dreamt of being protected. Now it is a reality. With the new competition and the consumer laws, speculation, fraud, monopoly, etc will come to an end. Through these two law projects, which have been hibernating in the shelves of the executive body for a very long time, consumers should no longer fear being the victim of opportunists' greed. In principle at least.

In his August 20 speech, marking the King and People's Revolution, HM King Mohammed VI called on the government “to expedite the adoption of a Consumer Protection Code.” The king also stressed that free pricing and competition laws should be strictly enforced, and that the Competition Council should operate properly in order to achieve good governance in the economic field.

Therefore, consumer protection associations, which usually complain of finding it difficult to defend their ideas and thereby consumers, have to seize this opportunity. “For us, they are no longer law projects,” Mohammed Ouhssine, head of the Federation of Consumer Associations, cheerfully told the Moroccan daily L'Economiste, considering them already effective.

Ouhssine explained that the blockade that hampered the passing of the laws was due to the ignorance of its importance, especially from the part of big company lobbies, fearing a confrontation with consumer associations. “But,” he continued, “we are not looking for scaring them. We just want, through these laws, to have the right to be informed about the components of the products we consume and the reality of prices.”

The consumer protection code lists five fundamental rights in its article 2, including adequately and clearly informing the consumer on the different products and services, their quality characteristics, components and price. The law also provides for informing consumers on the risks or dangers that may affect their health or security. In fact, the sovereign called, in his speech, for making sure that an independent judiciary, together with control and accountability agencies put an end to impunity and sanction speculators and wrongdoers.

“This is particularly true when it comes to people's livelihood, and to the adverse effects that speculation, exploitation, rent-seeking, cronyism, plundering of public assets, embezzlement, corruption, abuse of power and tax fraud can have on people's lives,” he stressed.
http://www.moroccobusinessnews.com/Content/Article.asp?idr=18&id=377
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Walls of Shame: Morocco, Spain - Video.Al Jazeera.
The fence in Ceuta

It matters little what they are called – whether walls, barriers or fences - the intention is the same: to redefine human relations into 'us' and 'them'. This series is about division, and about the barriers that men erect, in calculation or desperation, to separate themselves from others, or others from them. When diplomacy and conciliation fail, this is the alternative, and not since medieval times have walls been so in demand around the world. Tens of new walls, barriers and fences are currently being built, while old ones are being renovated. And there are many types: barriers between countries, walls around cities and fences that zig-zag through neighbourhoods.

This series will look at four examples of new and extended walls around the world. It will examine the lives of those who are living next to them and how their lives are impacted. It will also reveal the intention of the walls' designers and builders, and explore the novel and artistic ways walls are used to chronicle the past and imagine the future.

The Walls of Shame series takes its name from John F. Kennedy's reference to the Berlin Wall in his state of the union address in 1963. It will examine four new walls: The one on the American-Mexican border, the West Bank wall, the Spanish fence around Ceuta, and the walls inside the city of Belfast in Northern Ireland.

Episode Two - Morocco/Spain
The city of Ceuta is the southernmost outpost of fortress Europe. Yet it is on mainland Africa – opposite the Straights of Gibraltar. It is one of the last vestiges of Spanish rule in northern Morocco. Madrid insists it will never relinquish control and has cordoned it off – prompting comparison with other walls of shame.

Now, though, there are growing demands for a more constructive approach to the problem of illegal immigration. One man has already started a grass-roots initiative that proved much more successful than walls and fences. But within the town of Ceuta is another divide – a social division that is religious and economic - between the wealthy Christian Spaniards and their poorer Muslim compatriots of Moroccan descent.

Watch Walls of Shame - Morocco/Spain, here: Watch Al Jazeera English programmes on YouTube
http://www.thepeoplesvoice.org/cgi-bin/blogs/voices.php/2008/08/30/p28221
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The fascinating rhythms of Fez
Islam and modern life merge in the intricate maze of Morocco's old city, but 'Balak!' -- beware the donkeys Sunday, August 10, 2008 By Millie Ball Travel editor

FEZ, MOROCCO -- Saida means "happy" in Arabic. When Saida Ezzahoui was a girl, she said her mother told her she was ugly, but it must have been one of those things mothers say in an attempt to prevent their daughters from being vain. Because Saida is lovely, with dark curls around her shoulders and hazel eyes that are flecked with blue and green. Now 39, she has two children of her own. She works as a guide taking visitors through Fez and into the Moroccan desert. A guide is your window into another culture, and when you have a guide like Saida, you are blessed, to use a word regularly invoked by believers of many faiths.

We began, of course, with polite hellos after breakfast at our guesthouse. In this country where older women mostly wear a loose gown called a djellabah and a modesty scarf called a hijab, Saida was stylish in a black turtleneck with a gold pendant, tiny gold earrings and a tweedy jacket. She said to pronounce her name "Sah-ee-da."

She began this late February morning, as all guides do, with the basics. Fez was founded in 808, and the walls that surround Fez el Bali, the oldest part, date to the 12th century. Fez reached its apogee in the 14th century, when it was the Moroccan capital and center of architecture, food and culture.

In 1777, Morocco was the first country to recognize the formation of the United States of America.

Our first laugh was not far inside the medina, the Arabic word for the old part of a city, when we saw a street sign with a drawing of a donkey inside a red circle. Only donkeys and mules are allowed in the medina, Saida explained. No scooters.

"Watch out if you hear someone shout 'Balak!' " she said. "It usually means a donkey is bearing down on you."

Sure enough, every few minutes I scooted aside to let one of these animals pass, each one loaded with items to be sold. Of the million people who live in greater Fez, about 350,000 live in the crowded medina, mostly above shops, like in the French Quarter. But Fez's old city is immense, with 187 neighborhoods -- each with its own mosque, bakery, hamman (a public bath), Koran school and fountain. The medina's 9,000 maze-like streets incline gradually so that by the end of the day, you have climbed a good bit, and must go outside one of its 14 gates to find a taxi back to where you began.

Seeing photos of old Fez is one thing. Being here is something else. Being here means smelling spices and cooking meat and baking bread and so many other scents a dog with its fine-tuned nose would go crazy. It means walking past a wall case of false teeth advertising a dentist's services and surveying offerings in a warehouse of rental wedding thrones that are grander than those at Carnival balls. Being here means hearing the noises of the medina, the warnings about donkeys, hawkers' attempts to lure buyers, calls to prayer that begin with what sounds like low moans and escalate to a piercing, rhythmic cry.

Several vendors were selling something that looked like custard with dark strips through it. Saida nodded and said it was dried meat that was salted and cooked with fat, garlic and coriander. In winter, rich people eat it for breakfast with mint tea. Some add eggs. Poor people eat soup from dried fava beans, olive oil and cumin.

Near a mosque, five or six vendors were selling nougat candy from carts. "Please, taste," they urged, waving away bees swarming around the candy. An hour later, the bees were gone.

The Medersa Bou Inania, once a school for the study of Islam's holy book, the Qur'an (Koran), is still a mosque, and one of the few that non-Muslims are allowed to enter. Most come here to see the carved cedar from the Atlas Mountains, the decorative tile that reflects the light and the delicate stained glass in marble walls carved in lacy patterns.

Women pray separately and behind the men in mosques. "If they bend over and pray in front of the men, it would be too distracting," said Saida. She smiled, but the guide in Marrakech had said the same thing.

Saida's story

While not as strict as most other Arabic countries -- it's rare for a woman here to wear a veil over her face -- Morocco's national religion is Islam. Saida is a Muslim. She does not eat pork or drink alcohol. As a tour guide, she often cannot stop during the five daily calls to prayer, but she said she prays regularly.

"I believe I am a good person, but as a Muslim, I should put a scarf on my head," Saida said when we talked about our lives. She said she has promised God she will cover her hair when she and her husband make their haj, the pilgrimage to Mecca that every faithful Muslim strives to do.

"God will forgive all sins when you go to Mecca," she said. But you cannot go until you are debt free. Your house must be paid off, everything.

After the haj, she will always wear a modesty scarf, but Saida said she can continue to be both religious and modern, which is how she has lived her life so far. Arranged marriages are still the norm in Morocco, but she met her husband, a teacher, at their university. Still, adults were brought in to make formal family introductions before their marriage.

"Some traditional women go and sit in a shrine rather than in a coffeehouse, because some people think if they go there, that puts them in a bad light." Younger women are becoming more independent, she said, adding, "I prefer not to have to be hidden in what I do."

Shopping

As a tour guide, she knows many people in the medina and was warmly greeted by several, mainly men who run businesses.

One store stood out with fine antiques displayed in its window, so I asked to go inside Au Petit Bazaar de Bon Accueil. It's been in the family of owner Mohammad Benabdejlil for four generations. Saida knew it well.

We were invited into the upstairs of the shop that's filled with rugs and paintings and odd pieces of furniture, and were served hot tea. Almost immediately, we found ourselves in a whirlwind of charm and sales pitches. "(Arthur) Schulzberger of The New York Times has been here," Mohammad said, thumbing through a book of customers. "Many famous Americans."

The exuberant Mohammad pulled off his hooded djellabah and put it over my husband's head, adding a fez. It didn't take long for him to bring out necklaces and lay them on his desk. I had no intention of buying one.

That is until he laid out one with strands of tiny red and white beads interrupted by knuckle-size, irregular stones of antique Berber amber, which was opaque rather than clear. He quoted a price.

"We can't possibly afford that," I said, which was true.

Finally: "For you, I give it to you for half, because I like your husband!"

It still cost too much, but I like to wear my new necklace with black clothes.

Not far away, a young man was selling key chains with miniatures of Moroccan shoes. They were 5 dirhams each, about 70 cents.

"That's fair," said Saida. "I've seen them making these things. They work very hard. I don't bargain when prices are low like this."

Later, we went on to the medina's tannery, where fresh hides are soaked in lime, then washed and dyed in vats, where workers push the hides down with their feet. The hides are then laid out to dry and tanned -- rubbed with stone and olive oil. It's all done outside and is visible from a viewing porch several stories high.

There are a dozen or more leather shops on the way downstairs. At La Belle Vue de la Tannerie on the first floor, I found a large orange purse. The salesman said it was 1,400 dirham, about $190. Saida intervened. I got it for 800, about $108.

Lunch with locals
At lunch time, I asked Saida to take us to a neighborhood place instead of an upscale restaurant. I don't know how many corners we turned when we arrived at what she joked is "the Fez McDonald's area; it's all fast food, but local food that's ready to eat." (The menu at the real McDonald's -- afraid so; it's in the new part of town -- includes a McArabia sandwich, with chopped meat and cheese.)

Her favorite place is a simple cafe with aqua walls. We climbed steep stairs and a young, skinny waiter brought us small dishes of spicy mashed fava beans, caramelized onions, lentils in tomato sauce, chicken shish kebob cooked with red peppers and cumin, and chicken with onions. We ate the delicious food Moroccan style, with bread rather than forks.

Back downstairs after our meal, we were welcomed heartily by Hamid Berrada, the owner, a bearded man with laugh lines. "What's the name of this place?" I asked Saida, who looked puzzled. Nobody calls it by a name.

Hamid suggested calling it Chez Berrada. Soon a dozen or so people surrounded us, all talking and looking with great interest at their pictures in my digital camera.

One was a Berber woman, with a well-wrinkled face. She was all in white. When I asked how old she was, she beamed, and told Saida proudly that she was 80.

As we were ready to leave, Hamid, who never quit smiling, stopped us. He looked at Keith, and then at me, and through Saida, asked us to repeat after him: "Alaikum assalam." We did, and he hugged us both, kissing us on each cheek.

"It's an international greeting," said Saida. "It means 'And on you be peace.' "

Millie Ball can be reached at mball@timespicayune.com or 504.826-3462. To respond to this story, post comments at www.nola.com/travel http://www.nola.com/living/t-p/index.ssf?/base/living-11/121834685616590.xml&coll=1
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Authentic Morocco.
By Jonathan Gregson . September 6 2008

If what you seek in Morocco is sunshine with all the usual international trimmings - designer interiors, capacious swimming pools, a choice of spa treatments and/or golf courses - all served up with just a twist of Old Araby, then follow the herd and head for Marrakech. Massive infusions of mainly Gulf money are transforming its surrounding palmeraie into a Palm Springs-style playground in the sun, while the old town is now studded with estate agents quoting prices in euros rather than dirhams.

If, however, you want to be transported into a completely different world, then go to Fez. It's not just that it is the oldest of Morocco's four imperial cities (the others being Meknes, Rabat and Marrakech) and is this year celebrating its 1,200th anniversary; nor even that the entire Medina has been awarded Unesco World Heritage status. Rather it is because when it comes to such intangibles as dignity, refinement and sheer authenticity, Fez wins hands down.

That may be because Fez el Bali (Old Fez) remains a fully functioning medieval city, a hive of industry whose products - be they filigree work or bridal thrones - are as much in demand among local buyers as foreigners. On weekends, its succession of souks (which on first acquaintance resemble a medieval department store) are crammed with Berber villagers and more sophisticated visitors from Casablanca or Rabat, all seeking wedding presents or hand-crafted furnishings for their own homes.

The pride that Fassis (the people of Fez) take in their craftmanship and industry - many of the skills came with refugees from Andalucia fleeing the Reconquistá - may account for a certain hauteur. It also makes this city feel quite distinct from most other picturesque relics of a bygone age, whose economic survival depends on tourism and whose residual population is there to "service" the visitor.

Some find such un-Disneyfied authenticity frightening. It certainly came as a shock on my first visit some 30 years back. I was no novice, having already been through Marrakech, the High Atlas and the southern oases; but nothing had prepared me for the unique combination of timelessness and big-city intensity I found in Fez. I felt like an Oklahoma boy just arrived in Manhattan, overwhelmed by the crush of humanity and their hurried big-city ways.

For crowded within the city's 13th-century walls are religious scholars and merchants, wool carders and dyers, tanners, silk weavers, slipper makers, woodcarvers, silversmiths and brass-workers, porters, barrow boys, muleteers and donkey-men. These last because the streets and alleyways of Fez el Bali are so steep and so narrow that no motor vehicle can enter.

Everything that is consumed or produced within the city must be carried by man or beast. "There are 10,000 donkeys," I was informed, "and that is if you count only the four-legged ones." So, while walking around the Medina, it is best to keep an ear open for the cries of " Balak! Balak!" that announce the arrival of a donkey-train just in time for pedestrians to take evasive action. Also, to follow the Fassi custom of skirting the sides of thoroughfares (like British motorists, they keep to the left) so as to avoid being bumped by the passing animal's load - which could be anything from a new refrigerator to uncured hides.

While there are a few main arteries through the Old City, such as the Grand Tala ("our own Champs Elysées"), most of the alleyways twist and turn so much that you are certain to get lost sooner or later unless you have a guide. Not that I find this an altogether unpleasant sensation. By wandering aimlessly I discovered a traditional apothecary whose glass cabinets contained all manner of marvellous cures, from powdered herbs and minerals to desiccated lizard. On my last visit I turned down a covered alley to find myself following what seemed to be an endless silken thread, as though on Ariadne's trail. At the end of it was a moustachioed weaver, juggling with two spools, who had seen fit to use this public byway as his workshop.

Of course some things have changed. Hidden down alleys there are now cash machines and, seen from a rooftop, the Old City seems to have sprouted satellite dishes like so many mushrooms. Once, when I paused to savour the smell of fresh bread emanating from one of the city's many public bakeries, the queue of customers bringing their uncooked loaves was broken by a sales team of brisk young women, none of them wearing headscarves, going from door to door. They were signing up new broadband customers. Similarly, on my most recent visit I was shown around by Amina Zabbari, one of 15 qualified women tour guides in what used to be an exclusively male profession.

Also, whereas previously you had to stay in the French colonial New Town or hotels like the Palais Jamai on the very fringe of the Medina, now there are more than 60 riads within the Old City offering chambre d'hôte facilities. The first to open a decade back was the original Maison Bleue in the upper town, to which has recently been added a new riad-style hotel made up of four interconnecting town houses that offers spa treatments, a gym-with-a-view and - that rarity in Fez - a swimming pool.

But for old-style grandeur it's hard to beat the Dar El Ghalia down in the Andalucian quarter. It's owned by one of the Medina's old noble families who fled Spain in the 14th century, and around its lofty courtyard are parked old sedan chairs, a gramophone complete with horn, and a portrait of a grande dame who oversaw the education of family members, making it feel as if you're staying in a stately home.

The staff have that inimitable dignity of house-servants who have been part of the family for years, and the female chef (in Moroccan households it's generally the women who do the cooking) produced glorious renderings of such Fassi specialities as lamb M'Hammer - the sauce slightly sweet and sour with onions and blanched almonds - and pigeon K'dra, where the almonds are crisp-roasted. It's a subtle and refined cuisine, as befits this grand dowager of North African cities.  The Financial Times Limited 2008
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/24c1f28e-7bac-11dd-b839-000077b07658.html?nclick_check=1
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Rye Beach writer takes long road to Morocco 'Pasha' expounds on world travel with best travel buddy, 'Ali Bobbi'
By Gordon McCollester . features@seacoastonline.com August 31, 2008

"If you see her, say hello, she might be in Tangiers." — Bob Dylan ("Blood on the Tracks")

"If You See Her Say Hello," is Dylan's haunting song about love lost. It is one of my favorite lines in song. I can only imagine the intrigue of a woman who would go to Tangier to heal. If she had gone to Des Moines the line wouldn't have worked. My lost loves just go home and won't take my calls.

I have always been intrigued by intrigue, especially the intrigue of faraway places with exotic names, where people move cautiously with turned up collars, a fedora pulled over one eye and a cigarette dangling from the lip. A place where hushed words are spoken in the shadows of smoky train stations in Amsterdam, Paris or Milan. I read in an Alan Furst novel, about the spies of World War II, that the village of Port Bou in northeastern Spain, was the last checkpoint before going over the mountains into France. It was a risky crossing. A dangerous place for these men and women of mystery playing in what Kipling called, the great game. I wondered how many actual crossings had been made during World War II.

A year later, I was sipping a cordito at the train station in Spanish Port Bou. I made sure I was not being followed and then drove over the mountains into France where I ordered a carafe of local wine in the French town of Cerbere. It was a successful crossing and I delivered the message to my contact. She was beautiful with a smile that melted winter snows. Her eyes were mocha-colored, her hair black and her hips and lips full and inviting. I wanted to know her better. But there was no time for emotion. I wished her well, lit my cigarette and walked away. I did not look back. That was how it had to be.

On a fall night in 1950, I was walking along Adams Street not far from my home when the night sky lit up. I watched in amazement and was not frightened by the spectacle, because I had heard there was something called the aurora borealis going to happen. I figured this must be it. I was nine years old and have not forgotten the feeling I had that night; maybe the world was going to be an interesting place after all. All I had to do was grow and go.

All my life I have had a wanderlust that has driven me to explore and to see. Once, after a four-year excursion away from the Tribe — they called me home. I went, but not before I had flown in my first jet, seen a red setting sun in the Philippines filter through the dust. It would swirl around like red-tinted smoke and leave a trail, like pixie dust from Tinkerbelle's wand. I surfed in Hawaii and spent the night in a tree house just off the beach. I hit a baseball off the top of the fence in Rizal Stadium in Manila and ate lumpia and drank cold San Miguel beer on a Saturday afternoon in Pampanga Province. I walked on Mt. Arayat with an elderly Filipino who gave me a life lesson that stays with me today. Then I came home for the next 20 years to satisfy the voracious appetite of the Tribe to have all things in place — including me.

Over time some freedom came. I was able to travel again. My spirit renewed. In the past years, I have seen a jungle sunset in Guyana and an African sunrise. I've heard the cacophony of the morning sounds of howler monkeys in Costa Rica. In Paris, I sipped espresso on the Champs Elysee; I walked the Cinque Terra in Italy and drank beer with my son in the Red Light District in Amsterdam — with the Stones wailing Brown Sugar from coffin-sized speakers mounted in the ceiling. I have known the joy of altitude sickness in the Ecuadorian Andes and in Cuba sipped a mojito after my visit with Gregorio Fuentes, Hemingway's captain and friend, and the inspiration for "The Old Man and the Sea." Throw in a hunt with golden eagles in western Mongolia and my late-life discovery of the joys of Raki in Istanbul and I have made up for the 20-year hiatus from travel and exploration.

One of the most fascinating men of travel and adventure is Sir Richard Francis Burton. In the biography about him ("The Devil Drives") Fawn M. Brodie, the author, quotes Sir Richard, who is a thousand miles up a river and asking himself why he does what he does; his answer - "Why, ...; the Devil Drives!" He writes what it is that drives him to explore.

Of the gladdest moments in human life
Methinks
Is the departure
Upon a distant journey into unknown lands
Shaking off
With one might Effort
The fetters of Habit
The leaden weight of Routine
The cloak of many Cares and
The Slavery of Civilization
Man feels once more happy
The blood flows
With the fast circulation of childhood
Afresh dawns the morn of life

For me, one of the places stirring the imagination is Morocco. Cities with names like Casablanca, Marrakech and Tangier conjure mystery — and so we head to Moroc. I am traveling with my longtime travel mate, Jungle Jim Slowik, a retired federal agent out of Michigan who I met in the jungle of western Guyana years ago. He travels well, a man who can wait for five hours on a cold tarmac in western Mongolia, without complaining, for a plane that never comes. I once wrote — in Spanish — El turista mire, pero un viajero ve! (The tourist looks, but the traveler sees.) Jim and I approach the world as travelers, and where we go, we always see.

A short hop from Madrid and we land in Casablanca and find our driver/interpreter waiting for us. Khalid speaks Arabic, French and English and is a historian about the lands of Morocco. Casablanca is a loud, busy, dirty city. Traffic here is unbearable and the roads are filled with the noise of car horns and the smell of exhaust. Khalid is a cautious and safe driver, an asset, if you are to survive driving in Africa. For most Americans, Casablanca brings up the Bogart movie of the same name. But there never was a Rick's in Casablanca until recently when, in 2004, an American woman who lived in Morocco since 1998, decided to recreate a Ricks' Café in Casablanca. Now you can visit a replica of Rick's set in an old courtyard-style mansion. There is a piano bar and yes, should you wish, you can ask — correctly please — for the piano player to, Play it Sam, for old times sake.

Casablanca is a port city and the principal city of Morocco and our first few days our itinerary allows us to visit Casablanca, Rabat and then east to Fes. But after a few days of city life, Jim and I meet with Khalid. We kill the original itinerary and head east out of Fes toward the Atlas Mountains and then south toward the Sahara. Jim wants to ride camels and I want to visit a Berber nomad and drink tea in a tent.

We head south toward the Dunes of Merzouga. We are just outside Erfoud, the gateway to the Sahara, when we encounter our first sandstorm. Khalid told us this could happen and now a sandstorm is upon us. It comes quickly and without warning and along the road trucks and cars are pulling over. The wind drives the dust-like particles of sand and mothers protect their children from its sting as they run for cover. There are two levels to a sandstorm, the larger sand particles are blown closer to the ground and these are the ones that sting. The finer particles are like airborne dust and obscure visibility. It is a gray-out. People run, crouched to protect themselves. Honestly, when it hit, I was inside a restaurant eating lamb and drinking tea with an overhead fan cooling me. But it looked really bad out there.

Full of lamb and tea we continue south and arrive in Erfoud, where we pick up a Berber guide and a land cruiser. We head east and drive 11 miles into the Sahara. There is nothing but the beauty of the peach-colored dunes in the soft light of approaching dusk. The driver fish tails the front wheel to gain purchase in the sand. There is no road, no markers. I marvel at how these Berber nomads navigate the desert. We know a sandstorm can move a sand dune in minutes changing the contour and there is no navigational instrument on the dashboard. He just knows the way. We are now within 25 miles of the Algerian border, which is closed and the American state department has issued travel warnings. We see Morocco army trucks patrolling.

Then there is a tent. We arrive and are greeted by Fatima, the Berber woman who is our host. There is still daylight left and her husband and sons are tending sheep. Two young girls giggle from a small outbuilding and I ask if we can take pictures. I snap a shot of the girls in what appears to be their own sleeping tent. There is nothing around us but sand and horizon and I realize that we if can see Moroccan army trucks patrolling the Algerian border 25 miles away it is a clear example of how distance can be deathly deceiving in this unforgiving desert.

Fatima serves us and our guide shows us how to pour and Jim and I enjoy our first glass of Berber tea. It is hot and very sweet. The flap to the tent is open and I look outside and see nothing but sand and dunes. Inside the tent I felt comfortable, snug almost and wish we had made arrangements to stay the night. We say our goodbyes and head north to ride camels and watch a sunset over the dunes of Merzouga.

I watch Jim get on his camel. There are two men assisting him and the camel is tapped on the forelegs so the beast kneels down and the handlers tell Jim to get on, slowly. The camel, commanded to rise, does so by dipping his head and upper body straight down. If it were not for the metal bars Jim — and later me — would nose dive into the Sahara sand. We get mounted and Omar, our guide, heads us west for an hour where we stop to wait for a sunset that never happened. There is a strong wind coming from the east. Jim and I bought shells (rezzas) before we came and Omar shows us how to tie them to our heads, nomad style. We are sitting lotus position on the top of a dune with the wind blowing dust particles directly into our faces. Omar reaches over and pulls the bottom of my rezza up over my eyes and it is like looking through a soft blue mesh. I can feel the sand hitting my face, the wind is warm and it is almost meditative. I am in the Sahara with the sun going down, a Berber guide and my travel buddy beside me and I am far from the fetters of habit, the leaden weight of routine. The blood flows.

We head back to meet our Berber driver and go to a hotel where Jim and I drink beer on the patio under a cloudy Sahara sky and re-tell the stories we have been telling each other for six years. As we get older, we find the stories get longer and there may be more embellishment, but we don't care.

Up early, we leave for Les Gorge de Todra a place that can only be described as the Moroccan grand canyon. If you go to Moroc, make sure you take the trip into the gorges.

We leave Todra and head for Marrakech where we ask Kahlid to drop us off for an hour at the famous Marrakech market. There are the usual touristy things, cobras mesmerized by clarinet players and you can have a picture taken with a monkey on your head. Years ago, Jim and I decided we would return from these trips only with words and pictures and rarely buy souvenirs. This year Jim brought back a small canister of Sahara sand. In the market at Marrakech, the orange merchants point at Jim and yell "Ali Baba, Ali Baba." He has a head of curly hair and a full beard and I suppose looks like an Ali Baba. Jim smiles, says he likes the nickname, and we gather up Khalid and are off to Casablanca.

We are in negotiation with the man from Monarch Travel. We want to take a driver across the water with us and drift around southern Spain for a few days before heading north to Madrid. Khalid is to take us to Tangier in the morning and then he must return to Casablanca. We are unable to come to terms and conclude our conversation. The man from Monarch says to me; I hope you have not been disappointed with your trip to Moroc. I tell him the only disappointment I have is that Jim is leaving Moroc with a cool nickname — Ali Baba — and that I don't have one. The man from Monarch smiles and says I will give you one — Pasha. I ask what it means and he says "governor." Now I have a cool nickname and feel better about things.

By the next day, Jim is mispronouncing his nickname — mangling it, in fact. He keeps saying, Ali Bobbi. I correct him twice and then decide to let it go. He also has begun referring to himself in the third person; "Ali Bobbi hungry. Ali Bobbi thirsty." I quit correcting him — he will remain Ali Bobbi.

On our way to Tangier, we stop for a visit to one of the more beautiful cities we have seen. The little town of Asilah is just 25 miles from Tangier on the north western tip of Morocco's Atlantic coast. A picturesque Andalusian town it has seen the influence of Roman, Spanish and Portuguese. During the August cultural festival Asilah becomes an enormous gallery, where artists exhibit their work on the streets and the walls of the town. It is well worth a stop.

We arrive in Tangier where I hope to find Dylan's lost love. Are her eyes green and her skin brown and does she speak softly in her Moroccan French? She is nowhere and everywhere. The city is filled with beautiful women. I do not find her and so do not say hello.

Tangier is an interesting city with a sloping hillside down to one of the greatest ports in the world. We spend a day walking around and remark that so far, in addition to Asilah and Fes, Tangier is the favorite. It is a city of spunk and hills and undulations and intrigue and on the night we arrived — on a Sunday, the plaza's and city streets were filled with people well into the early morning hours. In the morning we catch the ferry to Tarifa and a bus to Algeciras. When Jim says to me; "Ali Bobbi want beer," I ask him to stop it.

A night in Sevilla — a beautiful city — and we bus it to Madrid to my daughter's home. Leslie speaks four languages. When I tell her the nickname story she laughs at Jim's insistence that he is now Ali Bobbi and warns me that I should probably check to make sure that Pasha means what the man from Monarch said and not — "Silly little white man." I laugh and say the man from Monarch wouldn't do that, but I check it on the Internet and sure enough, it means governor and was a name bestowed upon generals and royalty. It is the British equivalent of Lord. I like that, Lord Gordon. In the morning I tell Jim about the legitimacy of my new regal nickname. He smiles and says; "Ali Bobbi happy for you." And so it goes.

E-mail "Pasha" at features@seacoastonline.com.
http://www.seacoastonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080831/LIFE/808310306
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