Maxene's World Adventures: Meknes day 1

After Becca and Alex departed early morning to see a Peace Corps volunteer in a Berber village, and Terry and Wade left soon afer for their Marrakech/driving/cascades adventure in the afternoon, Sarah and I still did not know where our weekend adventure to be. We did have requirements though: somewhere close, somewhere smaller, somewhere cooler. We chose Meknes, as it is an imperial city near Roman ruins! Although our first day, Saturday wasn't very cool (110 degrees with a long sleeves shirt!), Sunday was much better. Sunday was such a contrast. But that will be next day's issue.

With no couch surfing replies from the request we sent out the night before, we wandered around the medina of Meknes. It was rather small, unimpressive, and we couldn't find any hole-in-the-wall restaurants that were open! Midday, we got a call from someone I contacted through couch surfing. He met us in front of the Medina, ushered us into his car, toured us around Meknes, and introduced us to his friend's girl friend who offered us a place to stay. Humdullah. We got out of his car with several hours to kill before a proposed tajine dinner with the girl friend (who was later referenced as "wife"), so we shopped around, and went to a mausoleum. It was so calming and beautiful compared to the medina, that we sat ourselves down on sheepskin rugs in a nook facing a beautiful fountain. There were two muslim men laying down on the floors, and they smiled us as we did the same. We instantly fell asleep.

I woke up to a man giving a tour of the mausoleum English. As I sat up, Sara held her kindle in her hand, frozen, staring at me. The entire tour group stood in front of the alcove we were resting in, as the guide described the history about the domed room. He was a rather tall, white, middle-aged man with round-rimmed glasses and a pot belly. As a member from the tour group stepped into the alcove to take a picture, the tour guide said, with authority, "Please do not step on the tombs." My eyes flickered to my backpack, which was touching the corners of the tombs, which were marked by mosaics on the floor. He then said, "And the sheepskin over there (yes, the sheepskin we were seated on) is used by the monks for prayer." Way to call us out, you jerk. We remained frozen, like the bodies in the tombs themselves, as a 20-something-year-old attempted to read arabic scripture inscribed on one a columns=. The white, middle-aged tour guide with round-rim glasses, a pot belly, and sun-washed blue jeans prepared to quiz her. "And what does this mean?" He asked her. "Pardon," She replied. "Not bad, not bad," he said condescendingly.

In contrast, the monks and muslims, as I mentioned before, smiled at us, were sprawled themselves on the carpet, napping, and made no snide remark about our chosen napping place. The American tour guide (or Canadian, I suppose), decided to dramatize the situation - probably because in doing so, he secretly though that it would make him more Muslim, or Moroccan, than he is or can ever be.