A strange character in my life once told me a joke that jabbingly haunts me:

What do you call a person who only speaks one language? 

… 

… 

… 

American. 

Although I have some shaky Spanish skills and am more or less adept at connecting the dots when reading romance languages, Arabic was a different beast onto itself. It’s written in a unique alphabet and read from right to left. Most people in Casablanca spoke a combination of French and Arabic. In Meknes, Arabic was much more prevalent. Neither of the situations were much of a relief for us. 

Our new friend, being from Lebanon, had Arabic as his “mother tongue.” He also, to our delight, spoke fluent English, and just to flex a little extra, French. 

His hodgepodge of linguistic skills made him the missing link for our travels and the remedy to our travails. On the 40-minute ride to Volubilis, he took the reigns translating the insightful ramblings of our private cab driver, (and later apologized when we stayed a little longer than planned amongst the ruins.)

Exploring Volubilis

I had read about Volubilis and firmly decided we visit during our trip across the Atlantic. I’m a sucker for all things ancient Greek or Roman, and this incredible and vast city of ancient stones and colorful enduring mosaics was something I just couldn’t skip. Shockingly, our friend with his worldly tongue and adventurous spirit had never heard of it. It was nice to be able to offer him something in return for his translations. 

When we arrived, it seemed not only that Volubilis was still an under-wraps World Heritage Site to our friend, but pretty much everyone else as well. There were hardly any other people there. 

We swatted off a “guide” who offered an hour tour and began on the trail map–per my insistence, backward, so as to reach the highlights first–to see how the vast Roman Empire found a place in Morocco. 

For all that was destroyed by the ages, it was astounding to see centuries-old artwork preserved meticulously in stone mosaics. Hercules and the 12 Labors; Dionysus and the 4 seasons; and even, for a touch of humor, a man riding a donkey backwards adorned the floors of the ruins where noble homes once stood. The site was also ridden with pillars, columns, and a pair of immense arches at either side of the main street. Since we worked in reverse, we spent the afternoon hunting the mosaics and then encountering the descriptive placard that were meant to precede it. It was like looking at the answer guide in the back of the book after coming up with explanations on our own.

Two hours in the hot Northern African sun passed with ease, as we took pictures and polaroids and shared our knowledge, interpretation, and cultures with each other. The tour ended at the “boring beginning” where our translating friend made the comment, “this is going to be us in the future generations, the boring part getting passed by.” Humble civilians. 

We left the site and the cab driver quipped in Arabic that we’d taken two hours, but the handshake they shared was a plain indication that he wasn’t very phased.

Body language, like numbers, is universal.

Moulay Idriss

Included in our cab fare was a stop at the neighboring site of Moulay Idriss. A city atop a hill, it’s the resting place of its namesake king who’s buried there. We arrived and I was surprised to see just how much of a bustling town it truly was–like how Thebes was presented in Disney’s cartoon rendition of Hercules. 

The tomb itself was a centrally-located and protected within a massive mosque. Our arrival coincided with a season of celebration in this holy city. The next few weeks, for this town in particular, would hold celebrations every Friday. As part of it, we saw a goat, sheared and shaken, being led underneath the bar into the holy site, presumably as an offering. 

As non-Muslims, we weren’t allowed inside the mosque. As if our linen shirts and wide-brimmed hats hadn’t given us away already, (our friend was more subtly dressed in jeans and a t-shirt), we stood dawdling outside the entrance as a river of locals came and went, including our cab driver who told us he’d meet us back outside when he’d finished praying.

We were recognized instantly, I’m sure, and were picked up hastily by a man who had the scoop. He spoke mostly Arabic, so our friend helped to translate as he guided us through town. 

He began leading us through the winding streets of this elevated medina, with the intent of bringing us on a 10-minute walk to the top. We had the time, so we took up his offer. 

We learned plenty of fun facts and history from our guide that painted an even more lovely picture of who Moroccans are. 

Of the neighboring Volubilis we learned the country doesn’t dare to taint the history, and their government maintained that the land cannot be reestablished for modern-day development.

We also learned the significance of the spheres that project from the minaret of every mosque. They’re sometimes a set of three, sometimes four, occasionally one, but never two. The significance is a worldly one. Three represents Islam, Christianity, and Judaism; Four, the holy books of the Old Testament, New Testament, Quran, and Talmud; and the single ball which represents the one ultimate shared Creator, regardless of what you call Him.

He told us all of this as we looked over the mosque in which we were not permitted. It was a beautiful view at the top, and even in the stinking heat and through a horrible hunger, we were happy to have made the ascent. 

We were led back down to the excitement of the street to find our cab driver and he took us back to our homestay medina. Tired and hungry, our friend told us there was a place recommended to him to eat, so we followed his lead. 

Kind of. You see, it’s hard to navigate through the winding streets of a medina as it is. Google maps doesn’t quite pick up the exact coordinates, so the labrinth will easily swallow you up and spit you out wherever it pleases.

Medina meal at Aisha

It took some time, but with perseverance we found the place (with not much help from locals and a little help from a proudly-posted Trip-Advisor sign outside.)

In this little tiny shop there seemed to be just enough space left to seat the three of us across from another obvious tourist couple who was deep into their meal. This Dutch couple was visiting with a tour group, but broke off for some solo exploration and great food–which led them here. 

The place was called Aisha. It was small, but welcoming. Opening out into the street, the refrigerator and modest home kitchen was visible for all to see. That’s where they cooked our food, and this homestyle vibe delighted me. 

It was here that we both found our favorite dishes. Slightly queasy from heat exhaustion and traveling, I played it safe with a familiar meal: chicken with preserved lemon and olives. 

Rich, at the recommendation of our new friend, got the sweet and savory chicken with couscous. 

A few bites in and our life force was restored. We made small talk with the Dutch travelers across from us, and the evening ended with a visit from Aisha herself. 

She was clearly very proud of her food and of her place; unassuming to us westerners but practically lavish in terms of locality. We were served delectable tea (taking a break from the mint tea) and ceremonious bowls of olives. The food, on their steaming clay tagine bases, was perfection. 

Again, I found myself glad even for the misfortune of the slightly underwhelming chicken with preserved lemon I had back on the rich and residential side of Casablanca. The comparison made the plate that was before me on this night in Meknes that much more satisfying and legendary.

By the end, we were ready for bed, and Aisha graciously offered one of her employees to guide us home. 

After the deafening prayers that wafted into our top-floor windows from the nearby mosque ended, we slept well. In the morning, we joined our friend again, along with another traveler from Texas who was staying in the riad, at breakfast for a Moroccan meal of flatbread, fruit spreads, freshly boiled eggs, and of course, mint tea. 

There was only one regret from this trip to the North, and that’s that we didn’t stay at least another night in this magical place.

Read the final chapter: EPILOGUE