Que Pasa, Bitches?

Distance Traveled:   33,125 kms (BNE-MEL-SYD-BKK-PKT-BKK-CNX-BKK-PP-SR-BB-PP-HCMC-NC-TH-HA-H-L-MR-AG-SV)

Time Difference: -9 hours (from Brisbane)

Soundtrack: I am creating my own soundtracks at the moment.  I got sick of my iPad being a useless piece of luggage that I was carrying around for no reason and got myself some apps, one to teach myself some barbershop tags with (tags are the end bit of the song) and another with which I can record them in all four parts!  So I have been recording away, have done eight now (some better than others) and am having a great old time.  Since I don't have a quartet at the moment, I have created my own! 

Currently Inspired by: Life.

Stacks:  Heaps - one of the pitfalls of being in a really beautiful city is that while I am art / building / tree gazing, steps can creep up on me.  I've had a jarred ankle, a bloody toe and a painless but embarrassing slide in Alcazar.  There was a couple there who saw it, and I could see the woman trying so hard to suppress her laughter until I was gone.  Cow! :D

Words written: 33,884.  See "Soundtrack".  I've been busy.  Next week is set aside for writing.

Here I am in Sunny Seville.  Here they call it Sevilla (seh-BEE-yah) and I’ve been walking around for days singing a song about it to the tune of “Maria” from West Side Story...

Sevilla, I’m here in a town called Sevilla
And suddenly in Spain
There isn’t any rain, you see
Sevilla, your streets and cathedrals to me ah
Are lovely to behold
Your trees are made of gold
Sevillaaaaaaaa

Pretty City

I know it’s silly, but my relief at no longer being in Morocco is so great I just walk around everywhere with this huge smile, humming away to myself!  I didn’t realise how tense I was until I got here and relaxed.  Here, I am completely anonymous, once again.  Nobody looks at me.  Nobody speaks to me unless I speak to them first, I feel completely safe, and it’s absolutely wonderful.  Several years ago my friend Jeremy and I came to Spain but we stayed up around Madrid, doing a few towns within a couple of hours drive.  It was also winter when we were there, and it was absolutely freezing.  I’ll never forget the icy wind that chilled us to the bone.  We came to Spain to try and escape the English winter for a week, and it ended up being colder, go figure.  Here in the South it isn’t warm, and jackets and scarves are required to go outside at all, but the wind is virtually non-existent, so it means if you find a nice little spot in the sun you can strip down to your shirt and have a bit of a bake.  Nice.  We wanted to come to Seville last time and it was just too far so I’m incredibly glad that I didn’t miss out on seeing the place, because it is utterly charming.  If you are planning a trip to Spain, ensure you put it on your To Do List.  It’s the prettiest city I’ve ever seen.

Seville is the capital of the Andalucia region and has a population of around 700,000.  Much like Brisbane, the city is divided almost north / south by a river, the Guadalquivir in this case, and has half a dozen or so bridges to facilitate its crossings.  Unlike Brisbane, the river is a beautiful clear green colour.  At around 2,000 years old, the city of Seville has an extraordinary history and has produced a large number of famous explorers, politicians and artistes, notably poets.  I can see why - it is a very inspiring place.  It is visually characterised by the most amazing architecture, both modern and historical.  Since my first time here I’ve felt that Spain must be a haven for insane but brilliant architects and engineers who have been shunned by their more conservative peers, and Seville has done much to consolidate this theory.  Incredible feats of design and engineering greet you pretty much everywhere you look.  Seville is also notable for how incredibly green it is.  They really love their trees here.  “Spare bit of pavement?  Chuck a tree in it!” seems to be the city’s motto. (Note: the actual city motto is NO8DO, which means, rather inexplicably, Seville has not abandoned me.  Guess you had to be there.)

Orange Trees Everywhere

Most of these trees are orange trees (hence “trees are made of gold”) and I have been constantly surprised by how few oranges there actually are on the ground.  They must be remarkably diligent about picking them up, because there are simply tens of thousands of these trees all over the place, each one heavily laden with fruit.  The same goes for the number of horses that are in the city.  Everywhere you look they are standing around with their carriages, waiting to take tourists about the place.  I simply cannot believe how clean the streets are.  No oranges, no horse shit, no anything really!  And I’ve never seen anyone cleaning up... what happens to it all?  I’m afraid this might have to remain one of life’s great mysteries, as I’m off tomorrow and don’t have time to find and interrogate the city’s sanitation commissioner.  In addition, there are frequently oranges for sale in shops, which strikes me as rather silly in a place where you can’t walk two metres even in the heart of the city without coming nose first with an orange tree full of ripe fruit, seemingly for anyone to pick.  Sevillians must never get colds.  Strangely enough I have only had a mandarin since I got here... it was excellent though!  

This is a very pedestrian friendly town, and a lot of fun to walk around.  One minute you’ll be on a main drag, looking much like anywhere else in world (except for the profusions of tapas bars), next you’ll be walking on cobblestones down a tiny winding alley with four storeys of apartments on either side, a guy pulling cart in front of you, and a van behind him, good naturedly crawling along at human walking pace, half up on the pavement.  Next you’ll pop out and there will be an exceptionally beautiful building like the Torre Del Oro (old watchtower on the river), just sitting in front of you, no fanfare, no touristy stuff.  Just go and look if you want.  It’s a pretty casual setup all around.  I’m in Centro, which is the centre of town although not quite like the central business district.  More like the Queen Street Mall.  Boutiques line the streets here, and I’m finding it more and more difficult not to buy any shoes.  I was talking to someone the other day who reminded me about the fire that destroyed all of my stuff before I left, and I thought of all my beautiful shoes, and how they need to be replaced, and maybe I could just buy this pair, or this pair... arrrrrrgh.  I have been incredibly well behaved, and not bought ANY, however I have started biting my fingers when I walk past the shoe shops here, which is every day.  Do they really need to display them in the damn windows?

Mini goose burger with packet chips

The food here is exceptional.  Seville is famous for its tapas, and deservedly so.  I’ve had some amazing dishes.  There is a fabulous deli near me which serves lunch and dinner, and they have the most incredible menu made up (predominantly) from the products they sell over the counter.  I had to list a few items on their menu, because it is all just so good:  creamy vichyssoise (leek soup) with thin strips of cured ham and crusty bread; pinchos (small open baguettes) one with creamed artichoke, a baked artichoke heart and aforementioned ham, another with goat’s cheese, black pudding and crispy onions, and yet another with chestnuts, shredded quail in brine and black truffle oil, to name only a few of them; squid ink pasta salad with smoked salmon; mini goose burger with sheep’s cheese, ham and caramelised onions.  Drool.  I have eaten there almost once a day since I discovered it.  There is also an excellent tapas bar right across from my hotel which does a deal I was raving about on facebook, so I shall copy directly from that:  “OK so the place across from my hotel does two plates of tapas of choice, glass of wine of choice plus coffee or a sorbet for 10 euro. In addition, the tapas is excellent, the glass of wine is massive and it also comes with a basket of bread and a plate of olives (and hot waiters). Score!!!”  Indeed.  I have been rather slack with remembering to take photos of my food, but there are five additional photos in the food album that you can see by clicking here.

Creepy girl, bottom left

Can you see her again??

As well as orange trees, Seville has a profusion of remarkable and / or historical cultural sites, all within about a fifteen minute walk from my hotel.  (Aside: My hotel is excellent in terms of location, room, service, breakfast, and is only 55 euros per night.  It is a relief to know I can get this kind of deal in Europe.  Of course the fact that it is winter helps.)  The three places I have been that really had my jaw dropping were the Museum of Fine Art, Catedral de Santa Maria de la Sede (Seville Cathedral) and Alcazar.  I really had to laugh with regard to the museum.  It has one of the best religious art collections I have ever seen in my life, only second to the collections I saw in Rome really, and it’s this quiet little unassuming place tucked away in back alleys, it has no signage, and it costs 1 euro fifty cents to get in.  It takes about two hours to walk around if you’re really looking at the art.  I sat in front of a ten foot high triptych depicting the road to Calgary and the crucifixion for ages, until a little inappropriate girl in the bottom left hand corner of the left painting began to freak me out.  She was a chubby little thing, standing next to Jesus as he was kneeling under the weight of the cross, seemingly unaffected by the goings on, holding onto her mum’s thumb with one fat hand, and weirdly clutching a silver spoon in the other.  She was “clothed” in a see through pink toga which was down on one side, exposing her chest.  It was really, really, inappropriate and incongruous and I had a nasty reaction to it.  Unfortunately it then affected all the other paintings I looked at...  all the grotesque parts of them began to really pop out at me: men with bellies like women, demons with horrid tongues, limbs contorted impossibly, unrealistic proportions from body to head, horrible details like a dead skinned rodent on a plate on the table at the last supper and other nasty bits and pieces. Then I saw a painting done 25 years earlier by a different artist, and that weird little girl was in it!  Or so it seemed to me.  Oh and also they like to do sculptures of Jesus, but mostly of his dead and decapitated head (he wasn’t decapitated??), replete with neck tendons and bloody bone sticking out from the bottom.   

I was glad, finally to move from the religious section and into a special feature exhibit by a Spanish artist called Gonzalo Bilbao, who specialised mostly in portraits.  He had the most uncanny knack with eyes I think I’ve ever seen.  He made them seem so sad, and so soulful, like he managed to catch the subject while they were thinking about the worst day of their life, but trying to appear neutral in every other respect.  Spanish artists are a happy bunch, clearly.  Still, art is supposed to provoke a strong emotion, and in that it was successful, and gave me lots to think about.  Standing looking at pieces of art as fresh and bright as daisies which were painted 600 years ago never ceases to amaze me, and it was good to see a couple of paintings of the Archangel Michael, because he is a character in my book, and I like to see other people’s interpretations of him.

Inside Alcazar

Alcazar is the official Sevillian residence of the Spanish Royal Family, and when they are not there it is open to the public.  (I think most of it is always open, except for upstairs where they actually reside).  It was actually built initially as a Moorish Fort in the 10^th century, and then renovations to turn it into a palace began in the 14^th century.  You can tell it is not like any other European palace you’ll ever see, with the mosaic style and profusion of arches being more reflective of middle eastern architecture than anything else.  The grounds are expensively and beautifully tended, containing (of course) thousands of orange trees and amazing hedges and water features.  There are giant tapestries, hundreds of years old, just hanging in the halls, and an absolute maze of hallways that ensured it took me fifteen minutes to even figure out which way the exit was, and then another ten minutes to actually get there.  At which point I discovered that there was no security at the exit and people were just walking straight in.  So, tip for travellers to Seville, at Alcazar, try the exit first, as it may save you 8 and a half euro.  Click here to see the photos from Seville, the art museum and Alcazar.

Cathedral (not my photo)

Inside the Cathedral

Seville Cathedral is next to Alcazar, and it’s, well, bloody massive!  It’s the largest Gothic cathedral and the third largest cathedral in the world, only behind St Peter’s Basilica at the Vatican and another Basilica in Brazil.  Now I have been to St Peter’s Basilica and possibly my memory is failing (it was nine years ago), but the Seville Cathedral seemed much, much bigger.  I think perhaps they restrict access in St Peter’s.  They must, for security reasons, because Wiki tells me it is almost twice the size, which is ridiculous.  Basilicas notwithstanding, the Seville Cathedral is awe inspiring and actually daunting.  When you look up, there is a walkway that runs around the top, and looking at it from the ground, literally gave me vertigo for a minute.  A team of wild horses couldn’t drag me up there, not that it’s open to the public.  The cathedral itself only took about a hundred years to build, which is extraordinary when you think of the basic construction methods they had in the 1500s, and how incredibly high it is.  It’s amazing that it was built at all, in fact.  Il Duomo Cathedral in Milan, another impressive monolith and fifth largest in the world, took about four hundred years to build, if that gives you some idea.  Because it was simply so beautiful and impressive, I have given it its own photo album.  Unfortunately flashes were not permitted, and as it is quite dark in some places, a lot of the photos are blurry or unclear, which is a shame.  You can see them by clicking here.  Catholics and gold have quite the relationship, don’t they?  Like Buddhists and incense.  I always wonder about the other uses to which all that Catholic gold could be put, were it not filling the coffers of fat bishops and adorning the endless buildings and statues erected to the fantasy that is religion!

Til Next We Speak
*LOVE*
N

Agadoo-Doo-Doo

Distance Traveled:   32,375 kms (BNE-MEL-SYD-BKK-PKT-BKK-CNX-BKK-PP-SR-BB-PP-HCMC-NC-TH-HA-H-L-MR-AG)

Time Difference: -10 hours (from Brisbane)

Soundtrack: I cannot get THIS piece out of my head right now, which is beautiful, if a little depressing!

Currently Inspired by: I read a recent interview with one of my living literary heroes Anne Rice and she said something that almost could have been taken word for word from things I have been saying to people in the last six months or so:  "I wanted to be great. I was burning with ambition to be something that mattered, to do something that mattered. Ordinary life was never enough for me. I was never interested in it."  Of course she had already achieved her greatness, and immortality, whereas I am (hopefully) in the process!  And to clarify at least my own meaning... I am not saying that "ordinary life" is not also great, if that's what makes people happy.  It just isn't for me.

Stacks:  None.  I haven't gone anywhere, or done anything :)

Words written: 33,884.  I wanted to write ten thousand more this week, but instead I was beginning to sense some inconsistencies in my story and also I was forgetting where I was up to with certain characters (I did NOT expect that to happen) so I've been going back and writing notes on things that need to be looked at in the first self-edit process, as well as writing some fresh stuff. 

I have done very little since the last entry, so this one will be the first one that doesn’t come with a photo album!  I finished up in Marrakech much the same way as I ended the last blog.  Mostly staying and writing / editing.  If I went anywhere it was down to a local cafe for a tagine when I ran out of food.  The part of Marrakech where I was staying is called Gueliz, and is packed to the brim with European ex-pats driving shiny silver BMWs and Audis with pampered dogs on their laps.  There was every kind of designer boutique, but no supermarkets. Leather stores with every kind of jacket and shoe, but no bookstores.  Despite the flashy prosperity of the place, it has a distinctly dodgy feel.  One gets the impression that all these people got their cash from backroom deals, embezzlement, or are disgraced politicians or something.  All the western men have these young, skinny Moroccan wives wearing the latest Chanel sunglasses, huge gold earrings, six inch heels, six inches of makeup and absolutely drowning in perfume.  As though they were only modest Muslim women until a man came along who provided them with enough money and protection that they didn’t have to be (if they ever were).  It was an interesting people watching place to be.

My God, My Country, My King

I was not sorry to say goodbye to Marrakech.  I was so tired of the sleaze, and I had it in my head that Agadir, a beach town and my next destination, would be nicer.  It is a three and a half hour bus trip, nothing compared to some of the other overland trips I’ve taken in the last few months, but ohhh it was tough.  I got ill, a first for me, and I ended up with my head pressed into the seat in front of me thinking “don’t spew don’t spew don’t spew” nearly the whole way.  I now feel bad for my previous irritation towards people with what I refer to as “delicate constitutions”.  It sucks!  Matters were not helped by the child behind me who kicked my seat relentlessly for the first part of the trip and then noisily threw up for the remainder of it.  Oh, it stank.  I don’t know how I managed not to also, must have been sheer mind over matter!  At our destination I practically threw myself out of the window as soon as the bus slowed down, pushed a few old ladies over, grabbed my bag and nabbed a taxi driver.  “How much to Kenzi Europa Hotel?” I asked.  “100 dihrams”, was the reply.  I thought fair enough, slung my bag in the back and off we headed.  Agadir is actually quite a large city, almost as big as Marrakech.  This was something of a surprise to me as I thought it was a small resort town.  It was a welcome visual relief from all the salmon paint, as all the buildings here are painted in a nice off white that make it seem large and spacious and clean.  I wondered (and still do) if all the cities in Morocco are painted in different colours?  There was the obligatory mountainside with “My God, My Country, My King” painted onto it, and a gorgeous sparkling blue seafront.  

I was starting to feel like I’d made the right move and then the taxi driver began to be overly familiar.  He asked my name and then stuck out his hand for me to shake.  I didn’t want to be touched but I also didn’t want to be rude so I briefly put my hand in his and went to withdraw it, but he grabbed it and tried to bring it to his lips.  I yanked it away and said “don’t.” He was unfazed.  He kept talking to me and laughing at his own jokes and grabbing and squeezing my leg... again I would move away and say “don’t.” He would say “ok ok” and then laugh and do it again.  I was getting more and more irritated.  Then when we were nearly there he was like “100 dihrams, good price for you hey!” (something they all say here – “good price for you”) and I nodded (I was in silent and surly mode by this time) he then went on “100 dihrams for you, 50 dihrams for your baggage.  In normal taxi, 150 dihrams for you, 50 dihrams for your bag.  Not good price!  See I do good price for you!”  What could I do?  This was not the first time this had happened, so I should have expected it really.  He had me and he had my bag in the boot, I couldn’t argue.  So when we got there I only had a 200 dihram note and I said “I need change” he was like “no, no tip for me, I have three children”. (Something I have also heard many times).  I was furious by now, and my bag was out, and I really argued with him.  He gave me 20 dihrams back and I kept insisting on the other 30, and he eventually gave me ten more and then drove off.   

Ripped off and angry, I stomped into reception and checked in.  The concierge was really nice and I began to look around and calm down (it is a nice resort).  As I picked up my key and the guy took my bag I asked “what is the wifi password for the room?” “No wifi in the rooms, only in the public areas, and you have to pay”, was the reply.  Well, the rage came back.  I pulled out the hotel listing, off which I had booked, which clearly specified free wifi in the rooms and free wifi in the public areas.  They didn’t apologise (what is it with no apologies here?) but did give me a free seven day wifi pass for the public areas, which didn’t really help as I wouldn’t have booked the place if I thought I had to come all the way to the freaking lobby to use the net.  My thoughts at this point were something like “Welcome to fucking Agadir, huh!”

Le Beach

After dumping my stuff in my old and ugly room I went for a walk along the promenade.  We’re on the west coast here so the sun sets over the water and I was there at the perfect time.  It was beautiful, and it would have been a perfect moment too if I wasn’t being hassled by touts trying to get me to buy tours, flowers, sunglasses etc every five metres.  I eventually found a tout-free spot and sat on the concrete barrier that separates the beach from the promenade but then after a few minutes stupidly, looked to my left and there were two guys sitting staring at me, and I looked to the right and there was a guy sitting staring at me.  I mean... what are you supposed to do in that situation?  It’s impossible to relax or enjoy what you are doing.  I left, went to the supermarket, picked up some wine and other supplies (there are a million alcohol-serving pubs and clubs here! Tourist central), went back to my room, watched some movies and got very very drunk.  It made me feel temporarily better but the next day was, shall we say, not productive.

The next day I ventured out again and found an awesome little cafe that looks out on the water, and had probably the best tagine I’ve had since I got here.  God, I’m going to miss proper tagines when I leave.  There was a wee kitty there that I fed some fish to and she became my little bestie, super affectionate and wanting heaps of cuddles.  I began to relax and enjoy myself, however, as I know by now, these periods are always short lived.  Every other attempt I had at going outside over the next couple of days was either thwarted or ruined by being constantly spoken to.  If they aren’t trying to sell me something, they are going “Hey baby, what’s your name?” “Where are you going? Come over here!” and so on.  The guys beep at you and shout at you from their cars while you’re crossing the street.  If you wear ipod headphones and completely ignore them all (which I do now, sick of being polite) some of them begin to shout at, and no doubt insult you in Arabic.  I’ve just had it.  I reached my limit at some point, something cracked, and I basically haven’t left the resort since that moment except for a quick dash to get some chocolate.  This was also the point at which I thought there is no way I could handle another five weeks in this country, and began looking at an exit strategy.  

Originally I thought I would travel overland up to the north and then get a ferry over to Spain, then come back down here the same way to get my flight back to London, but I wanted to be gone faster than that, and I’d rather not have to come back here.  So I’ve booked a flight from Marrakech- Seville on Monday (I’ll get the bus back to Marrakech on Monday morning – knowing my luck at the moment I’ll get the same kid sitting behind me!) and I have forfeited my Marrakech-London flight and have booked a new one from Seville-London.  Am planning to check out the south of Spain for a month, and I am counting the seconds!  Having said that I was very much looking forward to checking out Fes, Essaouira and Rabat (the capital) here, and I am cranky that I now can’t do so.  But there is no point in going to these places if I’m going to feel trapped inside my room the entire time, and I can’t guarantee I will be able to find a travel buddy like I did in Marrakech. So, bye bye, Morocco!

The best things about this place have been the nice resort surrounds, the fact that I can see the water from my balcony, and the food.  The food in Agadir is excellent, and I’ve had some of the best meals of my entire stay here.  Sticky, tangy fish tagines; tasty, caramelised lamb tagines; some orange and chocolate crepes that will stay with me for a while; creamy beetroot salad and of course, my favourite eggplant.  Would I ever come here again?  Sure, if I had a man with me.  I see these tourist girls in tiny little short shorts and tank tops with no bras, looking so very inappropriate, but they’re with a guy so I watch them and the men leave them alone.  Here’s me, covered from head to toe, hell I’d wear a damn sack if it would work, and I get hassled. Constantly.  They only respect other men here.  It’s messed up.

Le Promenade from Le Cafe

Interestingly, after I decided to leave I met a couple of really nice women and one nice guy, believe it or not.  One of the women is my cleaner here, I was here when she came in and we got talking in Frenglish (my Frenglish is excellent now) and had a bit of a laugh, something I didn’t realise I needed so badly until I was doing it.  She was affectionate and lovely and made me smile.  Also I was (finally) served by a woman at the little cafe I was previously talking about and there were some roses on the table which, when I was leaving, she wrapped in a serviette and gave to me,  just to be nice I think. She also shooed some touts away from me when I was eating.  Finally I didn’t realise until my second day here that my balcony sliding door didn’t lock, and I’m on a low floor so I needed it fixed.  They sent up a young maintenance guy, and even though I was annoyed when he first struck up some conversation with me (because I’m just so paranoid now – I thought he was going to either crack onto me, or say “my cousin does tours, you buy? Good price for you!”) I eventually conceded, rather grudgingly, that he was just being nice, although I still would have preferred silence, just in case he turned.  Anyway, he asked me what I thought of Morocco and I was honest.  I said “There is a lot of beauty here, it’s a fascinating country and I wish I could see more, but the behaviour of the men has ruined it and I’m leaving earlier than I planned”.  He seemed genuinely upset about it.  He said he was from a small town and the men there would never think of behaving like some of them do here.  He said it was rude and disrespectful, and it was the thing about the big cities and tourist places that they all find is the worst thing.  He said if I travelled off the beaten track I would find the nicest and friendliest people, and he is sad that people come here and only go to tourist spots and then leave thinking that all Moroccans are this way.  He finished by telling me to call down to reception for him if I needed him for anything or there was something he could do for me, and hoped that my time here improved.  That was nice to hear and he was nice to meet, but it was way too little, too late.  I went off the beaten track in Vietnam and it was weird and difficult.  I can’t imagine doing it here after the experiences I’ve had so far, especially when my French is so basic, and I doubt many of the villagers speak English.  

What an interesting time this has been.  It has been the land of dates and honey (although the honey tastes very strange here), oranges and tagines and French pastries and weirdly, good Moroccan wine, as well as the most incredible geography I’ve ever seen, not to mention that once in a lifetime Sahara trip.  I’ve met some nice people and stepped out of my comfort zone.  A paradoxical place, it has added extra flavour to my travel seasoning for sure!  For now let's just say that despite everything I am grateful for all of that good stuff, and am looking forward to the next part of the adventure.

Til Next We Speak

*LOVE*

N

Hillsongs and Hijabs

Distance Traveled:   32,120 kms (BNE-MEL-SYD-BKK-PKT-BKK-CNX-BKK-PP-SR-BB-PP-HCMC-NC-TH-HA-H-L-MR)

Time Difference: -10 hours (from Brisbane)

Soundtrack: Nothing specific atm.  I have been writing during the day with iTunes on shuffle and at night have been availing myself of the only English tv channel which is nonstop action movies.  I've gone from having seen about half a dozen in my entire life to doubling that, just in a few days.  I feel stupider for the experience.

Currently Inspired by: Space.  Seriously, get outside, somewhere quiet with nothing around or above you, and let your mind wander.  You might make some incredible discoveries!

Stacks:  Absolutely none, which is amazing when you hear what I've been up to.
Words written: 27,119.  I'm back baby!

Our Caravan

What is the first thing that pops into your head when someone mentions the Sahara Desert?  For me it’s miles upon miles of nothing but mountain-sized red sand dunes and David Attenborough rasping “the monitor lizard is a curious creature...”  How someone with such an annoying voice became a successful documentary narrator I’ll never know.  At any rate, the Sahara Desert is exactly like that (minus the voiceover).  For some reason when in it, you feel like you should speak softly.  It could be the lack of background noise, or perhaps the daunting scale of the place, or both.  It’s not until you’re away from civilisation that you realise how few and far between your moments of pure silence are, and I’m sure there is little silence quite like desert silence, anyway.  A perfect environment for my little thought experiment, and it was partially successful.  Unfortunately an irritating instance of human interference prevented me from seeing it through to its full potential, however, I am getting ahead of myself.  In order to start from the beginning, I need to actually get us TO the desert, no small task, and a narrative in itself.  So I shall take us back to last Saturday 7^th January, my last day and night in the Hotel Cecil near the Djemaa El Fna (old town, remember) before I left on the trek.  

I decided to head to the street food stalls for one last binge.  I have a particular penchant for the eggplant, they do it here in a way that I’ve never had it before and it is singularly addictive, and I know I shall miss it when I leave.  I miss it already and it’s only been a few days since I had it!  (For the ever-growing food album, click here).  As always I visited a few of the stalls and got one or two little things from each.  At the last place, I found the waiter to be overly familiar, putting his arm around me and his face too close to mine while we were talking, and it made me sigh.  I know I said previously that I wasn’t getting any hassle, but it took me a few days to realise that I was, in fact, getting hassled, just not in the way that I was expecting.  How it happens here is that the men stand too close to you when they talk to you, and in fact even striking up conversation with you in the street is not something they would ever do to a Moroccan woman (and no Moroccan woman would tolerate or encourage it).  Some of the really rude ones will attempt to hold your hand while they’re speaking with you, or guide you with their hand on your back, or in extreme cases put their arm around your shoulder.  Now, you might think “that’s not so bad”, some people might even consider it friendly.  Well it isn’t.  It’s a sign of serious disrespect. The ones that will do that are the ones that think western women are all whores and easy lays, and they are touching you in a way they wouldn’t DREAM of doing to a woman they respected.  It really sets my teeth on edge, because it’s disrespectful and also because I absolutely hate being touched by strangers for any reason anyway.  It’s interesting because I had mentally prepared myself for the worst, and some people might think that this kind of thing is better than being spit on or called a whore, but I actually don’t think so, it’s more underhanded, sleazier, and with the friendly face on it, its more difficult to get out of and therefore more intimidating.  If you say to them “don’t”, or move away from them, they pull this hurt, innocent act like “what? I didn’t do anything, no obligation, oh come on miss” and even though you know it’s an act, you still feel bad!   And if course you only ever deal with men, because women don’t really work here, something I’ve only recently noticed.

So the Sunday morning my paperwork directed me to wait at the local post office at 7am for the desert trip pickup.  Everything is so dodgy here.  A guy in an unmarked van had my name, picked me up and took me for a drive, saying he was going to drop me off at the bus.  Then we ended up outside the post office again.  I was like “what?” and he said “oh sorry I got a phone call saying that we are actually meeting here.”  Then he wanted the remainder of the cash for the trip, as I’d only paid a deposit, and even though he seemed like a nice and legitimate enough guy, I didn’t feel comfortable with that.  But he was like “if you don’t pay the rest, you can’t go I’m sorry” and eventually, after much humming and hawing, I decided to trust my instincts and give it to him.  This was fine.  Then we drove up to near where the entrance to my hotel was, and I got on another bus (so I could have just walked out the front of my hotel).  There was this bunch of five guys and a girl who had previously tried to get on the first bus and they first driver had told them they weren’t with us, and now they were grabbed by the second driver and put on the bus with me.  They were staying in my hotel, doing the same trip, and had been told to meet out the front.  So disorganised.  Anyway, we finally all got on our way.  They were a lovely bunch, all the guys were from NSW Central Coast and the girl was from Costa Rica and was dating one of the guys.  We got along well, and I was relieved.  You never know how these group things are going to work out.

It was when we were on the bus that our driver, Mohammed (no I’m not kidding.  Ahmet, Mohammed, Hassan or Khalid are I think the only four names I have heard here.  Inventive!) told us that we’d be arriving at our hotel around 5pm that day, and we’d be making many stops for photos, food and village visits along the way. The trek was advertised to me as a three day, two night Sahara desert trip, and I didn’t realise that it would take so long to get there.  Nor did the others in the bus, after we discussed it.  This is another problem here.  From what is advertised to what you get, there is a severe decline in quality / quantity / services.  They either exaggerate the benefits, hide costs, add compulsory extras or simply lie, to get you to purchase the item or tour, or whatever it is.  The hotel in which I am currently staying lied online not only about its location (it stated it was in the Medina, and it’s a twenty minute walk) but also about having wifi in the rooms (public areas only).  As location and in-room wifi are my major, non-negotiable requirements, this means that I would not have chosen this hotel had they not misrepresented themselves.  I spoke with management about it, and there was no apology, no offer of a discount, merely a lackadaisical shrug of the shoulders and a “I’ll get the tech to look at it”.  Ugh.  Needless to say, this hotel will be getting an EXTREMELY poor online review from me, and I’ll be speaking with the service I used to book who are usually more scrupulous in their attention to detail.  This is not the end of it, but until I check out I’d like to keep the relationship amicable on the surface.  I don’t trust anyone here.

One of the many beautiful views

The drive to the desert is worthy of its own excursion, really.  I don’t where else in the world you get to see geography like this, in one country.  Some of the guys were saying “this bit is like Peru” and others, later “this reminds me of Arizona”, but it was ever-changing and each section seemed to give way only to another more beautiful view.  It was all of it in fact, like nothing I’d ever seen.  Even though the drive took all day I never tired of gazing out of the window, or getting out for photographs.  On the first day we negotiated the Atlas mountains, from the lower red ones dotted with green, past the highest peak at 4200 feet, which was barren rock and blanketed in snow.  Really, there is so much of this place that is, I imagine for fairly practical reasons, untouched.  No wonder they films so many movies here!  The landscape is truly incredible.  It has to be seen in full 3D, with the entire breathtaking scope laid out in front of you, but I really tried to catch some of the more beautiful bits in my photos.

Location was the only good thing

That evening we arrived at our “hotel”, nestled on a mountainside.  It wasn’t a hotel, in fact, it was a hostel and the guy at the front tried to stick me in a room with a bunch of others.  I absolutely refused, and he gave me a room of my own.  His vengeance came no doubt in the form of the quality of the room he gave me.  Not only was it the coldest room I have ever been in my life (the Atlas mountains are unforgivably cold and windy) but it had no heating, and the window didn’t seal.  The problems didn’t end there.  I shall now quote from the notes I scribbled whilst sitting in the hellhole, shivering and counting the seconds until dinner.

The curtain

“Some of you may recall me telling you about the worst hostel in the world, which I encountered in Amsterdam with my girlfriend Esther about four years ago.  I am writing this on the bed of a hotel in Morocco, which makes that place look like the Surfers Paradise Marriott.  Of all the shitty shitholes I have seen in my day, this is the shitholiest shithole of them all.  Upon walking in, one is immediately greeted by the sad and torn piece of material that passes for a curtain.  I suspect it is the mildew on it that is keeping it in one piece.  Next, the nostrils are assailed by an unmistakeable stench. Bill Bryson once wrote about a smelly hotel room “I suspect the previous occupant had not so much suffered from incontinence, as rejoiced in it”.  I believe he was staying here.  If hell actually has frozen over, as in “hell will freeze over before I return to this establishment”, then it’s possible we have stumbled into it. It’s easily around zero degrees, and my improperly sealed window, ancient and meagre blanket and filthy stone floor are doing little to mitigate the cold.  What’s that you say?  Have a nice hot shower?  Gladly, as soon as I find some kind of plastic glove with which to peel back the filthiest shower curtain in the world.

Bathroom

The nasty foam mattress (NB: actually it was two narrow mattresses shoved together, which proceeded to separate during the night and deposit me lovingly onto the stone floor), permanently indented by the thousands who have lain on it, shivering and miserable before me, is “covered” in a flimsy old sheet that has several tears in it.  I feel the sheet is attempting to mock the ceiling, whose haphazard paint job is also coming down in large mouldy chunks.  To nicely cap off the joys of this room, the previous occupant (and cleaners, if there are any) left me a thoughtful gift in the slimy soap tray.  As this is now the second time this is happened, please remind me to double check, next time I am booking a room, that I have not accidentally specified “Room With A Pube” in the special requirements box without realising it.”

As you can imagine, I wasn’t in the greatest mood when I wrote that, in fact I was nearly crying at the prospect of having to stay in that place.  However there are two philosophies that have served me well whilst travelling.  The first is that the best experiences are usually hard won, and the second is that there are very few problems that you encounter along the way that can’t be fixed, or at least greatly improved, by giving yourself an attitude adjustment.  With this in mind, I played Angry Birds, smashed the hell out of some pigs, stuck on a fake smile and started to feel excited about the next day.  Dinner was fun and we all got to know each other a bit better, and some people from the other buses who were also staying there.

When we got into the bus in the morning, Mohammed advised us that actually we would not be arriving to the desert til about 4pm that day.  So we were now on the second day of our three day “desert trek” and we weren’t going to get to the desert until the end of it.  How were we going to get any time in the Sahara and get back by the next day?  We asked and it turns out, we were just riding the camels for an hour or so to the camp that night, having dinner, going to bed, getting up at dawn and riding the camels back, and then driving for about 12 hours back to Marrakech, on a slightly more direct route and without any but the most necessary stops.  So our grand desert adventure consisted of almost three full days of driving, and approximately 12 hours in the desert, 8 of which were spent asleep (or trying to sleep.  Another bad night).  Do you see what I mean about the way things are advertised here?  Anyway, there was nothing we could do about it, so we just did our best to suck up as much from the surrounds and the drive as we possibly could, and determined to appreciate every second that we actually got to spend in the actual Sahara. 

I called him Percy

Having said all of that, once we got there it was totally worth it, and I would do it again.  I had a similar experience riding a camel through the desert as I did riding an elephant through the jungle, in that I sat there going “I’m riding a camel through the Sahara” over and over.  And to be technically correct, they were Dromedary Camels (one hump).  These are the main type in the Sahara.  I don’t think I’ve been as excited or nervous as I was when our caravan walked right along the edge of a giant sand “bowl”, almost like walking right along the edge of a mountain and looking down at a close to sheer drop of easily twenty metres.  I imagined tumbling down into it.  How the hell would you get out?  Sand is tough to climb, as we were all to discover later.  

The sun went down not long after we got to camp, turning everything around us into dark red fire and casting some absolutely terrific shadows.  We sat on cushions in the tent and had probably the best tagine I’ve had since I got here, and after dinner most (at the time I thought all) of the camp decided to go for a walk, so I decided to take the opportunity to sit alone in the darkness and silence on a nearby dune, and send my thoughts out into the air and see what happened!  Much faster than I expected, I had a couple of revelations, one major and one minor (neither of which belong on these pages) and I was keen to continue, when I was interrupted by one of the Berber desert guides, who sat and started a fire and began pointing out the constellations.  I was annoyed, but remained polite, he seemed like a nice friendly young man and I stupidly credited him with the best intentions.  However he kept finding excuses to sit closer to me and even though I was becoming more and more standoffish he eventually lunged at me, which I evaded.  I gave him a stern reproach, and he was very embarrassed and kept apologising, but unfortunately it was too late.  He had ruined my peace and quiet, and now I was tense and keenly awaiting the return of the others, which didn’t happen for another hour or so, the longest of my life.  After that things got fun again, we all sat in a big circle (there was another group there too, probably around thirty of us in total) and chatted and laughed until bedtime.  I had been given a tent to myself, but I swapped with the couple from my bus and slept in with the four guys, because I still didn’t entirely trust the situation.

I have never been so cold.  One of the liabilities of there being so much of nothing in the desert is that there is nothing to trap the heat, and sand which gets burning hot during the day turns to ice in an extremely short period of time.  Not used to roughing it and slightly manic from my lack of sleep the night before, I tossed and turned uncomfortably for most of the night, hurting from the hard ground and trying to stay warm, despite the ten million blankets.  It’s like my head just wouldn’t accept that my body was warm, is the best way I can describe it.  At around 6am and in the pitch dark, they woke us up, we packed, jumped on our camels and rode back, only stopping to watch the sunrise, and then did the 12 hour drive back to Marrakech, stinky and sandy.  And still... I need to repeat, it was worth it, and I’d do it again.  So that should give you an indication of how amazing that place is.

To see the photos of everything I have described, click here.

I’ve been kind of holed up since I got back.  I have an apartment with a kitchenette so I did a grocery shop and have been cooking food which seems like a fun novelty, and is saving me some money.  Morocco is not cheap.  The accommodation is, compared to Australia, and you can get some good bargains at the markets if you are here to shop, but transport and food, my main purchases, are fairly equivalent in most places, unless you spend ages hunting a bargain, which you can do in any country.  I have really done everything I wanted to do in this city, so I have been staying in and writing which, you can see, has been good for the book’s progress.  I think I will stay longer at places rather than hopping around so much, in order to get some writing in as well as sightseeing.  Frankly I prefer staying in here anyway, because I am so so so so so sick of being stared at by the men here.  I have bought a large, thick, full length robe with a hood (hijab).  I wear long pants and long sleeves, hair back, robe over the top with hood up, sunglasses, fake wedding ring, no makeup, and they still just stare and stare wherever I go.  It’s starting to fill me with rage, so I think it’s best I spend some good time indoors!  At least it’s good for my writing.

Tomorrow I'm off south-west to a coastal town called Agadir, which I can't think of without singing "Agadoo-doo-doo, push pineapple, shake the tree". And now I have shared the pain with you.  Have an awesome day!

Til Next We Speak

*LOVE*

N