Salam All, Seven months, almost to the day, since I took my little vacation from the forum, yes, I missed it, but I did from time to time, read some of your posts and was pleased to see the forum still going strong. I read this blog today and found it interesting, good at times even, but as you may see, ok at others. The writer is a lady from Melbourne, Australia. I like her writing even though I may not agree with her opinion. A bit long, you’re warned.!!!
Good to be home again and to see that many old-timers are still here...i'll try no to have any more long ones..
Salam All Almot
THURSDAY, APRIL 13, 2006 Last days of Morocco
Dearest A, As I am resting up in Essaourira for a few days I thought I’d take the opportunity to settle my affairs – got to four different banks to change travellers cheques, spend three hours on the Internet before realising Hotmail is rooted, oh, and not find a post office. Just your average day in Morocco! Why I wasted so much time fluffing around with postcards, banks and so on is still beyond me. Once you stay in a small place long enough, the hassle lessens and people start to be genuinely friendly. Last night I walked down the main drag and it was v. reminiscent of the opening scene of ‘Saturday Night Fever’ – I was nodding left and right, bonjour-ing and ca-va-ing to all the handsome shop keepers, high-fiveing to the little kids – it was very funny. Except for flapping lapels, I had a bright orange scarf on my head.
I also keep having chats to this hippie Mohammed, who sells jewellery. He reckons he knows Neil Young and Mick Jagger, and assures me that Nick Cave visits every year with his family. However Mohammed wants my husband and I to come back to his house for cous cous “with a few Fatimas”, whatever that means. He also hopes this will not make me jealous.
Last night I met some men in a v non-touristy little leather goods shop. I wanted a tiny pouch to hang around my neck under my clothes, and expected to be quoted the usual outrageous price. I reeled back when they said 25 dirhams (about $4)! However, I had to come back tomorrow. The next morning I came back to watch him work. He cut out two bits of leather with amazing accuracy, just by using shears, threaded them through the bag and adjusted them around my neck. He made a little fringed tassel for the ends and glued it in place with some gum from an old jar, using his finger. He then sewed everything in place, having a bit of trouble threading the needle as he was nearly blind.
Chuffed with the excellent little bag I gave him 30 dirhams and he tried to give me change! I told him to keep it for tea, and he was so chuffed with me that he shook my hand, murmuring Arabic endearments. This from a bloke who was not exactly doing a roaring trade, and who had obviously sat in the same seat for the last 50 years!
You may have found it yourself overseas, but it’s sometime hard to find ‘kindred spirits’, or people with a similar sense of humour. Everyone I’ve met have been great, but sometimes they just nod patiently and go ‘yeah’ (hey, people do this at home too!). x
THINGS I WILL NEVER DO IN MAROC 1. Catch a nice CTM bus 2. Eat pastilla 3. Go to a hammam
Back in the big smoke again in a dust storm. Got room in the Hotel Colbert – hassled in the middle of my shower for 10 dirham – went later and yelled at guy in lobby. This is it – one month is my limit with Moroccan men, they are well & truly pissing me off. Am feeling v. shitty as I rang M&D – got cut off as usual and they didn’t sound too pleased to hear from me. I also feel apprehensive about Mauritania. Is weird to be going to another country – I have to get used to everything again, but am looking forward to Senegal. Casablanca is filthy and grimy – after the rain the streets are v slippery and hard to walk on – YUK. POSTED BY BOO AT 9:16 AM 0 COMMENTS WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12, 2006 Agadir - Essaouira
Cats again! This time from Q…
Subject: Just SWEETIE!!! Date: Saturday 16th October 1999
Boo!! See I got your attention, didn’t I? wow! Reading your words, I thought that I was reading an adventurous novel…it are full of bizaar characters, moments of anguish, moments of excitement, moments of “wow” – it is likely to exist in a fiction…but no! you live it.
For my part, Mali is quite normal! It is no longer an adventure, an ‘everyday live’. I am quite sad today for it is that my little kitty passed away. It’s even sadder that I mostly responsible for its death…and I cannot do much to resolve the situation.
I was in Bamako about a week ago, biking around the city to get things done, I saw a ‘white ball of cotton’ strolled and cried for its mum and home. So, the only thing right for me to take it in…so I did. The kitty was so cute – 5-7 days old, yet it knew how to drink without its mum’s bossom. However with hand-feeding, kitty was doing ok. I had to take care of the little ‘monster’ for a few weeks…well the whole week the kitty had diarhea and it couldn’t eat much…however I have to travel to the capital again and kitty had to travel with me. The ride to the capital was long and it was hot! Kitty was in a small box and when I realized that kitty had been overheated and suffocated by the heat and its sickness…I gave the kitty CPR and tried my best to rescue kitty. It got a bit better and yet was too late….
I layed kitty next to the river Niger…gave it a kiss…and said I really love it…and begged it for forgiveness! My neglect had caused kitty’s death. It was so young and lovely! I wish there is a heaven for all kitties. It is sad to know that kitty had not been given a name. Rebecca dear! Sorry to tell you such a sad story. I just need to have someone to tell to and I just know that you would understand how I feel. I didn’t know the first thing about this raving madman at this stage, apart from the brief meeting in Casablanca.. I hope Senegal shall give you a nice hospitality, so, lovely travel and I shall wait for you on this sub-desert land, Mali. I could not wait to see you again…we shall travel together if you’d that!
I am yet again having a good chortle at all your funny e-mails, although the incidence of people saying how boring Melbourne is, is rather high. At least Melbournians don't poo in the shower, as in Essaouira, but I won't bore you with the details.
Essaouria (pronounced SSSSaweera in Arabic) is a small coastal town six hours south of Casablanca, famous for its fish and big brass cannons pointing out to sea. It is jolly nice, and I am recovering from the excesses of the mountainside, and have a wee cold, or as a local put it 'la grippe'. We holed up in the yukky tourist town of Agadir for a while, waiting for our washing to come back from the laundry. That Moroccan feeling was curiously absent - I even saw a rich lady walking a poodle, and no other tourists responded to my cheery 'bonjour'. The dive we were staying at turned out to be a brothel downstairs, and I didn't get 2 seconds' peace on the beach.
I had decided it was time for us to part ways - i was keen to get to Essaouira, and the boys wanted to go surfing just north of the town. I also didn't think my lungs and liver would stand up to their company much longer, and was starting to be a bit of a boy myself, forgetting to take showers and so on. I also find that when I a with other people, I become a bit less self sufficient - I was speaking French and Arabic less, and had strange cravings for pizza.
So I found myself in the seedy bus station in Agadir, thinking I'd made the right decision, but also quite blue and a bit teary at being on my own again. But in about 10 minutes, I was conversing with three Canadians who were also stuck in Imlil, and a French couple, all of whom were heading to Essaouira. After one of the most rickety bus journeys in Morocco (my arse even left the seat at some stages) and smelly (teenagers smoked dope continuously in front of me) we arrived at sundown by the ramparts, and found rooms at the Hotel Beau Rivage in the central square. The hassle here is remarkably low, and I even felt a bit neglected last night, as not even one person bellowed 'WHAT YOUR LOWEST PRICE' at me.
I had breakfast on the terrace with the Canadians, and we had a fantastic view. To the right about 10k's of sandy beach, a craggy island in the middle of the bay complete with disused prison, circling falcons, ramparts on either side, and to the left a busy port with old-fashioned looking boats hauling up their catch. I fluttered about the town today in a v. theatrical orange headscarf, and my belly is full of garlic, olives, bananas and sardines.
Now for business: for all you unsubtle buggers NO I HAVEN'T GOT ANY LOVIN' YET, so stop asking! I will keep you posted! Or maybe I won't!!! Thankyou Mum for the Bold and the Beautiful update, I am desolate at Amber's plight, maybe she could adopt a little Chinese baby? Or even a Romanian orphan? To Cazz, I am dying to see a movie in North Africa, however the cinemas seem to be the preserve of adolescent male Moroccans, so I will wait until I have a large group about me before i venture in! X
And from Mum and the Aunty…
Becca, While you were on the Marrakech Express I was on the Geelong almost express…..I got a video last night ‘Hideous Kinky’, set in Marrakech in the 70s with Kate Winslet. It seemed to show Morocco as you would be seeing it, but I’m sure you would have more sense than Kate Winslet in the film…..However have just read your mountain adventures with the boys from Balwyn. I’m certainly glad I didn’t know about it at the time. What if it hadn’t stopped raining, or there had been more than 1 man. It doesn’t bear thinking about x POSTED BY BOO AT 10:50 AM 0 COMMENTS SUNDAY, APRIL 09, 2006 A Wizard Adventure
Date: Friday 15th October 1999 I wrote this overlong email as a story, until today, unpublished!
The Balwyn boys had long been concocting the idea of a three day trek in the High Atlas Mountains; starting from Imlil, an obscure Berber village right near Morocco's highest peak, Jebel Toubkal. Being a total health and fitness fanatic, I think this sounds grand - I can see myself strolling peacefully about rugged scenery, thermos in one hand, hard-boiled egg in the other, chatting amiably with kindly and picturesque Berber locals. This fantasy was too good - I figure the desert could wait for a while.
We catch an ancient bus from Marrakech to Asni, a scruffy patch of mud about 10k's from Imlil. After three hours of continual piercing and high-decibel Moroccan music onboard, we are not prepared for the onslaught of traders at the bus stop. We decide we have to depart Asni as soon as possible, and quickly load our backpacks onto the nearest minivan. As usual, the locals have another agenda - a group is squabbling over a stalled car, and busily attach it to our van with what appears to be bits of twine. Standing in a row, we try not to laugh as it breaks time and time again, then jump back in alarm as the two vehicles roar off. Ben sprints down the road to catch it, and emerges about ten minutes later, his chin glistening with Hrira. "It's gone. Just hooned off 'round the corner. I couldn't catch it." Michael kicks the mud glumly with his boot, as Steve, ever-gentle and polite, fobs off a group of hustlers. It looked as if we were suck here for a while.
As inexplicably as it departed the minivan returns, groaning with happy locals. At least our bags are still in place. Michael finds a spot up the front with a red-haired Berber woman and her child, while Ben, Steve and myself are tucked into the back row with an old guy and a rapidly-shedding bale of straw. For the next hour and a half, we, and about fifteen others are treated to some of the most awe-inspiring views in Morocco - clay kasbahs, olive trees in little groves, plains, terraced crops, rugged snow-covered peaks, villages crouching under rocky outcrops, and all with the trickling, sparkly Mizane River coursing along the valley. The balding tyres of the minivan are used on every angle, as the driver roars dangerously around pebbly bends, defying the roadside goats and chickens to get in his way.
In Imlil, we hole up at the Café Soleil, a place that, as our guidebook tells us, washed away in 1995 during one of the biggest floods of Morocco. Well, that was OK. The spun-cotton clouds drifting slowly down the mountainsides as we wait for our tagine don't look like they'd do much damage. The grim manager is one of Morocco's unfriendliest, but the food is great and the views incredible, so we are happy, and consequently sleep like logs in the cold mountain air.
The next morning we are up yawning at the windows, to see that the weather has grown disturbingly dark and rainy. The chattering wee brook has grown into a colossal monster, roaring hungrily in a brown gush over the now-impassable bridge. We grill every local source in Imlil for expected weather conditions, and get the usual Moroccan jumble of conflicting ideas - part sales talk, part fortune-telling, mostly confusing hand gestures. We have to assume from this that they are trying to sell us a guide, so reason that as it is only drizzling, we will be OK. But first we have to cross that damn river.
After an hour of mad scrambling about on wet rocks, and blackberry vines that clutch at my skirt, I'm beat. Surely people don't do this sort of thing for fun, in this age of cars, helicopters and motorised scooters. But the boys are understanding, and Michael generously offers a hand to help me over the slipperier bits. I nearly weep with gratitude when we reach the high concrete bridge above Imlil's only river - O God I realise - we are still in Imlil.
For the next two hours we lurch, stumble, stride and edge our way through some pretty amazing countryside. Whilst sidling past cows in the high passes I find that my hastily-learned Berber expressions have absolutely no effect. When I direct "La bes darim" to a passing Berber woman, it is returned with a polite "Bonjour Madame". So much for being culturally sensitive. My long skirt is becoming distinctively soggy - hell, there are even some tourists up ahead wearing shorts. Two Berber women (identified by their colourful clothes, leggings and stripey skirts) offer me some nuts and sign urgently 'Leave the boys alone, come and stay in our house'. They pluck at my skirt, gasping in horror at the gleam of pale leg, and scuttle off, giggling.
Puffing mightily I move on, always twenty metres behind the Balwyn boys. After another hour of this I am ragged. Having no pride in these matters, I stop to tell them I am thinking of turning back and lie groaning on the ground, with my pack still on, like an upended tortoise. Again, I am touched by the boys' generosity and patience. Ben brews up a lifesaving cup of coffee, which we all pass around with some biscuits I find in my pack. We take a well-earned breather in the drizzle, while clouds drift past our heads. They agree to stop whenever I want and urge me on, saying it is probably only a couple of hours to Ouansekra.
So we continue on, with me lamenting quietly. By this stage we are completely surrounded by cloud, and the drizzle has increased to a steady pour - despite our waterproof gear, we are soaked through to the skin. Two hours later when we get to the top of the mountain (imagine the pebble slopes from 'Monkey', I half expect someone to run out in flippers and bad makeup), we find a tiny weather-beaten shed with the obligatory Coke sign on top, and a man eager to make a sale. To his chagrin, he finds us unwilling to ingest any more liquids, and reluctantly advises us the road ahead to Ouansekra is fine.
As we tramp off, it is getting seriously stormy and kind of dark. Better to press on ahead rather than go back over that river. I am getting more drenched and tired, and both my feet have developed blisters on each heel. By an amazing stroke of luck, two men and their donkeys trudge past, and offer to carry our packs. This is one of our many lessons in the 'nothing comes for free' attitude of the Moroccans, and we gratefully shell out 100 dirhams for the favour. In the now driving rain the two men struggle with a flapping sheet of plastic, eventually securing it over our backpacks with bits of rope. The ever-patient donkeys stand uncomplaining at this extra baggage, and blink drearily in the soaking rain. The donkey men are friendly though, and one even gives me a bendy walking stick to negotiate my way down the rough pathway.
Now I am exhilarated and ready to fly off down the mountain with the delight of no pack. I consider that even my underwear is wet, but this doesn't bother me in the slightest, as I lustily sing a personal selection from the 'Sound of Music'. Of course the boys and the Moroccans are hundreds of metres ahead of me, and I imagine them strolling into Ouansekra, negotiating a comfortable bed and huge dinner in a welcoming local household. I am woken from my reverie by Michael, quickly rounding a corner. He tells me they passed a bloke from Imlil who told them a river had sprung up between us and Ouansekra. It would be best to turn back. I swear loudly, but looking about the ravaged hillsides can see why. Mini-mudslides are tumbling over the path, and waterfalls springing up everywhere are dislodging large clay-ey rocks from the upper slopes. The clouds are too thick to penetrate through to the valley floor below, however to cut straight downhill would be impossible.
Michael sprints off to consort with the guys about turning back, while I wait near an ever-increasing wall of water. Shit, it looked as though the landscape was crumbling around our ears, and we were right in the middle of it. I swear some more, picking my way across the flooded path. With some sort of endless energy reserve, Michael bounds back to say the unanimous verdict is to keep going, and that the donkey men believe it is possible to cross any river. I hobble down the mountain, my shredded heels sending hot and urgent messages of pain all the way up my legs.
Michael and I catch up with the others and gasp. An incredible torrent of water is rushing from between two slopes, bouncing and thrashing against larger slopes and hurtling down into the gloom. Even the placid donkeys shy away from it, and I must admit I am doing some shying myself. The donkey men stand scratching their beards as though they have all day, while Steve and Ben trek further uphill to see if the river gets any narrower. From my vantage point (where I have sunk to my knees in horror) it looks like a torn-up, blasted, confusing tangle of immense rocks and stones, impassable by foot or hoof.
Michael then has the bright idea of leading the pack donkey through the stream. Figuring out a tenuous path he braves the water, jumping and sliding from one slippery surface to another and wading in thigh-deep to emerge triumphant on a calm bit in the middle. He motions to one of the men to shove the animal with our packs towards him, which he does reluctantly, standing back again with his hands on his hips. We all watch nervously while Michael tames the skittish donkey, encouraging it to walk straight, even though the water threatens to sweep it off its' wobbly legs. With flattened ears and unsteady trot, the donkey makes it to the opposite bank, while Ben, Steve and I cheer Michael's bravery. Then it is time for us to cross. The second donkey is emboldened by the first, so the Moroccans get it across with little fuss. Ben hops nimbly from outcrop to outcrop, only splashing in up to his calves. Steve jumps ahead, urging me to brave it, while I lift up my skirt and bare my shameful legs, caring little for the Moroccans' sensibilities.
We trudge up the little dip in the land (I have to hold my sodden skirt aloft in order to walk) and yell with pleasure. Through the rain, Ouansekra floats in the distance, the soft light in every window giving the mud-walled village a magical appearance. Passing some dilapidated sheds on the hill, we reason that it was just as well, as it is 5:00 in the afternoon and starting to get dark. Talking and singing excitedly, we trot down the steep hill, our glum and trudging mood suddenly transformed.
The descent of the hill reveals an awful sight - another river blocks our path, this time genuinely impassable. Energetic spouts of brown water shoot down the gully, directly in front of Ouansekra. The roar of water seems to increase with the steady bucketing of rain as we gape at it, arms hanging limply by our sides, soaked, exhausted. We have to find shelter. I stamp about in a circle, vowing to break down the doors to the sheds we had passed, but the donkey men are disapproving. We toil up the hill again to take a closer look - one shack has a partially-destroyed roof, while the other is completely flooded. I inspect the padlocks on the other two sheds, and announce that if I had enough strength, I would kick the door in. One of the men disappears down the hill to yell to the villagers for the key - I would have loved to see the local chucking it over the torrent to him. The Balwyn boys stand in a sopping, dispirited line, hands wedged firmly in pockets. Ben is finding it hard to move his arms, and I am finding it hard to get the other shivering boys to move at all. I am too scared and mad to keep still and circle about, wondering aloud why I can't break down any damn door I want to. Incredibly, the key doesn't sink to a watery grave, but is borne briskly uphill and into its place in the padlock.
Sodden and frozen to the bone, we survey our new home. For a low-ceilinged 5 by 3 metre mud hut, a tiny deep-set barred window, and two huge moulding piles of potatoes (which the men generously shovel away with a bucket), it is a palace. Throwing all modesty to the winds, we strip off our wet clothes, hang them off the roof beams, and plunge into warm and dry sleeping bags. So we settle into a little circle on some old potato crates and take our bearings. Luckily the donkey men and their beasts are in the hut next door, as we are pretty cramped. The gale has blown up outside, the roof develops dozens of drips, and mud spatters occasionally from the roof with a shock, usually on someone's head. As long as we can keep our stuff dry we will be OK. We spend an hour shifting around the wet bits for the best spot and look at the time. 6:30!!!! It is going to be a long evening.
With the light almost gone we decide to cook up some grub on the boys' Trangia stove. With Ben near the low shelf on one wall, Steve and I on the potato crates and Michael in the corner on his tent fly, we eat a terrific meal of pasta, tuna, mushrooms, onions and tomatoes, shovelled out of the bottoms of old water bottles, sharing the only fork and spoon. One of the men crowds inside to present us with two candles to make our hotel more complete, and the shed actually looks kind of cosy in the warm fuzzy glow. When warming up I have a quiet panic to myself. What if we are stuck here for weeks? There is only enough food for two days, and the water is running out. What if the roof caved in? The rain certainly isn't easing off, and Steve reported a new river right outside our door. While these unhappy thoughts fly about, the boys' relaxed attitude start to rub off, and Ben lights up the first of many joints that night.
The toilet situation is dire "Just stick ya dick out the door, Michael", and I have to hop outside in the dark, blisters chafing against sodden boots, cursing my anatomy. Ben proclaims he won't go another step in wet boots, and sets up a nifty drying apparatus over the Trangia, which we all huddle around for comfort. Not to be outdone, Steve invents speakers for the Walkman out of the leftover ends of the water bottles, and stuffs the earpieces into the ends. Although I hadn't thought it possible, we eventually drift off with the tinny sounds of Bob Dylan in the air. At about midnight the drips from the ceiling gradually stop, and we poke our heads outside to Ben's shout - it is a clear, cloudless, magnificent night, with thousands of stars! Ben abandons his ideas of cutting out a fireplace and holing up for the winter on a potato-only diet, and thinks it a good time to set up camp outside on the drystone wall. Again, we sleep.
At 6:30 the next morning it is light enough to stagger out and survey the damage. The river near our door is now a gurgling creek, the donkeys quietly crop the grass in front of the sheds, and the sun starts to trace its' way down the side of the mountain range, where a fresh dusting of snow lies on its peaks. The donkey men have been up for a while tending to their animals, and we marvel at how rugged they are. From a distance, we can hear the trademark sounds of a village waking up - roosters crowing, donkeys braying, bells ringing - obviously Ouansekra has survived the flood. It is calm and breathtaking at the same time, so we hang our clothes in the sun to dry on some trees, and sit down to drink it in.
I decide my raw feet aren't going to take another two days of hiking, and think it safe enough to trek back to Imlil, alone in the sunshine. The Balwyn boys consider the previous evening to be a minor inconvenience, and load up their stuff, impatient to take on the mountains again! So we part ways (promising to meet in two days), amid the confusing babble of a group of locals, all eager to take advantage of our situation. I secure the smaller of the donkey men to ferry me back for another 100 dirham.
Perched up on the wide back of the donkey with my headscarf and sunnies, I am in heaven - clear skies, a magnificent vista of endless coloured peaks, happy feet and a little humming Berber man to lead the way. That is, until he hops on in front of me, arranging my legs on the beast like a load. I have seen Moroccans ride donkeys side-saddle, and this is not it. Mohammed wants me to wrap my arms and legs around him while he steers the animal. No way. I keep shifting back, and he keeps squeezing me forward firmly as though I am his prize goat - even slapping and pinching my outstretched legs with approval. I blanch, wishing I had slipped on leggings, but it is too late. Protests that I am married fail - I keep gesturing to the mountain, saying in French that my husband would be slightly miffed, but Mohammed is not to be deterred. I spend an annoying hour trying to get him to stop turning around to kiss me - 2000 year-old blackened teeth, patchy beards and ears that fold over in the middle aren't exactly my speed. So I have to weigh up my throbbing feet versus the road, and unfortunately the feet win.
We stop at the same lonely Coke stand at the summit to pause for some tea. Mohammed turns snaky, insisting I pay for his glass too. I peer into my wallet and realise I have no more small change left. The stallholder insists I pay it to the hotel manager later on, and takes my last precious tin of tuna as a down payment. Mohammed taps his forehead, whining for any drugs I might have in my bag. These guys are seriously starting to piss me off. Then the final straw. Mohammed insists our journey is complete, and that I pay him his money sharpish. The two men look menacing. Calling them both sons of jackals, I limp off downhill, shouldering the damp and heavy pack for the journey ahead.
Imlil sparkles invitingly in the valley, however I know I have a good three hours ahead of me yet. Again, the spirit is willing but the flesh becoming very weak. As I roar the lyrics to 'A Few of my Favourite Things', I notice a few grey clouds come in over the mountain range behind me. I hasten my step. I hope the boys will be OK. The landscape is completely altered during the descent - I realise the dangerous river we forded in the rain has disappeared and that I can see dozens of villages like Ouansekra, deep into the multicoloured Atlas Mountains. The only remainder of last night is the occasional stretch of path that has washed away, and left deep vertical grooves in its place. Apart from the ominous clouds in the distance, the sun is getting quite strong.
I think I meet some of the best and worst Moroccans on that mountainside - gaggles of threadbare children pester me for chocolate and push my pack, some want me to stay in their house for a modest 200 dirhams, and one little boy even shows me his willie. On the positive side, a kindly old couple help me and my shaking legs across a stream and one man leads me down an excellent path, cracking walnuts off the trees for me to eat, and assuring me I am the most beautiful woman he's ever met. I arrive on the wrong side of Imlil and goggle at how much the stream has swollen. Leaning tiredly against a rock, I am only spurred on by a clan of wasps that refuse to leave me alone. I leap up shrieking, and a curious group of villagers burst out laughing.
I stagger into Imlil at 2:30 and fall face down in the crucifix position, on the cool floor of the hotel lobby. The manager (taking the meaning of the word 'surly' to new extremes) stands at the doorway as though he wants to vacuum me out of the way. When I make it clear that I am going to buy not only food, but a room for the next few nights, he disappears into the kitchen, visibly relieved.
After a feed, a freezing shower and lengthy doze, I am quite restored. I spend the next two days pottering about, treating my swollen feet and putting my pack to rights. On the evening of the second day, the boys return victorious from their trek, arriving at the Café Soleil just as it starts to rain again. They had a great time (albeit on Coke and muesli rations), passing through Ouansekra, Arg (how I'd longed to go there, just for the name!) and staying in Imska in the sociable Berber household of my imagination. Quizzing the manager, we realise how lucky we'd been - the rains are worse than those in 1995, and the army is moving in, fixing up large sections of road. The boys report that we are now completely cut off. On the hike back to the village they saw a 4WD belly up, with smashed windows after it had plunged down a crevasse. It looks like we will embark on another trek to get out of Imlil. After the boys dry out their stuff, and we gobbled down the fourth plastic cheese omelette in a row, we are quite ready to depart by foot, under any weather conditions.
The hotel has developed a kind of siege culture of omelette-devouring foreigners, with a trio of Canadians, a handful of Americans, and even a bus full of stranded Czechs, who pass the time by playing volleyball in the square, trying not to think about their expiring visas. Ben is up all night playing poker with the Canadians and their New Zealand friend, and the manager is very disturbed by the sounds of bongo drums and laughter echoing down his tidy corridors.
He glares at us accusingly from the doorway as we toil off into the drizzle the next day, to ensure we leave for good. We have to pick our way around the tremendous rocks which now form the bed of the valley, and soon enough, I find myself lagging behind again. Like our adventure on the mountaintop, it is becoming quite grey and drizzly, and as we pick our way around the eroded inclines on the road, Imlil disappears from view behind us in the mist. We are followed by a succession of small boys, dressed up like mini-gangsters in their second-hand suits, who insist the river is too swollen up ahead to walk alongside it. Because of my previous experience with Morocco's children, I am disinclined to believe them, and protest loudly when the Balwyn boys start climbing up the vertical cliff to avoid the river. Michael literally has to haul me up those muddy slopes - with my bulky pack on the back and daypack on the front, a single stagger would have sent me flying. We all have to clamber about using our hands as well, as the treacherous clay and rock slopes are steep.
Halfway up, we meet our Canadian and New Zealand friends from the night before, and stop for a breather to admire the valley. Again, rocks are clattering and skipping about us in the rain, so we have to hurry on while the kids ahead of us trot about us like goats, always out of reach. Finally we come to a recognisable stretch of road, and skid downhill in the mud. The gangster-kids I have been cursing all along, stand in a row and high-five us as we come off the mountain, and motion us to a smooth rock, perfect for collapsing upon. We look up at a battered and rusty sign, and realise we are at a bus stop - civilisation! POSTED BY BOO AT 1:07 PM 0 COMMENTS FRIDAY, APRIL 07, 2006 Marrakech, sweeties Subject: Dad's second letter, again Date: 4th October 1999
Dearest Boo, lovely to hear from you and the excitement of being on the move. The Gaz is back from Noosa and rang to find out about your departure. He and I had a long talk about your bravery and he asked (as delicately as he could, which is not subtle) 'how much money did she take?' I told him, as briefed, that I didn't know but it was substantial (ho!) he's a nosey bugger.
East Timor is looking like it's been brought under control, but the Indonesian Government are starting to blame Australia for pressuring them into holding the referendum which sparked the genocide! Malaysia are joining in too saying they don't want white people in Asia. It seems that racism is alive and well in parts of Asia. Unfortunately it looks as if Australia will be isolated by the fors and the against. The Americans have weighed in to support Australia and threatened Indonesia with economic sanctions. The British and the Thai's have too. Needless to say the politics of Australia has heated up and it looks as though we are going to have a dramatic increase in Defence spending.
Meantime to add a further note of seriousness to national debate The Sydney push have breathlessly informed us that the Olympic medals will have the OPERA HOUSE on one side. We're all thrilled. Enough from me, look after yourself my love. Dad.
And more lunacy from the old man…
Subject: Daisy Stewart speaks Date: 4th October 1999
Miaow! Booey! A short scratch to assure you I'm allright. You know those two people who look after me have been quite diligent with my care. Plenty of stoking, although I have to give The Bulb a bit of bite from time to time to remind the corpulent fellow who's in charge. Mind you he's been good. Water changed every day, poo box cleaned out without demur. Miow! The weather has been pleasant and would you believe I have taken to sleeping in the house in the yard. I guess I'm becoming a funny furry old thing. Well, enough from me look after yourself old friend and stay away from Egyptian cats, I here they're real bitches, Oops sorry that's a dog isn't it? Miaow! Miaow! Miaew! Love Daisy.
Subject: MARRAKECH SWEETIES!!! Date: 9th October 1999
Hello everyone from Marrakech, city of the spitting snake!!! I am staying in the romantically named 'hotel CTM' (kinda like the hotel public transport commission), sharing a room with three lovely boys from Balwyn, of all places. It is right on the main 'Place Djemma El-Fna', and has a rooftop terrace overlooking the whole spectacle that is Marrakech and the Atlas mountains. We ate pain au chocolat, fresh bread, orange juice and coffee this morning - the shower was hot, the room quiet and cheap, and the toilet western-style - it goes without saying that I am most content. And I have even found people to drink beer with!!! After Fès I caught a train to Meknès, like a smaller version of Fès, but built by the same madman, Moulay Ismail. He was like a Genghis Khan of Morocco, and most old buildings are missing big chunks where he pulled off marble to build his palaces.
I got up early the next morning to 'see some rooins' as Dad would say, the Roman ruins of Volubilis. As usual the journey there was just as entertaining as the site. I thought I'd catch a 'grand taxi' there, something halfway between a taxi and a bus. They are usually old Mercedes that squeeze in six passengers, and only leave when full. So I am squished in beside a most devout Muslim man who is appalled at the thought of touching a woman who may be 'unclean', and spends most of the journey valiantly trying to get away from me. On the other side is a young man and his elderly mother, who throws up quietly and continually in her handbag. As most bodily functions are public in Morocco, this doesn't even raise an eyebrow.
So we arrive at the bottom of this enormous hill in the town of Moulay Ismail - the Mulsim man springs out while the car is still moving, obviously to go and bathe in disinfectant. When I consult my uninformative guidebook, I realise I have another half-hours' walk uphill! Unable to flag down a donkey, I get going. Luckily the views are good! Apart from the truck-loads of American tourists, Volubilis was fantastic. The main points of interest were the excellently preserved mosaics of Bacchus, Diana and the like, although in the typical Moroccan style, they were left open to the elements. And the American couple I met (Sandy and Barbie!) assured me that these were modest ruins in comparison to Turkey and Egypt. On the way back I was lucky to flag down another taxi back to the centre of town. The next day in Meknès was a bit of a downer - bizarre, rainy weather, and it took me three hours to find some historic stables from some movie that I didn't recognise. I was also accosted by some shady character in mirrored aviator sunnies and the obligatory porno moustache, who wanted to take me home to eat cous-cous. Alas my husband was desperately ill in the hotel!!!
The good thing about Meknès was the market. I got a good look at some of the meat for sale, and it made even me a bit queasy! Rows and rows of grey sheep and ox heads with tongues hanging out and teeth bared, tables of fly - blown innards in all the rainbows of grey, hoofs and trotters of all description, and the most pungent fug of ill-health. I don’t think it was ever hosed out. When I staggered away from the meat section, my hand was grabbed by a medicine man, whose stall was decorated with a dusty cheetah skin. He placed on my finger a tiny green chameleon, whose belly blushed the same colour as my finger! I was so taken by this, I bought a whole bag of 'natural hair shampoo' chips, although I reasoned later they could easily be the leavings from a building site.
The next day I spent seven hours on the train to Marrakech, where I met Michael, Ben and Steve from Balwyn, who are very Aussie. They were very impressed by my pidgin French, and ask me to translate for them. Me!!!
Last night we went for a wander in the mad place Djemma El-Fna to buy some dinner. You can buy anything you like for v. cheap - snails, cous cous, salads, fish, OJ, dates and of course the grey sheeps heads. Snake charmers try to throw frothing snakes at you, and some even put their monkeys on your back. For a fee of course!!! There are storytellers, fire breathers, women painting henna (I got one with a girly floral design, as I couldn't convey that I wanted a scorpion, damn, it won't wash off for weeks), and this weird game with fishing lines and soft drink. I think it's like that funfair game where you throw the hoops over the numbers for a prize, however as far as I can gather, the prize is a full bottle of soft drink. We eventually found a hotel that sold beer, and arranged ourselves on some sumptuous velvet couches, amongst other equally desperate Western tourists. We agreed that a beer stand would go down very well at the Place, with all the great food, but I'm sure there's a law against it.
Thank you for all the news bulletins too. The only paper I can find is the crappy English 'Daily Tribune' for 5 bucks! And I hardly think that 'woman falls down drain and drowns in puddle' constitutes current affairs. For Mum's North Africa toilet update, I haven't encountered anything too bad yet. They are mostly the squat variety, which is preferable to the normal, as Moroccans don't like cleaning their toilets.
The boys I am staying with are hiring a car on the coast, so I will drop a few hints in their direction. X POSTED BY BOO AT 2:15 PM 0 COMMENTS WEDNESDAY, APRIL 05, 2006 By the beard of the prophet, I am a retard Subject: by the beard of the prophet, I am a retard Date: Sunday 3rd October 1999
To my lovely family and friends, Thank you heaps for your messages, I am much becalmed at the 20 or more messages in my in tray, and sorry for my querilous message in Rabat. I was still tired and stressed out, and of course didn't realise it was a weekend so sorry.
I am currently in Fes after being in a mountain town called Chefchaouen in the north. I will rest here for 3 days before moving onto Meknes then to the south. Sorry for this brief note. I have just spent over 2 hours on hotmail - reading all the messages then writing a huge, impassioned and might I say very amusing note. Hotmail then cut me off abruptly when I tried to send it, saying I had to re-enter my password. It then lost the massive letter, even though I asked to save it, so now I am back to square one. Xxxooo
Ah the early days of email! Erasing vast letters was a common theme for me in Africa – somehow I never got the hang of ‘cut copy paste’ from Word. Sometimes I would give up and write a letter to the olds, in the hope they might type it out and send it on – alas at that time they were even more clueless than I…
Letter to oldies: 26th September – 3rd October 1999
Dear Mum and Dad, -THE STORY SO FAR- I arrived in Fes last night after staying in the lovely mountain town of Chefchaouen for three days, for rest and relaxation.
I arrived in Rabat on a Sunday, not a good day for visiting embassies, or travel agents for that matter. So I wandered around the medina, only to realise they don’t open their shops until 3 or 4 pm. I met two university students (Kacem and Benomar) who were very sweet and patient with my French, and took me for a turn about the Kasbah. Also to see the view of the local beach and neighbouring town Sale (a kind of Albury-Wodonga idea). When they heard it would be heard for me to get a visa for Mauritania, Kacen insisted he pick me up in the morning on his scooter (le moto). I had been dying to whiz around on one of these – they look a bit like trail bikes (but more decrepit) and are started by peddling furiously downhill.
So the next morning we took off, with me clinging precariously to the back and giggling hysterically – as I have said before there are no road rules in Africa. Kacem also insists upon singling ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’ to me in Arabic. So we spent an hour at the Canadian embassy for a letter of recommendation only to find that I don’t need one due to the lack of Aussie embassies in Africa. (note – to get a Mauritanian visa I had to get a letter of recommendation from an embassy and a return plane ticket) We then found a travel agent – another confusing exchange where we finally agreed that yes, I want a return ticket to Mauritania, but only wanted to go one way and return tomorrow for the refund.
Onto the Mauritanian embassy situated conveniently 10ks out of town, where the boot-faced secretary snaps at me in Arabic and waves papers in my face. She is busy. We must return tomorrow. Apparently this is normal. So Kacem invites me back to his house in Sale (this is also normal – everyone seems to invite me to their house). Which is a real eye-opener for me. Three bedrooms for 10 people, a dingy kitchen with gas bottle for a stove and a noisy woodcarving workshop in the building opposite. I went to the loo – normal enough with the seat down, but up a murky pool of mud and god knows what. And no button to flush! There was a patch for the shower but no taps and a basin with no mirror. Also about 8 pairs of shoes on the ground.
Kacem made me lunch – we sat on the floor and lunched on olives, bananas and eggs which we mopped up with bread. I think they must have bought their food fresh every day due to lack of refrigeration. After lunch, Kacem puts on a horrendous Bryan Adams love song on the tape deck and tries to get me to slow dance with him!!! This is a triple shock: a) I’ve known this chap for less than 24 hours b) I don’t slow dance c) Bryan Adams! When I shove him away and insist he takes his hands off me he is taken aback. He is most desperately and painfully in love, and feels I must swear my undying allegiance. An exchange ensure, where we finally agree that I will never be in love with him, my ‘petit ami’ would be very angry if he knew I was here, and that he was a ‘bad Muslim man’. Kacem is most lavishly sorry. Although I have ruined him for other women he will take me back to my hotel, as I ask. I am privately amused to tell him to ‘get over it’!
The next day Kacem meets me at the train station, to my surprise. He apologises again and ferries me to and fro between the embassy and the travel agent, another long day where the bitchy Mauritanian secretary keeps us waiting another 2 ½ hours. Various people also try to convert me to Islam, which is something I am getting used to. Kacem got into a grave discussion with the travel agent about my godlessness. The agent is shocked and hauls out an enormous volume of Koranic verses from his bag, and reads to me a rather twee tale about why seeds grow. The entire time he’s preening his three-piece suit and looking out the window at passing girls. His parting shot: “I hope, sincerely and honestly, that one day you find your God!”
Gleefully, and with visa and ticket in hand I say my final goodbyes to Kacem at the train station. He tries to give me his fish necklace as a token of his esteem, but I advise him to give it to a ‘good Muslim girl’. “My fish! She will die!!!’ he wails melodramatically and with tears in his eyes. I am grateful for his help, but also grateful to be getting on the train!
CHEFCHAOUEN I then got a bus to Chefchaouen in the dead heart of kif country. I know this, due to the 6 police checks on the way. When I arrive I am hot, stinky and swearing, having narrowly missed stepping on a sackful of live chooks on the floor of the bus. I am immediately surrounded by hustlers and guides, but wave them away. I toil for 20 mins up a near vertical mountain (with pack!) – one Berber guide is particularly insistent and says his hotel is just around the corner, is cheap and has showers. The hotel turns out to be 20 mins away from the medina, where I want to be, but I didn’t realise this! The Berber man was quoting from my guidebook the whole time “The name? Chef means look at, and Chaouen means peaks so….” “I know I know, look at the peaks, page 159 in the Lonely Planet!”
When I get to my room I collapse in the crucifix position, completely unable to speak. I strip off and head for the shower, which looks suspiciously dry. I turn on the taps – nothing. You must understand, I smell worse than an open sewer in Casablanca, look like a strawberry and am dying of thirst. Finally I try to flush the toilet, which knocks ominously, but no water. I don my malodorous rags and trudge downstairs.
“I’m sorry Madame, no water until 6:30.” It is only 5:00. When I finally get my shower it is a glacial trickle that leaves me fairly dry, but manages to soak the entire bathroom. When I leave the (empty) hotel to get some dinner, I am swamped by the group of hustlers who hang outside every hotel. They insist that Chefchaouen is too unsafe for me to see alone and hassle me up and down the street until I go back in defeat. The next morning I creep out early and find the cheerful Hotel Andalus in the centre of the medina, which has only one sleazebag out the front instead of 5! Whew!!
As Chefchaouen is in the north, everything seems quite Spanish. It was a surprise to hear everyone shouting at me ‘Hola’ instead of ‘Bonjour’. I was lucky to come on one of the market days, when all the villagers come down from the surrounding hills to sell vegies. I bought bread, olives and chili, a huge bunch of grapes, and ate my first pomegranate right out of the tree!
I didn’t see any evidence of the local green harvest until the last night, when I smoked a joint in the local open-air café overlooking the main street with two Mohammeds. To quote Edina Monsoon, “It’s legal here sweetie, so you can’t disapprove!” I also met two Americans and a dodgy Spaniard who was sleeping on the roof, whose principal topic of conversation was drugs – what to pay, where to get them and how to get the good stuff. They also discussed the pros and cons of swallowing drugs and trying to get past the x-ray machines in Tangier. I thought this was very funny until I realised they were serious.
FES So I returned to Fes and am now in the Hotel Lamrini after a wee taste of the medina here. It is quite extraordinary – big iron doors, tiny damp passageways, little steep stairs leading nowhere, big sunny squares, all with lashings of donkey poo! Sounds of the medina: heehaw of donkeys, street procession of a wedding – drums, whistles and roosters, ‘barek’ for ‘get out of the way’, men shouting out wares, muezzins calling to prayer 5 x a day, but different times for every city! I will venture out tonight. X POSTED BY BOO AT 10:30 AM 5 COMMENTS
Edited 3 time(s). Last edit at 04/13/2006 11:01 by almotanabi.
can we have a direct link to that blog ? so we can keep up with it ? thanx
"Hé ! bonjour, Monsieur du Corbeau.
Que vous êtes joli ! que vous me semblez beau !
Sans mentir, si votre ramage
Se rapporte à votre plumage,
Vous êtes le Phénix des hôtes de ces bois."
Hello dear friend I9bi7, great! Another old-timer.!? Good to hear from you and for you and jallaal, here’s the blog's URL, [thegallopingskirt.blogspot.com]
You’ll find some more interesting stuff there, enjoy. Almot
Dear Almot, Wellcome back to the man who took 7 months to regenerate and get enough mental oxygen. You message made me think about the great time I spent in Essaouira. A place where you can relax and enjoy the quit side of Morocco. I hope you are enjoying life with your small family and will do with the Yabiladi family. Take care Krim
Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 04/14/2006 04:45 by Krim.
Dear Krim, Good to hear from you, and good for you that you spent sometime in Essawira, Besseha werraha asidi, I still have to do that with my kids. All the best to you and yours... Almot
wow! Reading your words, I thought that I was reading an adventurous novel…it are full of bizaar characters, moments of anguish, moments of excitement, moments of “wow” – it is likely to exist in a fiction…but no! you live it. 
chargement...
