Essaouira, Morocco ; July 2011

...sssooiira

The Berber woman purses her lips, she breathes it like a sigh, like cool air that comes from the north to tame the heat that bears down from the Sahara.

It sounds like an ancient lost breeze that comes with the sea mist that blankets the town and blurs the shapes of the white walled Kasbah and the blue of the window shutters that frame women leaning out to hang their washing, or men propped on their elbows smoking thoughtfully and watching the maelstrom of the markets below.

In 1506, the King of Portugal ordered the building of a fortress here. It lasted only 4 years before local Berbers overran the garrison and took control of what was then called Mogador. It was important for the exporting of sugar and molasses and also was a safe haven for pirates. Essaouira was a strategic port, the closest to Marrakech, and control of it was much desired by Spain, England, The Netherlands and France. All were unsuccessful in gaining territory, or favourable trade terms until the French signed a treaty with the Sultan of Marrakech in 1631. It was during this time that Christian slaves were used to build more fortifications around the bay.

The present city was built during the 18^th century by Mohammed 111, and became the principal port of Morocco. The caravan trade offered their goods to the world through this harbour. From Sub-Saharan Africa to Timbuktu, through the desert and over the Atlas Mountains to Marrakech, and then down to Essaouira on the Atlantic coast, caravans of Tuaregs and Berbers and Arabs on camels and donkeys brought cloth and spices, rock salt , dried fruits, and slaves to be traded with the world.

Initially it was called “Souira” or small fortress, but it was changed after the rebuilding to “Essaouira” or “the beautifully designed”. 18^th century Dutch cannon still line the walls and battlements as if time has stood still and a wooden Portuguese warship is lying off the coast in the mist.

I had booked a week at “Les Coins Des Artistes”, a small 8 roomed hotel or Riyadh in the centre of the Kasbah. Air-conditioners aren’t needed here and windows are opened to greet the breeze. There is a central courtyard that all rooms face into, and breakfast is taken here in the mornings.

A Dutch woman came in with a Morrocan man, who went straight into the kitchen. She sat down at the table next to mine and smiled at me with her eyes. She started a conversation and asked if I wanted to go down the coast to a beach called Cidi Kagi. My appointment book wasn’t full at that stage, so we ran in the dust for the local bus, and an hour later we walked off into a hot dry easterly wind, and a long beach, with beginners trying to surf waves which held up in the off-shore wind, but were never going to be powerful enough to propel a board to the shore.

Getting a drink from a local store a fight erupted between the owner and 2 Moroccan customers. The owner was going off his nut and pushing and threatening the 2 guys who seemed to have no idea what was going on. As usual, the faithful rushed in and calmed him, kissed him, tried to lead him back into the shop, but it was a full 20 minutes before he calmed down again. I was getting used to this volatile over-emotional behaviour.

There wasn’t much to do so we decided to get a grande taxi back to Essaouira, as the next bus wasn’t for hours. We shared it with Aziza, who was in Cidi Kagi checking on her Belguim bosses house. We had a great chat about life for women in Morocco, and the fact that there is no separation of church and state, and she kindly invited us back to her house to meet her family. Life is tough economically for most people here; wages are low and expenses high and good jobs difficult to get. We agreed to catch up again, said our goodbyes and returned to the Kasbah.

In Marrakech, I found it difficult to do any running; it was really hot with diesel fumes that burned your lungs as the concrete burned your feet, and this was at 9pm in the evening. So, it was great to be able to get out every afternoon and run down the beach, with the wind in my back past the camels and the furtive lovers holding hands and each other, several kilometres down the beach where no-one could see them.

The countryside is not fertile, but the sea is. A sea current that runs past the Canary Islands dredges up nutrients and makes the sea here brim full of conga-eels, small sharks and massive schools  of sardines. The fish market could be a major tourist attraction, with the music festival over most of the tourists had left, but the fishermen were in the habit of cleaning their catch on the wharf, and throwing the guts and blood on the rocks and on the road that led through the fish market. It stunk, it was disgusting to walk through, and it attracted thousands of albatross who dive bombed any onlookers with shit as local boys dived off pontoons into putrid brown water and fisherman greedily tried to overcharge any non-Morrocan fish-buyer. The fish are expensive, there is no refrigeration, and I found the whole situation puzzling, whilst being on guard for any “new friend” who would offer to take a photo of me with my camera, and then obstinately demand money for doing it.

So the week rolled on. I met Younnis, a local musician and surfer. He brought a couple of guitars into the hotel, and we played for an audience of 4 people. I found his style hard to follow, as he is left-handed and learnt to play a right-handed guitar upside down! Only the third person I have ever seen do this. Younnis met a French girl on holiday here a couple of years ago. They fell in love, and when it was time for her to leave, they went to the airport together. She never got out of that taxi, and they returned to Essaouira, got married in a Muslim ceremony, and she fell pregnant. 3 months later she had to leave to go back home and continue her university studies in medicine. He sees them occasionally on a Skype call. He says “Inshallah” one day they will be re-united. So in the meantime, Younnis surfs when there is surf, plays guitar in a restaurant when there is work, and unceasingly smokes hashish, going through the ritual of rolling the joints and burning the hash block to make it dryer and easily crumbled.

The Dutch lady wanted me to come along to a dinner she had been invited to by her Moroccan friend, at the family house of one of his friends. I thought that finally, I would get to experience some real home cooked Moroccan food, however, when we got to the 3^rd floor dingy room, we found 6 Moroccan men, no family, and the money I had, with reservations, contributed to purchasing the food, had actually bought all the food. The Dutch girl’s money had gone missing again. Every time something had to be paid for it seemed she didn’t have enough, or she just forgot to contribute. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was just getting too routine, for me anyway. The kitchen was dirty and dingy and the food was just put out on a large platter from which everyone ate with their hands. I felt a little uneasy, and scoped out an escape route out of the window if we needed it, but there was nothing to be concerned about. Out came our host with the biggest lump of hashish this side of Afghanistan, and he placed it on top of a large, glowing coal and into a shisha   apparatus. The guys then all grabbed a hose and started happily puffing away, and we left.

Now I knew why Jimi Hendrix and Bob Marley were here. It wasn’t to take in the sea air. It was just to get wasted. There were some sad people around the Kasbah alleyways, begging, and  talking to imaginary friends. Some were ex-pats who had stayed too long and perhaps couldn’t go home, like a modern Brideshead Revisited, where Charles goes to Morocco and finds Sebastian in an appalling state.

The woman I had walked away from in the square the day I first travelled here had become a nuisance. Every day, it seemed she would find me somewhere in the souk, the square, or even at the beach. I was in the habit of saying “oh, it’s you again” or “oh, c’est encore vous”. She was persistent, if nothing else.

Essaouira was beautiful but flawed. After 5 days I ran out of things to do as the waves never got big enough to surf, and the days I wanted to kite surf the wind didn’t co-operate. I would like to be here in the winter and experience some of the epic surf swells that roll in from the Atlantic. But, unfortunately, a week was too long and it was time to return to Marrakech and the heat.

My last night in Essaouria, I went out to dinner with Aziza and her boyfriend Abdul.  We ate some fish and I drank my first Moroccan beer. They left to go home and I walked across the square to where the cannon still pointed out to sea. It was cold, the wind was strong and cold and the mist was rolling in to once again blur and blanket the Kasbah. The families that had promenaded through the square and up and down the beachside road had all gone home too, and I could just hear the hint of a guitar playing through the sound of the crashing waves, and I wondered what would have happened if Bob and Jimi had met here, in Essaouira? 

Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix and Essaouira, Morocco July 2011

I had been advised by my friend Dominic to have a look at Essaouira, some 4 hours away from Marrakech, on the south Atlantic coast of Morocco. So, it was on a fine Saturday morning at 7.30am in the grand square Jmaa El Fna, awaiting my minibus, I observed an old woman collecting and rinsing out water bottles left empty by thirsty drinkers the day before. I had read that some unscrupulous operators refilled spring or distilled water bottles and sold them as unused. So, it was true.

I had booked a day tour of some valleys in the Atlas Mountains, ending up at Essaouira. But an hour into the drive it became obvious, when we drove straight past the turnoff to the Atlas Mountains that we weren’t going there. In fact, this was a return trip to Essaouira only.

I was becoming a little used to these things happening; either oversight, undersight or the booking I desired actually wasn’t available today. “Oh, we’ll just book him in for this one then”.

We passed through semi-arid country with small rolling hills, olive groves with stone-washed walls to keep out the drying winds, and the occasional vineyard. The country became dryer and hot, and more sand and stone and less olives. The ones that did exist struggled to hold on to life with many of their former fellows just greying timber, like driftwood in the sands.

This country is very reminiscent of the mid-north of South Australia. Harsh, dry and hot, it is a place of death and broken dreams. And in Morocco, buzzards, which can be clearly seen circling in the distant sky most days.

A scrubby, bushy, small tree began to appear in abundance, the Argan tree; this is the only place in the world it is found. Soon we stopped at “Le Argan Co-operatives La Femmes”, a small factory in this desertscape, where women picked and processed the latest “wonder oil” to hit the world scene; Argan Oil.

Cold-pressed, it is in great demand for cosmetics and hair treatments. This is the “Moroccan Oil” that everyone is talking about. Hot-pressed it is used as a health-aid, with supposed healing qualities, or just as salad dressing. It is expensive at around 75 Euros for 500ml of pure oil.

The process of extraction is almost medieval. Goats are encouraged to climb in the wild trees and prune the tips back, thus stimulating growth and the amount of fruit. The fruit looks similar to a small apricot, and it is the kernel inside the shell of the fruit that contains the oil. The fruit is picked, the shells are cracked and broken and set aside as cooking fuel, and the kernels are then ground by hand in a circular motion, by a wizened old crow of a woman, who sits in the same spot for 10 hours a day.

Oil is not plentiful, in fact 60 kg of fruit gives 1 precious litre of the stuff, I was told. Any oil left in the ground kernels are squeezed out by hand, and the remaining paste is used as stock feed. Only women perform the work, it is not considered fit for men. I had heard that China is planting thousands of acres of Argan trees. I suspect in a decade they will probably control the world supply of this magic stuff, and another opportunity will have passed these poor, hardworking Moroccan women by.

Essaouira appeared in the distance and we stopped at a lookout and took photos with a couple of camels for company. On the mini-bus with me were Shaz and Aziz; two young guys from London taking a week’s holiday in Morocco. It turned out Shaz worked for the same bank as Wayne, and Aziz was a doctor about to move into General Practice. We had a lively discussion and a few laughs which made the journey pass more quickly.

Stepping out of the bus at the sea wall which separates Essaouira from the cold Atlantic Ocean, was like breathing for the first time. The air was cool and fresh and salt. It was like getting an instant energy boost after the hot, dry and dusty Marrakech environment. The beach was more brown than white, different to what I had expected. Close to the town it was thronged with children and young people enjoying the sun and the water. The island of Mogador lay perhaps a kilometre out to sea, and sheltered the bay from Atlantic swells. The French-built forts were clearly visible from the beach; this was once the major port in these parts, and the closest to Marrakech.

Both Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix had come here in the 60’s. It was when I came here to stay two days later I discovered why.

But this day I walked through the crumbling stone archway into the walled town, through the square, and into the Kasbah. This place seemed so ancient that I half expected Ali Baba to materialise at any moment. The main street or laneway was filled with people shopping at the markets. Men were chopping up carcases of goats and sheep by hand, and vainly flicking away the flies they were attracting. There were watermelon, cherries and plums, and cartloads of pain; flat bread that women would sort through by hand until they found the one that felt the freshest or least stale.

This is where the Arabic world begins to meet the African world. There were large black men dressed in amazingly bright blue and green and yellow fabric, and Tuareg men from the Sahara Desert with their distinctive blue turbans and long robe-like outfits. They sold silver jewellery, jelabas, scarves and curved daggers in carved wood and silver sheaths. It was noisy and bustling and smelly, with storeowners singing the praises of their produce to the crowds, and customers arguing and haggling with them. I wound my way through alleys and eventually found a small hotel or Riyad which was the right price with wi-fi and breakfast included, and booked it for a week.

This happened to be the last day of the annual Gnaoua Music festival, dubbed the “Moroccan Woodstock”. It is an African and Arabic mix of artists, mainly, and many were familiar to me, having appeared at Womadelaide in my home town. The concerts were free, with a large stage in the town square and then another a kilometre away at the beach. I saw a West African band play a set and felt a pang of homesickness; I was half-way around the world but I had been here before.

I was determined to get to the beach and walk to a strange small island I could see in the distance, at the water’s edge.  So I set off through the town square. The square is surrounded by a wall with ramparts and battlements, and brass cannon still sit there pointing out to sea, perhaps expecting Sinbad the sailor or Blackbeard the Pirate to attack the town some time soon. I was in a bit of a dream I suppose, taking all of this in when I was stopped by a woman, a Moroccan woman, probably in her late 20’s.

“Bonjour Monsieur, comment ca va”?

 I was completely surprised at her boldness. Women just don’t approach strange men here.

“Ca va bien, tu est?”

I was struck by three things. Firstly, she was smoking; I don’t think I had seen a local woman smoke. Secondly, her head was uncovered. And thirdly, she had bad teeth, stained and decayed, which is unfortunately the norm with most of the people I had met here. Dental hygiene is not the priority here that it is in the West.

My initial French conversational skills had picked up to a point I could fool most Moroccans I was French. For about a minute, that is. Then my vocabulary and comprehension ran out rapidly. But, it was fun for me!

It didn’t take long to get to the part where I confess not to be French, and request the conversation now take place in English, of which she turned out to be completely fluent.

“Would you like to take a coffee with me, and we could talk and enjoy the view” she asked.

Well, paint me as sarcastic but I had the feeling coffee was not what she was after. I know I’m an attractive man, but even at home women (in a completely sober state) don’t hit on me randomly as I’m walking down the street!

“I really want to go to the beach” I said, “I don’t have much time as my bus leaves at 5 to go back to Marrakech”.

“I understand then” she said, “I have a hotel room, let’s just go there”

I was completely stunned and speechless, this was so out of character for a local woman. Plus it is against the law for an unmarried woman to be in a hotel with a man.

She opened up her purse and took out a card. It was a hotel card. She handed it me.

“Here, see, we can go here, what do you think?”

“You’re right, it’s a hotel card” I replied, “but I think I’m just going to go on to the beach”.

She looked completely devastated.

“But why, why go to the beach?”

“I guess I’ve got my reasons. Au revoir et bon chance” and with that I walked off and left her standing there, mouth agape, in the middle of the small square that precedes the Kasbah.

There was a cool, northerly breeze blowing at my back, and lines of small surf pushed their way across the bay onto the brown sand. This place was painted in soft pastels of blue and white and brown in contrast to the sharp reds, yellows and browns of Marrakech.

I walked past camels carrying tourists, and came to a large group of locals gathered around 50 or so men on magnificent white and grey and black Arabian horses wearing red turbans and carrying lances with flags of different colours. They put the horses in a rough,moving line across the beach and a cannon exploded and belched a smoky boom and they were off, racing down the beach, neck to neck. They turned perhaps 400 metres away throwing plumes of brown sand into the air and each other, and galloped back to the finish and a rapturous roar from the crowd. I kept walking south, I never found out what the horses were doing there, and I never saw them again. When I came back to stay 2 days later, no-one knew anything about them.

They just looked at me rather strangely.

In and Around Jmaa El Fna: Marrakech, Morocco June 2011

Around Le Place Jmaa El Fna, or Grand Square, rooftop cafes provide a safe haven for tourists. La Bohemia, Le Glacier Cafe, Le Grande Vieux and others are packed at night with onlookers who order pizza and water minerale and are spared the hassle of the professional beggars, the touts and the motor cycles and cars which catch the unwary or the unknowing in their headlights as they create their own pathways through the crowds.

The Cafe Argana was one of these havens, until a man walks up the stairs on a warm April day, places a brief case at a table, and leaves. Each day the scaffold that supports the damaged rooftop structure grows a little, things are added; today it is a kind of hessian cloth that attempts to camouflage the damage wrought by the bomb. I thought long and hard before travelling to Marrakech, and I must say the reports of the deployment of Army personnel throughout the square gave me some comfort. But I rarely see anyone in uniform here.

I understand now why my booking at Hotel Cecil kept coming back to me as one night, rather than the seven I was trying to book. Visitors generally spend only one or two nights here, then move on to other places. They visit Marrakech, the Sahara Desert, the Atlas Mountains, perhaps Casablanca, Tangiers and Fez and then go home. They tour Morocco for one to two weeks; see the souks, the mosques, the palaces and the Roman ruins, but all the time on the move. Many I meet are here for a long weekend, having flown from a cool summer in Europe to this North African swelter.

Greg and Brit are American college students involved in a Spanish language exchange program in Barcelona. They are here for three days. I meet them over a lunch of chiche kebab and fries at an outdoor cafe. They are from cold states; Oregon and Philadelphia, and are melting in the 40 plus heat. However, they have a swimming pool at their hotel, and spend their time cooling off there.

Ornella is a photographer from Rome. She is an animal lover extraordinaire, here to rescue a dog from the local pound. Her dog of 17 years has recently passed away; she emotionally shows me a photo of a medium-sized long haired dog of indeterminate breed. We communicate in my broken French and her limited English, plus the small amount of Italian I possess. Ornella is appalled at the treatment of animals here; the cart-pulling donkeys that buck and kick at the sharp sting of the driver’s whip, the street dogs that are poisoned, the starving litters of kittens that abound. She has found a small dog, and is in the process of completing the paperwork to get him back to Rome and her family of 2 dogs, 3 cats and a husband.

I can feel my fitness fading, a combination of the after effects of the flu I had in London and the heat here in Marrakech, which makes it difficult to keep up my running regime. When I can, I walk outside the Medina and run the perimeter of the city and the ancient rose-coloured terracotta walls, past unsuspecting couples sitting on park benches, holding hands and savouring rare private moments.

 It’s getting late for dinner, around 10 pm. The light has faded with the heat. My favourite chiche kebab restaurant is filled with diners, but I am treated like a regular and they greet me with a “Bonjour mon ami, comment ca va”? and a gentle handshake. Table space is limited, so chairs are rearranged and diners moved to accommodate new arrivals. I am seated at a table with a French couple on one side, and 3 young Moroccan women on the other. The French are not inclined to chat, so I strike up a conversation with the girls who have come into the Medina from the suburbs for Saturday night,  Houda, her friend and a younger sister. They are interested in Australia, and I am interested in understanding Moroccan culture from their point of view. They are fashionably dressed in jeans, close fitting tops, heels and jewellery, much the same as young women in their mid-twenties in any European city, but in a tastefully understated way, not glam or garish.

They head off home to beat their 12pm curfew, and Houda offers to show me through the Medina tomorrow night, my last for the moment in Marrakech, as I’m off to the southern coastal town of Essaouira for a week. We swap phone numbers and agree to meet Sunday night.

Nouradine has become a good friend to me since I have arrived. A native Moroccan, he has lived in France and Spain, and has a good grasp of English. He is married with children and works in hospitality. Through him I begin to get some kind of understanding of this place. It is so confronting and in your face that after my first 4 days I feel I may have made a mistake in coming here. How can I possibly stay for a month?

Surprisingly though, on the 5^th day everything begins to click into place. It’s like I a revelation; my eyes are opened and suddenly I begin to understand. I realise I have been in a kind of denial since I have landed here, trying to view this country through my sanitised western Christian-based logic.  It is a trap that travellers commonly fall into. I don’t agree with the way many things are done here, but I don’t have to. I just have to accept and embrace and go with the flow of life.

It is Sunday night. Houda arrives at the square and we walk through the crowds to eat at an open-air restaurant. We are sat opposite to each other, and down the other end of the long bench table sits a pasty-faced, lanky American. He seems a little disorientated with the heat and the surrounding hustle and bustle and noise. He asks for the bill and a swarthy man who looks like the fat comptroller spits out “fifty”.

“oh, fifty euros” he says compliantly in a nasal accent that would be recognisable anywhere in the world as New Yorkian.

The hint of a smile appears on the dark cheeks, and he nods.

He pulls out a wad of euros and is about to hand them over. The man’s eyes glitter gleefully.

“Sorry mate” I interject. “He means fifty dirhams not euros”, and I help him count out the notes and coins that amount to 10% of what he was about to fork out.

He has just arrived here today from Berlin. Bryan has gambled everything and relocated from New York to the edgy ex-German capital to live and pursue his dream of a career as a painter. He is in Marrakech for the weekend “to check it out”.

We swap stories and he leaves for the relief of an air-conditioned room.

The fat-comptroller and I laugh when he leaves.

“fifty” he says, “fifty euros”. The scoundrel  would have taken it too.

We finish dinner, and Houda leads me through the darkened alleyways of the ancient souk, which some say is the most famous of all in the Arab world. We pass stalls of spice and perfume, leather and brass. She links her arm through mine; it is not socially acceptable for a woman to walk with a man she is not connected to. Customs and appearances are everything here. I ask her about head coverings and scarves, and she says she is not compelled to cover herself, she is a modern young woman, but if she marries she will wear the habib out of respect for her husband.

Inside the souk is exotic chaos as locals crowd the lanes and alleys, and motorcycles roar through the centre of the crowds, which split and then close again behind the exhaust fumes. For the first time here, I’m not constantly harassed, as the company of Houda offers me some protection from the tenacious traders and touts.

I thank Houda, and return to Hotel Cecil. It’s late, but still hundreds crowd the square, and the smoke drifts from charcoal sausage grills in the light breeze. Tomorrow I leave at 8am for the 4 hour journey to the coastal town of Essaouira, my home for the next week.

Marrakech Express, Morocco June 21st 2011

Three and a half hours from London and it’s like I’m on another planet.

Flying into Marrakech you can see the sand and the dust like waves in the air, blanketing the olive groves and the pinkish, terracotta walls of village houses and mosques.

An easy, quick stamp of my passport and I’m out of the airport hailing a taxi for the Medina at the heart of the ancient Berber city of Marrakech. The contrast from London is black and white. The heat is intense; it’s over 40 degrees, dry and dusty, but with a great similarity to some of the scorching summers we can have in my home town, Adelaide. So this I understand.

But when I am dropped off outside the grand square that is the centre of the ancient narrow lane-wayed Medina, and have to make my way through what seems a mass of Moroccans, I am reminded in no small way of my experiences in Bangkok. Fortunately, there is far more room to move here and water pistol snipers are not evident. I manage to find the small “Hotel Cecil” some 50 meters down a narrow laneway off the grand square. The first thing I noticed when I booked my accommodation over the internet was a prominent declaration that “it is forbidden for Moroccan couples to be offered accommodation without a valid marriage licence”. I emailed the hotel 3 times, wanting to stay for a week, but only receiving confirmation for 1 night. We don’t get off to a great start; the room I booked is not available, and there is only one room available without air-conditioning or even a fan. With, what I feel is “local knowledge” I bet tonite will be an absolute stinker. To my dismay, I am completely correct. Sleepless, and after a dozen cold showers, I negotiate a change for tomorrow when another room will be available, and the man behind the counter goes back to reading the Koran to himself out loud and rocking in his chair.

I have memorised a few Arabic expressions, but I find I am generally addressed in French; it is the second language here, a relic of 44 years of former French colonial rule that ended in 1956. One year of schoolboy French comes in amazingly handy as few speak my native tongue.

It is nine o’clock and still light and I walk out into the grand square of Jemaa El Fna.  At the edge of the square you can see the demolition site that was once the Argana Cafe. It was destroyed 6 weeks ago by a terrorist bomb. 16 people, mainly Europeans sipping cafe latté’s and watching the snake charmers and the general goings on, were killed. Some 23,000 bookings were cancelled in the month after the bombing, and its clear there’s not an awful lot of tourists here at the moment.

The setting is exotic if nothing else. The pipes of snake charmers combine with traditional tunes played on ouds and drums. Crowds gather at impromptu boxing matches that onlookers are urged to join. There are dancers and stand-up Morrocan comedians.  A black Tuareg man in the magnificent blue turban of that desert culture, extols the virtue of his virility tonic to spell-bound local men, as snake oil salesmen have done since humans first gathered in carnival atmospheres.  There are belly dancers in full burqa, and they dance far more sexually suggestively than any I have ever seen. The mainly male audience are goggle-eyed and respond to the dancer’s flirtatious entreaties. It is then I realise the dancers are men in a Moroccan Drag show!

Thousands of locals throng the square nightly. They come to promenade up and down in their family groups. Groups of young men hold hands or link arms as they walk, as do groups of young women. This is the place for couples to be seen. They hold hands or link arms; this is the extent of public affection displayed in this society. They cannot be alone without other family members present.

The first time in the square brings a blast of sensory overload.

There are fresh orange juice stalls lined up together, each end of the square. You can get a large glass for 4 dirhams (40 cents or 25p) and you drink it at the stand. There are carts that serve bowls of hot, broiled snails; and approximately 60 hot food eateries where you can sit down on benches next to strangers and chose from tagine, couscous, kebab or fish dishes, freshly cooked. The touts that work for these stalls are particularly aggressive. They are generally young men with a lot of Moroccan charm who speak four or five different languages. They coax, they plead, they try to physically lead you to their stand before you get to the next group of persuaders. They are almost rabid in their enthusiasm, and I am bemused when I learn, from a local, that they are paid a commission of up to 40% of the cost of your meal!

I meet Hien, a Vietnamese girl in a polka dot dress at one of the open air eateries. She is taking a break from her studies in France and is travelling through Morocco. We decide, with equal amounts of courage to enter the bazaar; that labyrinth of shopaholic heaven that makes up the ageless market-place of Jmaa El Fna. You can get lost in here; I manage to frequently. The lane ways snake in unpredictable twists and turns. You easily become disorientated; I wonder if perhaps some go in and never return.....

There are handcrafted leather goods of camel and goat, earthenware Tagines with Arabic designs glazed in an array of colours, spice shops, silver jewellery, berber rugs, tea shops and dried fruit. Ahmed is nice enough to show me around his spice shop. He blends up to 44 different spices for the curries and the marinades he sells to local chefs. The smells are overwhelming when he twists open the containers. It seems spice blending is a true art. Hien and I decide it’s time to go back to the square. I’m sure I know the way, but we come out in a completely different place and my head spins trying to work out the GPS co-ordinates. We are back at the square but I’ve no idea how!

Hien leaves as she’s off to tour the north of Morocco for the next week, and I drink another OJ in the heat.

Alcohol is not freely available as Islam forbids drinking; men approach me from various alley-ways and whisper “sh-sheesh” in my ear.

But this is not Amsterdam, and I retire back to my small Riyadh down the laneway, off the square, and revel in the coolness of my new room.

London: Hot Property or Not? Final Scorecard June 2011

The rain spits, and the clouds struggle across the 2012 Olympic skyline before a grey wind that makes every colour grey; except for the brown bricks that hold up the flats and council estates and small shops that make up East London. The new buildings are of brown bricks too; and the white of the affluent citadels of penthouses, and the glass of the castles of commerce become also inescapably grey.

It seems few places are free of deterrents to those who might intrude on the private spaces of the unseen inhabitants of the area known as the Isle of Dogs. Gates are barred; they are unlocked only with electronic devices. Private security is in residence or patrols the perimeters. CTV cameras record every movement. At the entrance to Canary Wharf police have a permanent presence. No vehicle gets in or out of here without their inspection. No-one can walk into the office buildings here without either a pass, or a challenge to their presence.

As I stroll in the grey wind along the Thames Path to Canary Wharf, I see a man with a striking resemblance to David Bowie jogging past. South Korean au pairs push prams over the pavement and plead with precocious four year-olds in their care to behave themselves.

I am coming to the end of my stay here.

James and Mia have generously donated the use of their futon for the purpose of my sleeping pleasure, for the last 6 weeks. James is leaving his job at the investment bank, for self-employment adventure land, and I am invited to tag along for celebratory drinks. My recent discovery of the pleasures of sobriety has lead to a full recovery of my liver from the spanking it took in the first 3 weeks here. London beers are Big! I can attest to that, and to the ease with which, in the company of other fellow inebriates, they can disappear down your gullet.

I am asked several times for my opinion of London. I am delighted each time as Wayne jumps into the conversation, pre-empting my reply with “He hates London, He thinks it’s shit!” and letting me off the hook. Philip has perhaps the final word for the evening when he says “sick of London, sick of Life”.

But London is so multi-faceted and richly diverse, it’s not my place, nor do I have the authority to pass judgement on the second largest city in Europe and the world’s largest financial centre behind New York.

The day before I leave I take the tube to Maida Vale in West London to visit my friends Dominic and Angela, fellow Australians who have made London their home, and who have just had their first child, Isabella. I am an hour late; I still haven’t mastered the topography of London. It’s a different world here. The streets are wide and bright and there are white house’s which all boast 12 foot high entrance doors, Grecian porticos and bay windows. Large green plane trees give the feeling of an almost park-like setting, and then there are the expensive European cars. The sun seems to shine a little brighter this side of town.

My friend, the intrepid English Polar adventurer Tim Jarvis and his wife Liz, have moved their family from London to Adelaide, and they have just had their second child, Jack, in Australia. You can check Tim’s exploits out at http://www.timjarvis.org

 Is there a universal balancing force at work here?

London has more visitors than any other city, according to Wikipedia. They come to see the great houses of the Royalty; their churches, their parks, their castles, and their jewels to somehow make a connection to the sanitised but still bloody stories that History Masters have imbued to school boys and girls throughout the former British Empire.

But to ignore the reality of the plundering and the misery wrought on those who were weaker in strength and knowledge by their British colonial masters would be the perpetuation of a romantic falsehood. The Royal jewels come from throughout the former Empire, but mainly India and South Africa. The tributes paid to the Caesars that sat the English throne were immense. Gold, silver, and the profits from far-off lands and spices and slaves were all repatriated back to this city and are still clearly visible. The Elgin Marbles lie in London still, despite requests from their true Greek owners to return them to their Parthenon home.

And the Great city has seen better times. The British economy is weak, some would say dangerously so. Unemployment is high, and the Bank of England continues to print pounds to prop up and stimulate business activity. Whether it has worked or will work is a question not yet answered. But hard times have predicated a rise in nationalism, and a more inward looking Britain than the model of tolerance we have previously seen. Immigration numbers have been slashed, and working visas are extremely difficult to obtain, for any non-EU citizen. This is the new trend throughout Europe; those they brought in to perform cheap labour in the boom times are now surplus to their needs; the jobs have disappeared but the immigrants are still there.

I wonder if Australia will take heed.

But London is a survivor if nothing else. Fires and plagues and bombing blitzes, booms and busts, Royal, Political and Premier League infidelities, and the rise and fall of pop and movie stars; London has seen it all.

For me it has been an enjoyable 5 weeks. Reconnecting with Kate and Wayne. Meeting Antony and the Mensa club that make up the Investment Bank Quant team, and the Teachers who were such great fun. Nick Harper was an absolute highlight, and all the other music and shows I saw. I had seen all of the touristy attractions on a previous visit, so I was spared the agony of tramping around London with a camera again. 

So, here’s the East London scorecard for a potential home;

Environment (natural and un-natural)                                                                      4 (out of 10)

Food (pretty average really in taste, freshness, healthiness)                                     4

Social (friendliness, helpfulness, welcoming, social opportunities)                            8

Security (trustworthy, physical safety)                                                                     4

Weather   (sorry)                                                                                                   3

Accommodation (quality, comfort, cost)                                                                 5

Value for Money (living costs, entertainment)                                                          6

Visa (availability and cost)                                                                                      7

Total                                                                                                                   41/80    51%

Now, I know I will cop some flak over this (except for the weather, that is), however, I would contend that when you stay in a place for an extended period, you adapt to a new norm. New eyes see things a little differently; they don’t have the same emotional attachment, nor do they feel the need to defend or justify their reasons for living there. Obviously, career opportunities are not on my list, and this is a big one for most. Currently, as an Australian citizen, I get an automatic 6 months tourist visa. It would then be easy to skip out and back in again and renew this.

So, I leave London behind and leave for the great unknown of Morocco. Wimbledon is just beginning and it looks like the weather is finally coming good.......pity.

It would be amiss of me if I did not make mention of Paige. Paige is the15 year-old daughter of my good friend back in Adelaide, Trish. Paige was diagnosed with a particularly nasty Lymphoma one week before I left on this trip. I have been getting regular updates and it is so great to hear that she is doing well, and things are looking particularly positive for her. So, I know Paige, many good wishes are headed your way, and we all hope you are completely recovered soon, and back to your normal life.

Now, off to Marrakesh!

  

Rumble on the Night Bus and other Scary Stories; London June 2011

 An awareness of things potentially sinister began to creep into me from day one in London.

Not that I thought London was a bad place, but there seemed to be an undercurrent of angst and violence amongst particularly the youths and young men I crossed paths with on a daily basis around East London.

I experienced several incidences of “chicken”; a kind of brinkmanship game on the streets, where, usually 3 young men, often hooded, headed head-to-head with me on the pavement. They would deliberately try to test me, and see if I would be the one to step out onto the road.

Often someone would spit on the ground just in front of me, as if to provoke a reaction; another test.

I had come across this spitting behaviour, when, as a teenager in the mid 1970’s, my school in Adelaide, South Australia, experienced a large influx of English immigrants. The boys sported skinhead haircuts and baggy jeans, things which we had never seen or heard of. We were sport crazy not girl crazy. Lunchtimes were cricket and AFL football matches, and sometimes basketball and tennis. The English boys introduced what we called soccer; the round ball game. We all thought it was a bit of a game for girls as there was a distinct lack of rough and tumble. Our games would often involve fights between competitors over some rules dispute or over-rough tackle. But things usually sorted themselves out quickly; boys would pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and get back into the game as young warriors do.

The other boys that were new; the Poles, the Hungarians, the Greeks and Italians, the Dutch and the Latvians all joined in and became one with us. We didn’t see them as different.

But there was something different about these English boys.

They seemed to mooch around like lost souls; many had what I would call a “chip on the shoulder”. They were quick to anger over things which we were unaware of, and seemed to hold a grudge forever. Many struggled in the classroom and were unable to bring themselves up to the standard to which most of us had been schooled.

But I couldn’t blame them.

I wondered what it would be like to be ripped out of your school, your home, your environment. To come from a place of cobble-stone streets, gun-metal grey skies and coal mines; to have to start all over again in a foreign land with no friends.

But I couldn’t understand the spitting.

At every opportunity, these lost boys would spit on the ground. Not great gobs of mucus or saliva. They had it down to a fine art. They were accurate and could have probably hit a pin-head at 3 metres. But it was an anathema to us. It was dirty and distasteful.

 Fortunately, they grew out of it. The sunshine and the air and the beach in summer were stronger than their ties to their former life. They lost their accents and they changed their hairstyles; girls didn’t like their look. Some became surfers or footy players. Some went to University. Some went home to England and felt lost again, and came back to Australia and stayed forever.

We met Eddy and his friend Edwina at St Pauls Cathedral one Sunday. As usual, it was English summer cool, and the wind off the Thames was living up to its reputation as a natural refrigerant. We parted ways at Southbank, and Team KW and I headed off to another destination. We were walking down the street. There was a young man walking with his girlfriend slowly ahead. He wore his jeans so very low, and I was moved by how proud he seemed to be of his underwear; perhaps Calvin Kline was actually his name. Wayne, being taller than Kate and I combined, turned back to me, and, over Kate’s head said “Neither of us thought...” he was suddenly cut off by the pants man;

“wot the fuck did you just say...wot did you say..did you say wot I fink you said”

We were stunned. My radar went off and I was on high alert status. Calvin’s girlfriend was trying to pull him back, and he was fully in-Klined to fight Wayne. He was a little taller than me, he was fit, and some sixth-sense told me he was dangerous. Wayne repeated the word “neither” in his Australian accent and Calvin reduced himself to a poncy, chest-puffing show-off. It was a lucky non-encounter, I felt.

One sunny afternoon, when the team are at work, I walk to the local Tesco supermarket. I buy some things and stand at the pedestrian lights waiting to cross. An attractive, young , coloured lady stands next to me. A car slows right down and six brown youths hang out of the rust-bucket’s windows and bawl and bellow disgusting insults and suggestions at the young woman. They drive off only because the traffic forces them to. The young lady is stony faced, like nothing has happened. The lights change and she quickly walks across the road. I follow, and as I come around a corner near Limehouse Station there is a black man face down on the concrete slab. There is blood on the concrete and blood on his face. He struggles to his feet. He is perhaps twenty years old. He staggers off the footpath and straight into oncoming traffic that aren’t going to stop; this isn’t Holland. So I lurch for him and pull him back just in time. I manoeuvre him across to a fence and prop him against it. His pupils are dilated and he is going in and out of consciousness. An Indian couple have called the ambulance, and we wait and I hold him straight, till they arrive and we can leave him in their care.

Some weeks later, having just begun recovering from my London ‘flu, Kate invites me out for Friday night drinks at Brick Lane, with her buddies from Barking Abbey School, where she taught for a term, and who have now offered her a permanent job. Wayne comes along, bringing Richard and Antony from work, and everyone settles in for a good night of drinking, laughing, and playing practical jokes.

Except me.

The size of English beers and my weakened state of health result in a decision to only have 1 small beer. I find it enjoyable and enlightening, as everyone else gets hammered and I stay sober.

I chat to Roxanne, who is leaving teaching to complete a PHD, and who won’t go back to her home country of Iran because, in her words “I would become a second class citizen”.

Jim is a rough-around-the-edges socialist archetype. “I feel like I should buy ya a beer, but I’m skint” he offers.  Someone tells me he’s a French teacher, “I’m not, I’m an Englishman who teaches French”. He’s for the union and workers revolution, he rides his push-bike everywhere, and has a kind of open house format where he lives, with people coming and going as they like. He’s a character, scruffy in the way of benign self-neglect, and a genuinely funny guy that I warm to.

Toni is an Art Teacher from New Zealand. She wears her black Docs, her black stockings with black short skirt and long black hair cut in a fringe, with attitude. She’s a free spirit, riotous, raucous and ribald. She is two years away from the coveted UK Resident certificate. This is where she wants to be.

We repair to one of the many Indian Restaurants that line Brick Lane. When you walk this street you run the gauntlet of the touts who try to entice customers inside their establishments with offers of “25% off the bill and 3 free rounds of drinks” or “35% off the bill and one free round of drinks; you can choose anything on the menu”. That is, as long as it’s not the King Prawns!

Jim orders a black tea, in a futile attempt to sober up. He dozes off, and awakes from the petit power nap to claim a glass of red wine as his free drink; “no sir, sorry sir, but you have already had your free drink”.  Tea is obviously very expensive here!

It’s midnight. Everyone goes home. Wayne, Antony and Richard want to kick on. This means we miss the tube again, but what the hell, you only live once!

We take a damp walk to the end of the street; yes it’s raining again! We enter a small, packed club with red lighting. The boys have another beer. Anthony has an intelligent discussion with me about electronic music, and informs me of the Berlin scene. He looks sober, the other two are falling asleep on their feet.

So, Team KW and I trudge again through the misty rain to the bus stop, and wait, along with other early morning revellers for our double-decker rescuer to arrive.

We sit on the top deck with thirty or so others, all in their own state of Friday night trance. The young man next to me is asleep with his earphones still blasting away. They say you only really become a Londoner when you have slept through your stop, and awaken some hours later at the end of the line, as the sky begins to light up with the new day.

Wayne and Kate sat together down the back; I could see Wayne was asleep already. A girl behind me began talking to another girl across the aisle from her. I had noticed them at the bus stop. A young man behind them joined in the conversation,  it was not English. To diminish my boredom, I tried to pick the language. Italian, yes. And now, Spanish? Two men in their early to mid-twenties emerged from the stairway. One looked Arabic, fit, maybe 5’10”; the other was big but rangy in build; about 6’7”, and black in an African or Caribbean way. The black man sat directly across the aisle from me; the other sat behind. They both began talking in Spanish to the girl behind me. Everything seemed perfectly normal, in a sleepy, night bus kind of way.

In a moment though, everything changed.

I couldn’t see him but I heard the Arabic man speed up his speech, switch from Spanish to English to Arabic and start yelling “puta, puta”. I heard him get out of his seat. I turned and saw him approach the girl behind me. She was cringing and holding herself in the way that you might if you expected to be hit.

The black man across the aisle put his hand on me “stay out of this, it’s ok, I’m his backup”

The Arabic raised his open hand, as if to slap her. He was yelling at her, she was whimpering “no, no”. A young Chinese looking guy about the same age in the seat behind the girl stood and said “you can’t do this to her!”

The not-so-dynamic-duo turned their attention to him. The Black got in his face and slapped his face. The Arab was making a right-handed fist and I could see exactly how this was going to go. The two had him trapped against the window and were going to smash him. The guy next to me was still pretending to be asleep. Mayhem broke loose, the other girl was screaming. I went over the top of the first girl and put my hands on the Black’s arms and began pulling them back.

“Stay out of this it’s not your business”

“You need to leave him alone, I can’t let you do this”

He was looking at me, I was looking at him. We are all pressed together with the Arab trying to get a hold on the Chinese and the Chinese struggling. The girl is somewhere beneath us and frozen in her seat. There are screams and shouts and I feel the bus come to a halt.

Then I’m being dragged backwards. Kate and Wayne have grabbed me, and, quite rightly are trying to get me out of here “Dad, don’t get involved, let’s get off the bus, come on!”

But I can’t come on or off. I can’t let this go.  I can see the Duo have taken heart from my temporary absence, and are getting ready to do some serious pounding.

So I break free, and somehow, it is not clear to me now, I get the Black out of the way and grab the Arab. I have the feeling he is probably very right-sided, so I pin his right arm so he can’t use it. With my other arm I grab his jacket and start trying to pull him away. He struggles. I start talking in his ear, “Come-on you have to get off the bus”

“No, I want to talk to heem, I want heem to come outside with me”

“No, I can’t let you do that, you know you have to get off, the police are coming, you don’t want to get caught”

He struggles but I have him; I run monotone hypnotic language patterns into his ear. I feel his strength diminishing and I am able to pull him away and start moving him, backwards, towards the stairs and out of the bus. In the heat of it all I shout at the other girl “get her out of here now!” She gathers her still cowering friend and they leave.

I am in some kind of a zone. I feel no fear, no emotion only clarity. For 3 seconds I consciously contemplate twisting the Arab’s arm into an arm lock, and with my left arm locking his neck and then dragging him backwards. It’s a dilemma. I know I will up the stakes. Violence begets violence. But I am getting somewhere with him. So I just keep pouring the words into his unconscious mind.

The Arab still yells abuse at the Chinese but it is less convincing. I tell him I want him to get off the bus so that he doesn’t get into trouble. The Black is looking at me from the back of the bus, he doesn’t understand what is going on, but he still looks dangerous.

Just then I feel someone come over the top of me, and Wayne punches the Arab in the chest. It’s perfect timing.

The Arab fires up at Wayne, Wayne yells in his best Australian “If you fucking touch that man I’ll kill you”.

I still have the Arab in a hold.

Kate is screaming for someone to call the police.

I see the fire go out in the Black’s eyes, now we are three.

The Chinese has more courage now and yells abuse at the Arab. A Pakistani man begins to hurl abuse at the Arab.

I say to the bus in general “come on every-one if we all work together here we can stop this” but I get only groans and disinterest. One well-built Englishman stands up and says “please stop this, we all just want to go home” to the duo and sits down. It’s not much, but it’s something.

The Arab makes a last attempt to rush the Chinese, but I manage to get hold of him again and this time forcefully pull him backwards, all the way to the top of the stairs. I’ve really had enough of this now and am struggling to keep my own violence under control.

The bus has been stopped about 20 minutes I think; no sign of any police. The bus driver has been up three times but won’t get involved. I keep repeating the mantra into the Arab’s ear “we have to get you off the bus, you know you have to get off the bus now before the police come”.

The girls have long fled.

I get him on the stairs. The Black is already there. Control the General and you control the Soldier.

The Arab turns to me. We have built a strange rapport in the time I have had his body in my control. With obvious emotion he says “you know, you are the only good person on this bus”. The irony of this escapes me in the moment. Now, I just really want hurt him, and fear I will, if he makes one more move.

But, with a spit from behind the protective wall of the stairs, he hurls a final torrent of abuse at the Pakistani in a face-saving attempt, and smashes his plastic coke bottle against the rails, showering those in the front seats with a mixture of cheap rum and cola.

Then they are gone.

Wayne and I run down the stairs and check the lower level. Yes, they really have gone. We tell the bus driver and he starts the bus again.

Back upstairs is an eerie silence. I feel like I’m in a void or a vacuum. I just feel empty. I go back to the Chinese and put my hand on his shoulder ; ”you showed real courage there, you should be proud” I tell him. But he is in a kind of shocked state now, and emotional. He just stares and says nothing.  You often only realise how dangerous a situation really was after the fact. I look back at my fellow passengers sitting in their seats. They avoid my eyes and look down. I feel ashamed for them. I am twice their age, my youth is long gone. They just would have let it happen to the girl, to the Chinese. The Englishman says simply “thankyou”. That’s all that is said.

Team KW and I alight one stop past ours. There is concern the Duo may still be lurking somewhere. Kate brings up the proliferation of knife fights in London. The adrenaline still courses through my veins and I am feeling particularly antsy.

We get home. Kate goes to bed. Wayne and I stand around the dining table, leaning against the wall, drinking endless glasses of water, and going over and over it, debriefing the way men do after a battle. We share our thoughts and speak of the nuances and the drama of what we have just been through.

When I finally go to bed, the light is seeping through the curtains, and I sleep fitfully and dream of devils, and armies of children being marched through mist into ovens.