When the train paused on a bridge over a fast-flowing muddy river, I watched a young boy of about seven years, perch precariously on the edge of a wooden deck to dip a long-poled net into the swirling water 15 feet below. His neon pink shorts splashed a second bright punctuation mark against the brow of boards and water. A fear of his falling clutched at my heart, despite the nonchalance of his pose.

Those first dark images lasted just a few moments. The scene gave way to tree-lined streets, thinning to countryside. I turned my attention to the bustle inside the car as it filled with passengers, looking for their assigned seat, as they dragged an assortment of bags, suitcases and parcels tied with nylon string. As our journey progressed, a steady stream of vendors got on and off at each stop, carrying beer, soft drinks and Thai whiskey in buckets of ice; cut fruit in plastic bags, doughy confections, newspapers and shelled peanuts.

At sunset, we made our way to the dining car at the back end of train, which held a collection of old tables and chairs and an basic, open kitchen. We ordered the local cheap, Thai whisky and soda with ice. Surprisingly delicious food emerged from sputtering, black metal pans: seafood salad, chicken with cashews nuts, stir-fried vegetables, all napped in their own pungent sauce. The wooden-framed windows, pushed half way down, let in thankfully-moving air and the loud rush and rattle of the train wheels, echoing off the landscape outside. Now alone except for two cooks idly chatting behind the counter, we lingered on as the golden evening light faded to black, swallowing everything except for this rocking room. Much later, we wobbled back to find our seats had been converted to upper and lower single bunks, each tightly wrapped in clean white sheets.

Ladies, always wear a ¾-length skirt when travelling in squat countries, to hide a multitude of sins if no loos are available at all! I learned my lesson when travelling by local bus from Laos to Vietnam. When the bus stopped on the road, men went on one side, women on the other. I was the only one, trousers ‘round my ankles, with nether regions hanging out in the breeze. Try going quickly under that kind of pressure. And there was no dashing into a ditch or behind a tree, since the area hadn’t been cleared of landmines!

Before you enter the cubicle…

- Make sure you have a handful of toilet paper (it’s highly unlikely there’s any inside) and a plastic bag into which you will place it, when used.

- Put your hand sanitizer in an accessible pocket.

- If you are wearing trousers, roll up the legs. When unbuttoned, they shouldn’t drop lower than your knees.

- Put your backpack on. Trust me, there’s nowhere to hang it up and you don’t want to leave it on the floor.

- When in most squats in India (they are generally cleaner in Thailand and other SE Asian countries, put a drop of peppermint or lavender oil right under your nose to help offset other ‘aromas’.

When inside, lift your skirt up by the hem and tuck it, all around, into your waistband.

Put your feet in the grooves, squat and aim for the hole. This is actually the position best designed for our bodies to eliminate waste…and very good exercise for those quads!

Sometimes (but not always) there’s a bucket of water with a ladle, or a hose with a showerhead-like attachment. Go native, and use it to wash yourself (good luck…there’s a definite directional knack to this), and use it to sluice the area clean.

Hopefully, you have a free hand to operate the hose or ladle. By now, your thigh muscles are aching, your backpack is weighing heavily and your balance, precarious.

Emerge from cubicle…hot, sweaty and satisfied. Apply hand sanitizer liberally.

Now, try this on a moving train…

Raffish Rafik, sporting yellow teeth and a frayed shirt colour, arrived at my hotel on the appointed day, and off we went.

Although the alleys twist and the colours, textures, sounds and smells overlap in jumbled heaps, this is a highly organized market…actually, a number of markets: clothing, leather, iron and copper, wood, jewelry, carpets and spices…each dedicated to a trade and assigned to a specific area.

Fabulous! I expected to wander at will, but Rafik wasn’t having any of that! If I stopped at a stall, he’d tell me that the goods there were made in China – not authentic Moroccan – and said he knew of an ‘authentic shop’. Without reason to not believe him – it is possible that items were more cheaply made in China – I grew more skeptical as the day wore on, because while there were shops and stalls, there were also workshops where you could see everything being made. See, this is why I wanted a sanctioned guide: it’s impossible to sort truth from deception here. But, as soon as we stepped inside, he disappeared, leaving me to navigate on my own. Chances are, he was also making commission from everything I bought, even though I was told he wasn’t supposed to.

Shopping goes something like this…

“How much are these slippers, please?”

“Just tell me everything you are interested in and afterwards I give you good price.”

“If you could help me with a price, now, please, I will then know if we can talk.”

(I just wanted to make a decision and move on!)

“Oh, Miss…Just sit here…Have some tea. We sit, we talk. If you no want to buy, we part friends…yes?”

“Thank you, no. I think I’ll just keep looking.”

“Oh Miss. Look at these beautiful slippers! For you? For your mother? Where you from? England? America? Oh, Canada! I have cousin in Toronto! Come, I make sure you are happy. You want sugar in your tea?”

You just know you’re not going to get out of there under an hour and without a bag of overpriced something. Seven hours later, and as many shops, I was worn down, done in.

I learned that to ask questions – or to question, anything – is to unleash a practiced weave of redirections about honour and culture and the ‘Moroccan way…Come sit…this is how we do it in Morocco.”

Yeah, well, I kind of like it more straight ahead…and not sure mint tea will ever taste the same.

Rich in anti-oxidants, natural vitamin E, carotenes, essential fatty acids and other beneficial ingredients, oil extracted from the nut of this tree is a nutritive, cosmetic and medicinal powerhouse. Traditionally used for skin ailments and burns, it is now made into anti-aging products; as well as cooking and dipping oils, and a delicious nut butter called Amlou.

Despite surviving for about two million years, this tree – that lives for about 200 years – was literally being burned out of existence as firewood and overeaten by goats. Recognizing its value, UNESCO created a 26,000 kilometer reserve, near the High Atlas Mountains, in southern Morocco, and Berber women are now exclusively supported to grow and harvest the trees.

I was eager to visit one of the many women’s fair trade cooperatives that produce argan oil products, and knew we were close when we saw goats in the branches of trees, by the side of the road. Although nuts for the commercial market are now harvested in a more sanitary way, they used to be gathered (and still are, by local people) once they had been expelled from the goats!

We entered a low, cool white building to see half a dozen women sitting on the floor, in a row along one wall. The women pulled off the tough prune like casing to reveal long thin nuts, which were hammered open to reveal the pits inside. These would be roasted and then pressed to release the oils. The first pressing was used for cosmetic products, the second for cooking.

One woman smiled at me, and patted the empty space beside her. I joined them, legs splayed out on either side a large wooden bowl full of harvested nuts. I was shown how to knock them against a dark, flat stone to release the nut from its casing and practiced till the task became easier. Moving to a long table, we rubbed raw oil on the back of our hands, dabbed creams on our arms and dipped bread into roasted oil and amlou – delicious!

Inspired by what we saw (and to support the women, who share the profits and use them for their healthcare and education), we were ready to shop. After perusing the shelves lining the room, neatly stacked with jars and bottles, we were stunned by the prices: a very small bar of soap, for instance, was $10; and bottles of oil started at $50.

Even after learning that it takes several days of work to make a liter of oil from 32 kilograms of fruit, it was just too expensive for me, and most of the others on the tour. Regretfully, we left but days later, in the souks in Marrakesh, I wandered into a herbalist’s shop and did succumb to buying a very small bottle.

I’m told a little goes a very long way.

In the Essouira harbour

Marrakesh is liberally peppered with tour companies and touts and, of course, everyone ‘knows’ someone who is a guide/has a minibus or 4×4 or taxi/can introduce you/owns a shop, etc.

After two or three false starts, including tea in grubby carpet shop waiting for ‘ my friend Hafik’ to arrive (I think not!) a legit company was found and a day’s trip booked to Essouira, about two and a half hours west of Marrakesh.

The next morning, we were off, driven by Abdul, a waft of cheap aftershave and a mixture of Arabic, French and Western pop (a la Lady Gaga and Faith Hill) on the radio. City gave way to a soft golden landscape dotted with olive trees…land, farmhouses, sheep and stone walls all the same hue.

Wait a minute! Was that a goat in a tree?! The van pulled over for a photo op, the entrée to a visit to an argan oil cooperative, run (we were told) by divorced women. Married women, apparently, aren’t allowed to work. (Check out the upcoming Argan Oil entry for more).

Still a fishing village, Essouira (Esa-wera) has grown into a bustling destination for tourists escaping choking Marrakesh, and surfers enjoying big waves whipped up by incessant winds known locally as alizee. At its heart is an old medina with stone ramparts, whitewashed houses, market stalls and artisan workshops.

Stuffed with bright Majorelle blue boats, the harbour bustled with fishermen sorting and selling their catch of dorado, bream, skate, crab and eels; repairing boats and nets. Photography of individuals – true of anywhere here – is not permitted especially those of bearded Berber men. We had to be very careful to photograph only objects or general scenes, approved by our local guide.

Moustafa met our van outside the medina gates. Tall, fast striding and sporting a bright blue head wrap, his weather-beaten faced sported twinkling eyes, and a dark charm and confidence. He kept us in a tight group, guiding us through the labyrinthine medina and steering us into shops in which he obviously earned a commission on sales (a standard practice). A wood carving shop offered a demonstration of inlaid table tops and myriad boxes and carving and a jewelry shop offered high end prices for mid-range work. The pressure to purchase lay thickly in the air. There was no time to browse on our own.

We were charged extra for Moustafa’s services…only revealed once we had arrived in the port. The driver said 30 dirhams each, but at the end, Moustafa demanded 50. When I questioned him, he moved close to my face and asked ‘You not happy? I give you nice tour, good restaurant for lunch, answer your questions!’

I backed off, annoyed and unsure. But, in response to our driver’s question about our day, I expressed chagrin over the discrepancy in price. The short version of what ensued was that tempers flared, spittle and arms flew and, in the end, Moustafa refunded some of us our 20 dirhams. Turns out it wasn’t the first time he had pulled that trick.

This story – of saying one thing and demanding another – of pressure and aggressive indignation when questioned – mixed with a veneer of hospitality (Tea? Cushion?) designed to extract a sale – repeats itself many times in a day.

After a day of wind and sun, in-my-face vendors, Moustafa maneuverings and the long drive, a long hot bath and good dinner with wine was a welcomed passport into blissful sleep.

Cars, motorbikes and bicycles were knotted tightly on all sides and lead-ups to the roundabout. The crescendo marked the end of a dusty, gas vapour-filled day. My nose and lungs burned, my skin and hair reeked.

And this is a quieter part of Marrakesh.

Flying in from Seville, the baked, scratched and crumpled ground below was broken only by irrigated olive groves (closer to the city) and scrubby fields in shades of grey. An undulating snake of dry river bed cut the only graceful line. Houses, at first in ones and twos, then larger groups and then finally tumbled on top of one another in the city, looked like lego blocks in various shades of dusty terracotta. At ground level, these colours are only relieved by gates and doors, mostly painted mint or forest green…perhaps wishful thinking for cool groves of palms.

My first night was spent within the walls of the medina, a stone’s throw or three down a twisting alley off the Djemma el Fna. Hotel Sherazade, one of dozen’s of budget offerings was pleasant enough, except on the lowest of four levels where my room was to be found. Split into two sections, one had to climb up four flights of turreted steps, walk across the room terrace and then down another four flights of turreted steps. Each section boasts a central courtyard which serve as light and air wells, around which the rooms are stacked. The design allows for the lower levels to be protected from heat, sun and dust – ideal places to be in hot weather. But in winter, my room smells moldy and not even the arthritic heater on full blast could take the chill away. The straw broke across this camel’s back when, after night huddled under two blankets doubled, there was no hot water in the shower.

This area is like Khao San Road in Bangkok or the Pahar Ganj in Delhi…hives of activity for backpackers and hawkers of every sort imaginable. Those days are gone for me…now I am craving a more peaceful retreat days navigating the congestion.

So, this morning, I moved outside the medina into the Ville Nouvelle area – home to more of the mid and high range of hotels. Twice the price – but still only $40 a night – bought me a light-filled, tiled floor room with two canopied single beds and a spacious bathroom. Can’t figure out how to turn on the heat, though, so will be drawing myself a lovely hot bath before bedtime. I shall dream of my upcoming appointment, in two days time, to the hotel’s hammam for a scrub and steam.

It’ll be lovely and warm in there!

Welcome to Marrakesh!

I had been warned about the frenzy of the place, of the monkey handlers, snake charmers, acrobats and other ‘performers’ who try to extract your money; of the beggars and cheats, the impossible-to-navigate souks. And although I have successfully negotiated markets and backstreets in India, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos and Thailand, this has a different tenor about it…very aggressive.

I confess that I’ve thought of turning around and going home…or of cutting my five-day reservation in half. I would feel different, I’m sure, if there was someone here to explore and get lost with…to laugh with over the misadventures of the day. But, I’m here, so will give it a shot.

Too bad the medina is ‘dry’…a large gin and tonic would do wonders!

After flying in from Barcelona, then checking into the Hotel Plaza Santa Lucia, on the edge of the old quarter, I followed the hotel manager’s directions to a local mercato in search of room refreshments…gin, tonic, nibblies, water. 

Another inquiry about somewhere to eat directed me to Los Pelicanos around the corner.  Very ‘caf’ as the Brits would say…’down market’.  I maneuvered through the youth smoking and chatting on the steps and sat down.  The floor was littered with a day’s worth of dirty napkins (I noticed that Spaniards just toss them on the floor and there they seem to remain until someone’s sweeps up at the end of the night.)  After being ignored by the man behind the bar (I must have screamed ‘tourista’ and therefore, was to be ignored), I ventured to the bar. 

“Tienen menu?” I inquired. 

“No menu!” he replied abruptly, jerking his head towards a series of plates of food along the bar. 

“Ah.”

I perused the dubious selection of unrecognizable meats in gravy, bready stratas and mysterious mounds of mayonnaise, which turned out to be “Russian Salad”:   hard boiled eggs stuffed with tinned tuna on a bed of iceberg lettuce drenched in mayo.

I pointed to the bread strata slice.  “Una, por favour, y una copa de vino blanco.  Grande.”

Edible but forgettable, the strata filled enough of a gap and the vino took the edge of the day.  

As I paid at the bar, I complimented the man on his English.  Surley turned into a smile as he explained he had studied hard.   I offered a handshake and said,

“Muchos gracias, me llama es Julie.”   Or tried to.  What really came out was “My ham (jamon) is Julie.”  He smiled.

Embarrassed, I stumbled out and immediately stepped (in my lovely new boots) into a soft pile of dog shit. 

Right.  Good thing for the gin.

And I did need to replace my boots…despite having them re-soled just a few months ago, both left and right sported holes!  What’s a girl to do?  Lucky for me, post-Christmas sales are in full swing and I’m very happy with my choice…practical yet stylish.  The old ones will be left in the bin in my room.

Camper, Zara and Mango are all Spanish in origin.  And while I popped into all – just because – I loved best the unexpected discoveries in the Barrio Gottic and La Ribera districts.  Medieval to the core – complete with remnants of Roman walls – these were distinct villages that grew into one another.  Inevitably, every narrow street (some outstretched-arms width) leads to a square.  Barrio Gottic is anchored by La Catedral, a massive place, built over centuries, starting in the 11th.  In this area, I found locally-owned shops of local clothing designers, of candles, hats, shoes, books and wine and specialty foods (cheese, bread, chocolate).

Wearing from my wanderings, and drawn by the artful display of pastries in the window, I stopped into a wedge-shaped shop and tearoom called Caelum (corner of Carrer de la Palla and Carrer dels Banys Nous).  Choc full of sweets made by nuns in convents all over Spain, it also had a beautiful ceiling to floor cupboard full of beautiful hard soaps, as well as bottles of liquid soaps, infused with vanilla and other scents.  Once inside, I pointed to a morsel dusted with icing sugar.  Like soft shortbread, folded into a half moon, a bite released sweet, pale green jelly.  Washed down with an infusione Manzanilla (chamomile tea), I was ready for round two.

While looking for a vintage clothing store I’d read about, I got lost but found the most amazing jewelry store I’ve ever seen.  Owned by Antonio Rossini and his partner, La Basilica Galeria, is one of two locations, which has been open for three years, and features the work of about 50 designers.  In the vast array of unique pieces, displayed in graceful antique cases were pieces made of silk injected with latex and rose leaves dusted with gold.  Mind blowing creativity and craftsmanship.  Anchoring the floor space were mannequins studded with Swarovski crystals wearing dresses of leaves and petals…one pink, one red, one black, one ivory…just incredible.  They are at c/Sant Sever 7, if anyone is interested. 

I wish I had more time here…perhaps it’s the new boots, perhaps the graceful, timeless quality of this city is soaking in.  I find myself wishing for a few more days but Sevilla beckons.