The Sunday Souk

Today was the third time I had visited Essaouira's junkyard souk. It is located outside the medina walls. It is a little walk from Bab Doukkala, one of the main entrances to Essaouira's medina.

The previous two times I had been there had been for no particular reason, just a curious wander around really. There were minimal people there and the dealers drove a hard bargain perched upon their rickety old stools or second hand couches. Maybe they were even tenth or eleventh hand because I haven't quite seen couches in that state before.

It's also situated near a tannery, but unlike Fez there are no mint leaves on arrival to counteract the vulgar stench. It's a dustbowl of a place and the windy city kicks up the dust and soon I have been transformed from looking like a beach bum to nomad that has wandered in from the Sahara.

A visual here for those of you who are trying to imagine what I look like is...... a small lady with a scarf strategically wrapped around her head, and Oakleys worn on the outside of the scarf so the strategically places scarf doesn't move and the sand cause momentary blindness.

Now I had never been on Sunday before. The souk transformed itself today. Every mother, father, sister, and brother was out and about hoping to score a deal. People were there for work and pleasure. It was bumper to bumper. It is lucky that I have grown accustomed to, I have to say women, walking straight through you or bumping you out of the way. This time it wasn't to get the bus ticket, milk, oranges, bread etc before me but it was to get to the 1 dirham t-shirts they were selling. The only way I knew this was because there was an adolescent screeching 'Hak, Hak, dirham, dirham' at the top, and I mean top of his lungs. This translates to 'Take, take, dirham, dirham'. A man was heard muttering to his child, "Only a crazy man would bring his wife here." Just how many t-shirts was his wife buying?

There are items here that are packed so high up on top of each other I can not see how it would ever be physically possible to get anything from the bottom, middle or top for that matter. Some piles of trash junk are probably older than I am. I can only liken this souk to something that is reminiscent to a giant game of Jenga and the people of Essaouira are all playing.

Some of the items for sale today were old power points, a pair of thick coke bottle glasses with one arm missing, rugs, carpets, jewellery, pieces of wood, bathroom sinks, hairbrushes, old pens, beds, horse carriages, mirrors, doors, refrigerator trays, tissues the list goes on and on and on.

You see the odd tourist floating around taking photos, as I was today. Having gone with Moroccan friends apparently I am an instant price increaser. As of course I am deemed a tourist and always will be - I have come to peace with the fact that I have to bartyr hard - nearly everywhere. However, for my poor Moroccan friends it also means that when they are with me I am actually making their job harder!

I am petitioning to take Antique Roadshow there, I would love to see what they make of this place. I am sure there is a some treasure there somewhere. It's just a matter of finding it.

Price increase - The framed picture to the right was being sold for 150 dirhams. You could probably buy all those images as postcards for around 20 dirhams. I suppose the guy is running a business!

Find anything here you like?

Jenga anyone?

A carosser man waiting for his next customer to come along.

The main entrance to the Sunday Souk.

The Times they are a Changing

Bob Dylan wrote the iconic song 'The times they are a changing' in the 60's when the world was in turmoil and people were flexing their independance and personal beliefs. It was a crazy time, a hazey time and a time full of a lot of free love, so i have heard. I often wished that I was around in that time to experience this change. But I wasn't, so to give my own perspective on that time would just be silly. Someone once commented on this song saying that ' ..it personifies the 60s and times of revolt and change so well'. So what I have chosen to do is create my own rebellion and my own sense of change, here in my home Morocco.

I want to share a little secret with you all. I did something I never thought I would do. I purchased a pair of white stretch pants (trousers). I do not want to insult my fellow white pant (trouser) wearers, but when you live in a town like Jan Juc it's only European backpackers or locals that got a really good deal on a pair of white pants at the Quiksilver sale (when really they wanted the black/brown/blue or grey) pants (trousers) that their friends managed to snaffle. Their friends only managed this as they got up the extra 15 minutes early and scored a better place in the line at the Torquay Primary School gymnasium.

White pants (trousers) are everywhere in this country. They come in all different styles and cuts. High wasted, low wasted, slim fit, loose fit, linen, stretch cotton, denim. The list goes on and on. Why, why, why so much white pant (trouser) wearing in Morocco?

What led me to buying the white pants (trousers)? I have thought about this and posed this question to myself for the last week. Finally, it dawned on me. I think that the French influence in Morocco is actually influencing me now. Next, I will be wearing a blue and white striped shirt and espidrilles. I hate to generalise but it may just happen.

So, I was recommended by a friend after admiring her white stretch pants (trousers) as to where I could lay my hands on a pair of these little treats. She pointed me in the direction of a shop not so far from my apartment. The sweetner was that they are in actual fact, Zara, pants (trousers) with the label cut off and sold for half the price. I love this country.

I have worn them out and been to afraid to sit down in them in case I get a mark across my backside. I have been dodging horse and carriages, and motorised scooter fumes. I don't need nasty exhaust fumes on my pretty white pants (trousers). I hover in taxis so my bottom doesn't touch the seat and always, always use a napkin if not two when eating. Not to mention the impromptu sand storms Marrakech has been having lately. I've gone as far as having a bottle of bleach at the ready.

Tomorrow I think might invest in a black, blue, brown or grey pair of pants (trousers)! It's got to be easier than wearing white in Marrakch l'hemmra. (Marrakech the red)

Come gather 'round people. Wherever you roam.
For my style is a changing!

Bee Stings and Beautiful Waterfalls

This weekend I took it upon myself to do something touristy. Well more touristy than an orange juice in Djemma al Fna. I headed to Ourika Valley with a friend and his mother on a day excursion. It was an early start by weekend standards and we were on the road by 8.30am. Crammed into a Grand Taxi (Taxi K'bira) like a can of sardines I was riding shotgun. Now this shotgun is not the revered 'best seat' in the car. This shotgun had me pretty much sitting on my friends lap and almost sitting cheek to cheek with the cab driver. 2 in the front, 4 in the back. You have to wait until there are six passengers in the car before the driver even contemplates starting his engine. That said, we had six in no time at all and we were on our way. It's about 60 km out of Marrakech. It's a lot more temperate than the city and many Marrakchi's head there for the cooler weather and the famous tagines.

Along the way the driver stopped a couple of times. The second time he stopped he very seriously got down and looked at the rear of his car. With a shake of the head he informed us we would have to go with another driver as his car was leaking oil and he could not possibly make the whole trip. Once again we crammed into the taxi and were later informed that he got a phone call from a friend who had a bigger job for him. We'd been dumped. I felt so cheated!

We arrived in Setti Fatma which is a little touristy town at the far end of the Ourika Valley road. This is the base for a seven waterfall hike. I was so glad I came prepared in a pair of worn through Havianas. As I stepped out of the car I felt this stinging sensation on the arch of my foot. As I looked down a dirty, rotten bee had left a little present for me in my foot. I carefully removed the stinger ad tried to impress my friends mother by saying ' Arghhhh!Tizwah, Tizwah! Arggghhhhh!' I was told by a friend once that 'Tizwah' means bee, in Arabic. Apparently not. She got the idea when I began making buzzing noises and started flapping my best bee like wings. For all those people wondering what I should have said it was 'Tizwait' (I am sure that is not spelt correctly) and it's not even an Arabic word. It's Berber. Will I ever work this language out? If I don't then I will at least be a form of entertainment to Moroccan women and Berber taxi drivers.

Anyway onwards and upwards. We crossed wee bridges held together by nothing more than a few nails and old pieces of wood. We scrambled up and down rocks and only made it to the second waterfall. Upon heading to the second waterfall we found a handy little ladder to climb. We didn't realise that it was a luxury and we were meant to pay for the privilege of using some little man's ladder. Three dirhams later he was happy and me and my slippery flip flops had found their way to safer ground.

A yummy tagine later, we were all set to head back to Marrakech. An uncomfortable hour spent pushed up against the passenger door window and we were back in Marrakech. A full belly and a happy day spent in the Ourika Valley.

A short walk to a pretty view.

The day was perfect. Such amazing weather.

The first waterfall.

Here's one way to keep your stock cool. Insert a hose in the minaret and have the cool water spurt out the top.

The view of the Oued and people's homes set into the mountains.

Carpets in a Carpark

Is it possible to buy carpets in Morocco without mint tea? Some would say absolutely not. I would say absolutely yes! There are not many people that wouldn't have a 'story' to share about buying a carpet in Morocco. Whether it be getting a good deal because business is tight and the salesman is throwing his carpet at you or paying an obscene amount for a carpet that you just had to have and it ends up costing three times as much as if you bought it back home. However, it was handmade by the family that lives down the road and it was once a wedding gift.... and the stories go on. I am not saying that these stories are false by any means but it definitely puts a romantic spin on something you literally put on the floor, walk over, spill your crumbs on and when having a party red wine and cigarette ash get ground into.

So how did my carpet story unfold. Was I in some ancient kasbah in the valleys of Morocco? Was I wooed with mint tea and told stories of long ago? Was I introduced to the women who made the rug and asked to enjoy a traditional meal of tagine with the carpet salesman's family?

No, I wasn't. My experience was a little more informal. I was lead to a car park, the back doors of the van were opened and the carpets were laid out on display on the gravel. At one stage a woman came along in her car and drove over my potential carpets to get to a park. There was a brief intermission on the sale when the woman and the salesman decided to have an argument as to why she would do such a thing. Finally, I decided on two a 2x3m and a 1.5x2m carpet. The price was negotiated and I saved myself the obscene mark up I would have had to pay if I had of gone the option of being courted with mint tea.

After handing over my dirhams there was a handshake and a shukran bezef. The deal was done and now my apartment smells like a camel, but its looks beautiful.

Poste Maroc

Mum sent my camera over to me at the beginning of March. I was hoping that it would get to Morocco in time for my trip to Italy, in April. It didn't. Having spoken to colleagues of mine I had heard a couple of disaster stories, such as, the package arriving but half of the contents missing. Other stories were of packages not arriving at all.

I tried to be optimistic. Australia is a lot further than the States so surely it would take more time to get here. As another month passed and a new season rolled over I had resigned myself to the fact that someone out there was taking beautiful happy snaps with my camera. Maybe they were hiking the Ourika valley or trying to take a bad shot of the whitewashed walls of Chefcahouen (which is nearly impossible, if not impossible).

Yesterday I was pleasantly surprised when in my pigeon hole at school I had received a letter from Poste Maroc informing me that a package had arrived from Australia. I did a little jump for joy and then remembered the story of the package arriving but half the contents missing. I tried not to get too excited after all.

I headed up to the post office to collect my package only to be told that 'Customs' was not open and I would have to return tomorrow. "Shukran, chofek mnbad - Thank you, see you later" I said. I have grown used to having to return somewhere 2 to 3 times before finally achieving what I set out to do.

The day after I went to collect my package only to be told that I must return with my passport. Even though my licence holds the same details I MUST return with my passport. OK then homeward bound.....again. This time I returned with my passport and eagerly awaited the man to bring my camera to me. There is was, all safe and sound and wrapped up in bubble wrap. I don't know if I was more excited about the bubble wrap or the camera. My bubble wrap fetish is something I haven' been able to shake from childhood.

I was invited into the customs room where I was instructed I would have to pay 200 Dirhams (about 26 AUD) for the pleasure of obtaining my own camera. What? After an animated discussion with the customs official I phoned a friend (much like on Who Wants to be a Millionaire). I hate to get people to fight my battles for me, but I needed a fluent speaker to find out what on earth I was being charged for.

It works out that as the camera was not bought in Morocco I needed to pay 'taxes' on it. I was required to pay these taxes as I am now a resident in Morocco. Bollocks to that. As I didn't have my Carte de Sejour (residency permit) on me I told him to look at my passport. I will be a tourist if I need to be. He didn't look at it. My friend got him down to 150 Dirhams. Better than nothing I thought. I dug my heels believing that I was being scammed. I offered him 100 Dirhams instead. I was pleasantly suprised when he told me that I would pay nothing but next time I would be required to do so. There were many "Shukran Bezef's" and hand over heart gestures once he told me that.

So if anyone is planning on sending me a television, a sound system or anything of the electrical type. Thank you but it's really not worth the hassle. Unless I invest in a wig and proclaim to be a tourist every time I step foot into Poste Maroc.