An English ftour

Living in Morocco and having many Moroccan friends you are constantly trying to find a balance. A balance between just about anything life throws at you. Sometimes I feel like I am living a double life. There are moments when I am so immersed in the culture hear that I find myself doing and experiencing things I would never have thought possible. For example, as a going on 17 year vegeterian I find myself transfixed to watching the ritual sacrifice of two lambs and a goat at L'Aid. Then sometimes I feel I could be sitting in any restaurant in Melbourne laughing with the girls about the not so beautiful aspects of childbirth that I am yet to experience, as I did last night - in Marrakech.



For the last 5 days I have had two moroccan friends staying with me in Marrakech. I have been working and coming home each day and battling my way through conversations in my limited arabic. They assure me that my arabic is 'izween'- beautiful, but I tend to disagree.

When I visit one of my friends I am always treated as a guest in their house, even though the whole family knows that after 2 years I am pretty much part of the furniture. Moroccan's hospitality never ceases to amaze me. It is unrelenting, so much so that to a certain extent I feel embaressed about the lack of assistance I give to my surrogate family. I put the shoe on the other foot and I think that in my own household I would probably throw a teatowel at my friend and say' Thanks for coming to dinner. I'll wash - you dry'

I had a brainwave. As I am on my homegorund I would finally be the one to reciprocate a speck of the last two years of hospitality that has been so generousy bestowed upon me.

First was the vegeterian lasagne. Now vegeterianism is not huge in Morocco. In fact I don't have one moroccan friend that doesn't eat meat. Most people think I'm crazy. I was nervous, here I was in the kitchen with an insanley good cook. The pressure was on. I chopped, I sliced, I stirred and I seasoned, and the overall verdict was pleasing. It must have been as it was enjoyed by my two friends for lunch the next day. Let's be honest lasagne is always best the next day.

This morning before the girls set out on yet another day exploring I cooked them a good old English breakfast. Complete with scrambled eggs, baked beans, toast and butter. I couldn't talk them into a white tea so it was served with mint.



This week has reminded me that two worlds can come together without much hoo-hah, little by little, and food is a great way to start.

Another year in Marrakech

Two months ago I returned to Morocco after 7 weeks back home in Australia. I always love going home but the excitement about getting back to my own home and my life in Morocco excited me by the end of the trip.

It was great going back and being a tourist in my own city and country. Above all else it was amazing to spend time with my lifelong friends and of course, my family.

Being two months back into life in Marrakech and I am exhausted! The social scene has really picked up a bit, hamdullilah, and work is well, as it always is just plain old hard work.

I am looking for more balanced approach to work here. Yes, they are long days and yes there are days potentially weeks sometimes when you do not hear the words thank you or great job by the power that be. I will not let this get me down though.

I have to remind myself daily that I have so many wonderful people in my life and I am loved, cared about and respected by those who matter the most.

Now it is time to continue writing the next chapter in my crazy life!

Vive le Maroc

Last night was insane in Marrakech. The streets were electrifying and the energy and happiness permeating from every inch of every persons body was a sight to be seen. It all came down to a little game we call soccer. But this was no ordinary game. Morocco beat Algeria 4-0 last night in Marrakech.

From Friday afternoon you could not get a quiet moment wherever you tried to hide. The streets were alive with sounds of honking,horn blowing, hooting, and hollering. It went late into the night and started again early Saturday morning. It didn't cease until game time. At half time it started up again when Morocco were 2-0 in front. As the final siren went people spilled onto the streets from cafes, bars and households. People hugged, people danced, people sang, and people did down right dangerous acts all to celebrate this monumental victory. Families zipping past on a scooter waving flags, young buff boys chanting passionately and even a young man stripped down to his underwear rejoicing on top of a car.



Friends and I joined the festivities dancing on the streets and furiously waving the Moroccan flag. Upon re entering the venue where we watched the game at we were dragged onto the dance floor by staff and proudly wrapped our adopted country, Morocco's flag around us waving four fingers in the air.



After an emotional and saddening couple of months succeeding the Cafe Argana explosion Morocco is once again alive with the sound of VIVE LE MAROC.

Mum and Dad do Morocco

I had been pleading with Mum and Dad for years to come and visit me while I was off living abroad. Dad has run a successful hands on business in Melbourne for the past thousand years and getting away was always difficult. As it is a family business Mum has always been very involved as well. However, this year was the year of the big R - Retirement year. I told them under no circumstances were they not going to travel the 30 hours from Australia to Morocco and share its wonders with me. I sourced cheap tickets for them both and told them to spend my part of the inheritance. It was time for Nev and Ron to dip their toes in the Atlantic.

I almost died of shock when they informed that they would actually be visiting me. I guess Morocco was a place they were always going to have to come to, after all, this is the country that stole their youngest child and only daughter who obviously has no plans on returning to Australia anytime soon.

So then what? Now I had to figure out how on earth I was going to preoccupy my Mum and Dad for 3 weeks. I did what I always do when confronted with a challenging situation. I wrote list, after list, after list. What sights to see, where to eat, where to shop, the lists went on and on and on!

Mum and Dad arrived a few days before my birthday and I was beside myself with excitement. I boarded the train to Casa and made sure I had enough to do for the 3-4 hour journey. Well that 3-4 hour journey became a 6 hour journey as there was some sort of trouble with another train. All passengers were offered a warm soft drink on an already hot day and told to wait, which we did.

Finally I arrived at the airport ten minutes late. In that 10 minutes Mum had already paid a guy 20 dirham to call and see where I was. They were looking extremely wide eyed when they saw me. They experienced customs first hand - shouting, queue jumping, shoving, and honestly just wanted to get out of the airport, quick smart.

We made a quick exit and spent out first night in Casablanca. Like the A1 tourist guide that I am we ate Italian in the hotel restaurant on our first night in Casablanca.

Upon arriving in Marrakech Dad was greeted with a 'Bonjour' on the street. Still a little jet lagged he shouted after me. "Hey, that man is saying something to me!" "What did he say, Dad?" I replied. "Bonjour?" Dad said. "Ugh, he's saying G'day!" I informed him. "Oh, righto!" Happy with that explanation we merrily continued to my apartment.

I didn't realise what a work out my arabic (however minimal) would get when Mum and Dad were here. To them I sounded like I was speaking fluently and they were extremely proud that their little girl could converse with the locals, give taxi drivers a hard time and make sure they didn't starve.

We took a little break from Morocco and flew to Italy at the start of my school holidays. Mum and Dad loved Rome and were amazed by the history of it all. For me better than all that was seeing Mum standing slap bang in the middle of a city she had learnt about all those years ago at her little catholic primary school in Melbourne and since then had wanted to visit.



England was great and luckily for Dad it was when Ponting resigned from his captaincy of the Australian cricket team. He felt very lucky as he was able to read an english paper and get the latest news. Also, he won't admit this but as I was dragging Mum up and down Oxford Street he was sitting back in the B&B watching all the soaps he gives Mum heaps about back home for watching. Every day when we would return we would get information on what scam the Dingles were pulling in Emmerdale or what was happening in the Vic on Eastenders.

After our week long jaunt in Europe is was time to return to Morocco. I was pleased about this because I wanted to take Mum and Dad to Essaouira, my favorite place (for many reasons) in Morocco. There we experienced the windy city, rain, wind, and shine. We were shown unbelievable hospitality by a friend's family and I do think the seaside town impressed them both. Maybe not as much as me, but definitely a little.



Next stop was Fes and we stayed in a friend's dar. This is the place I managed for 2 months and it was nice to stay there as a guest again. I introduced Mum and Dad to friends, good friends and I think it put Mum at ease to know that I would be ok and had amazing people there for me if my world came crashing down around me in Morocco. Fes is my refuge and I think it always will be. We explored the winding alleyways, smelly tannery and dodged touts successfully.



Having Mum and Dad here was certainly an experience and I am so glad that they came. Maybe it wasn't the place they had always dreamed of going to but they did it for me. Why? Because this place is my home now and it will always have a special place in my heart. I thank them for that tremendously.

Our Children

Today I did something that I have wanted to do for a long time, and not just in Morocco. I visited a homeless shelter for children. Today I visited Atfalouna in Marrakech.

Atfalouna literally means 'Our children' in Arabic. This centre is rightly named. Atfalouna caters to about 240 children in the Marrakech area. It is a small not for profit organisation that relies on people to feed, educate, vaccinate and bath children of all shapes and sizes.

There are two 'houses' in Marrakech. They sleep eight and twelve children respectively. The 'boys' house sleeps eight and the 'girls' house sleeps twelve, for now. The rest of the children that make up the 240 are still at home but often come to the facility to receive food, some sort of education and basic human necessities. During the day the boys and girls are free to come and go as they please between the two centres but when it comes time to turn out the lights they are separated.

Today, myself and two colleagues met with two workers at the centre. It was obvious that they needed money to keep the centre up and running or donations of food to keep stomachs partially full.

Upon taking a tour of the centre we found that they had an intervention room for children and their families as the ultimate aim of the centre is to re integrate them with their families when possible. They use 'educators' to facilitate this process but when they are not available they do it themselves.

They have a storage room for food and rely on donations from supermarkets such as Marjane to help fill their basic shelves. When asked what they needed most, both of them replied simultaniously meat, chicken and fresh fruit and vegetables. The children do not eat meat everyday here, and meat is one of the staple foods in any Moroccan household.

The centre of the house has a few tables and chairs which the children can sit around and socialise. At either side of the room are bunk beds to accomodate those kids that do not have a home to go to when the sun has set, their belly's are full and it is time to sleep. The house is cold especially at this time of year in Marrakech and they are provided with one blanket, a pillow and a sheet.

On our tour we met Lalla Aisha, a round woman with a cheerful face. We were told that she is the mother of the children and by the looks of her probably a pretty good cook also. The children enjoy cous cous every Friday and we were invited to come in and share a meal with the children whenever we wanted.

They have a small room with four computers that were donated by a spanish association and an even smaller classroom that seats up to 8 children. I took one look at the facilities in that room and had an instant appreciation for my whiteboard, even if it isn't magnetic. Rickety tables and chairs with a few tattered books piled in the corner and an ancient chalkboard that left me wondering if it had ever worked before.

There is a small library there too and the books look pretty much untouched. The centre is hoping to get more CD ROMS to use with their for computers.

We journeyed up to the terrace, where once again there were tables set out. Today, there was a British organisation that visits the shelter every Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. There was an explosion of colour with everything from fluro pipe cleaners to an array of Crayola colouring pencils. The kids were enjoying the sunshine and chatting between themselves without an apparent care in the world. If only that were true.

Atfalouna have a vision. It is to identify the children that need them, orientate them with the centre and show them that they do have an option away from the streets of Marrakech. They focus on educating the children and assisting the children to develop skills that may see them gaining employment. The other vision is that they work with the children and try to integrate them back into their family environment. However, if needed the door is always open to them, even if it is a place to come and spend a few hours of the day.

Before I visited the shelter I read an article about what causes a child to find themselves on the street in Morocco in the first place. There could be a variety of reasons, for example, bad relationships, abuse and so on. I read one boys story that struck me and saddened me in the few paragraphs this article had dedicated to him and his story.

This young teenager left home because he did not want to burden his mother any longer. He saw her trying to fill the mouths of five siblings and decided to sacrifice his 'seat at the table' for the rest of his family. He left home and now lives on the street. He has a job with a fruit and veg seller that makes him a little money. He visits his family once a week but does not stay. He stays enough time to give his mother what he has made that week. After that he returns to the street.

There are so many stories like that and not enough shelters to house these children. That is when you find they turn to cheap drugs and bad habits, sniffing glue probably being the most prominent in Morocco.

Hamdullah, Atfalouna is taking the time to try and help these children and their families out.

I heart London

I consider myself to have had three homes in my lifetime so far. Australia will always be my home. It is where I grew up, achieved so many firsts and the only place I can truly make sense of. My current home, Morocco, amazes me, excites me and tests me everyday. My other home is London. It is where I lived for almost 3 years when I embarked on every Australians right of passage 'The Working Holiday Visa'
I have returned numerous times to London and most recently this Christmas. It is an amazing city and I really do love it. Here are some of the reasons why.


Unlimited shopping opportunities and outrageous Boxing Day sales.



A good old Christmas lunch.



The efficiency of the tube (on most occasions).



The Cornwall Pasty Co.



The famous red phone booth.

A Little Bit of Spain

I have just got back from a whirlwind trip to Valencia with a friend of mine. We decided that a 50 euro return trip for both of us was like looking a gift horse in the mouth and having missed out on Barcelona earlier in the year due to an expired passport (not mine!) we jumped at the chance for a weekend getaway.

Conveniently my friend had met an Argentine on a bus who was travelling to Valencia on the same flight as us and he had offered to get us from the airport to our hotel after our flight. This was very much appreciated as we didn't fly in until almost midnight. Rodolfo, our Argentine godsend was so helpful and promised to return the next evening for a tapas adventure.

After a much needed sleep we arose in the morning and the same question was on both out lips "What will we do now?" Eat was the general consensus. Hmmmmm, a buffet breakfast awaited us. It consisted of the usual pastries that you find in any patisserie her in Morocco, but what really got me excited was the selection I had to choose from of the things that you don't get so often in Morocco, for example, potato tortilla. Ahhhhhhhhh, the cuisine of another country had me felling like a kid at Christmas. I was overwhelmed.




We headed off to the Market Central where we found bright and shiny fruit and vegetable stands. Entire shops dedicated to strung up legs of ham, cheese, nuts, skinned rabbits and turkeys feet. The smells, sounds and sights of Market Central were well and truly welcomed. Of course, my search for some sort of command of darija had me naming every fruit and vegetable I could in arabic!

Shortly after, we headed down to the tourist information centre to obtain a decent map and plan our next move. With such a limited time in Valencia we had to plan our attack on the city with precision and careful planning! After leaving the office with map in hand and walking the wrong way for a couple of hundred metres, we finally got our bearings and decided to take bus no. 32 to the ville nouvelle/new city/ ciudad nuevo.

Once there we visited the complex which houses Valencia's City of Arts and Science Museum (Ciudad de las Artes y de las Ciencias). Here we bought tickets to largest aquarium (oceanographic) in Europe after randomly posing with street art sculptures we headed into the actual aquarium. This place was amazing. It had a number of exhibits to explore from Tropical fish to Artic sea creatures and we finished by viewing the dolphin performance in the Dolphinarium. After four hours of wandering through the grounds of the aquarium we thought it was best to pack it in and head back to the hotel.






A note awaited us from our faithful friend Rodolfo. It was time for tapas. We strolled through the clean, chilly and relatively quiet streets of Valencia in search of the best tapas bar. Trying to find the best tapas bar in Spain is not an easy task. There is a tapas bar on every corner and they all look deliciously inviting. We were early so we decided to head into one that had no customers at all. We perused the menu and ordered a couple of cokes. I don't know what the owner made of our non drinking ways but he was warm and friendly nevertheless. Probably the best thing about this guy was that he was the spitting image of the English comedian Ricky Gervais. I left thinking 'If I could understand what he was saying would I find him as funny too?'
As a vegetarian I am at a bit of a loss with traditional tapas bars. A lot of the food contains some sort of meat, whether it be seafood or red meat. Ricky was a gem though and made me beans with mint! Even in Spain beans and mint found me.

We continued to wander through the streets and were very impressed with the churches, buildings and calm that Valencia exuded. The night ended with a great meal at an Italian (I know, I know, please forgive me!) restaurant in Plaza de Reina called Parpadella.

After a good nights sleep and another buffet breakfast it was time to get physical. We had been recommended by friends of friends to climb the stairs of the Miguelete. When we entered the church mass was on and the hymns were being sung and the congregation was observing the Saturday morning service. It was a pretty church and it was a scene I had not seen in quite some time. Then the climbing commenced, thank goodness for hand rails as I may not have made it otherwise. I know my fitness is severely lacking at the moment, but I didn't think I was this bad. Huffing and puffing we got to a section where there was a selection of bells that I assume had once been used. I couldn't catch my breath to even attempt to ask the guy who worked there what all the bells were about! A few more stairs and we were at the top. The views were pretty impressive and was definitely worth the 2 euros. You got to see Valenicia from the east to the south to the west and north. Personally, I think that Valenicia is much more attractive from the ground.



Once again we met Rodolfo and a couple of hi friends and drove to a town near the coast called La Palmer. This town in the place to go for paella. Once again, being a vegetarian proved to be a pain in the backside as they did not make paellas for one unless you ordered the menu of the day. I did not fancy eating chicken and rabbit. We decided on the paella mariscos which is the seafood paella. It was a pretty impressive sight when it came out. It looked great and tasted pretty good too, even if I was hitting mussel and shrimp speed humps the whole way through. After lunch it was off to the beach. It was freezing there and I think we lasted about ten minutes - maximum. Only enough time to share an Argentinian mate and a couple of photos.



Now the moment we had been waiting for, shopping. I had pretty much had my shopping fix in London over Christmas but my friend was chomping at the bit. We hit Corte de Ingles first for a few staple items, enough chocolate to last a year and enough coffee to last two. Presents.

I was aware that we needed 25 minutes to get to the airport from Xativa metro. I like to be early, I think I inherited that gene from my mother. However, shopping with a man possessed left us with 20 minutes to get to the airport, check in, clear customs and get to our gate. The pressure was on. Backpacks and shopping bags flying we ran to the metro. We had to wait, very impatiently, behind three adolescents who were scraping the last change out of the wallets for tickets in what seemed like slow motion. Once we got to the airport we were running even faster, climbing over peoples luggage 'pardon, scusa, pleeeaassssseeee' were being blurted out repeatedly.

Hooray! we got to the check in desk only to be sent to another desk because of our non EU passports. Argggggghhhhhh! Go, go, go, move, move, move, run, run, run. I was going as fast as my little legs could carry me. We were almost there. All we had to get through was the bag check and boarding. I sailed through and was on my way only to see my friend getting padded down by security. Done, lets go! Oh no, my friend then got his shampoo confiscated!

Finally, we were free to board. Beads of sweat on our brow and out of breath for the second time that day, we collapsed into our seats. We were heading home.

Letting Go

Letting go. Letting GO. Leee-ting go. LETTING GO! Just let go. No matter how I say it I just haven’t been able to find a way to do it these past few days.

I knew that when I moved to Morocco I would have to deal with missing weddings, births, parties, engagements and so on, but I never imagined I would have to deal with the passing of a friend.

I have lost people in the past but I have had the luxury of being surrounded by people who are mutual friends and relatives. I have sat for hours on end reminiscing about this day, or that night. Smiling at the silly things we used to get up to and squeezing the life out of the person you are talking to as if you have your arms around the person you have just lost.

This week has not been like that at all, I have had some concerned friends and one in particular has been my keeper, calling me daily to see if I’m ok. It is very much appreciated but I still feel unbelievably isolated. You see I am letting go from afar.

For the past week I have walked around with a black cloud hovering over me. I have been surrounded by an all consuming sadness and a voice that has been nagging me to ‘let go’. What if I don’t want to let go, what happens then?

I have been going to sleep early, because I don’t want to be awake anymore. When I am awake I think and when I think I cry and when I cry I hurt and when all that is done I know my thoughts, my tears and my hurt will not bring my friend back.

I have been rising in the morning and feel as though I am sleep walking through my day. I feel as though I do not own multiple senses, I can only sense my sadness. That is it.

Here in Morocco I have found that death happens and that is it, that is life. You accept it and move on. Of course people are incredibly sad but they have such faith that they are going to a better place. A friend once received a text message saying ‘Happy Birthday, one less year to live’. My friend was so happy to have received that message. I couldn’t understand why. Maybe now I understand a little. When you move from this life to the next there is something that awaits you. Something special, something to look forward to, something out of this world.

A friend explained his belief on death as saying, "When you are a muslim you are always prepered for death and you don't see death as the end, you see it as another path towards god and if you have a strong belief in god you will never be afraid or scared of anything. He is the only one you should fear and love at the same time."

Maybe my friend knew that all along. It makes my heart smile that he is no longer hurting, that he is free of the battles that chose him and wouldn’t leave him alone.

As for letting go, that may take a while still.

No! It's not ka, it's ka.

Language.

Language is hard, language is frustrating. Add a foreign language to your life and it becomes almost intolerable. When I was younger I studied Italian at school. I took almost nothing away from those 7 years of study except how to say my name and a few greetings. Then I progressed onto German for a year and a half at high school and I remember how to say excuse me (enschuldigung), only because it's a fun word to say.

And I mustn't forget my year of travel where I spent the most part of the year in spanish speaking countries sightseeing and participating in intensive spanish courses. I think I have down how to order two beers and say thank you. The only problem is I no longer drink.

Moving to Morocco I was determined, and still am, to learn the local dialect, darija. Many people ask me why I didn't choose to speak French and put forward a thousand valid reasons as to why French would be easier and more useful to learn. The honest truth is I don't want to.

When I first visited Morocco years ago, I was I will admit, armed with a french phrasebook. Out of the couple of hundred pages or so I was able to order a small sandwich with chips. By the end of a 5 week stay in Morocco I got pretty sick of sandwiches and chips. Embarassingly, I spoke even less darija.

Since moving to Morocco I have made a conscious effort to study darija and speak more when the opportunity arises. Now, I have many difficulties when it comes to speaking arabic but probably the most difficult part of learning this language is the pronunciation of certain sounds. The arabic alphabet has numerous tongue twisting and throat constricting sounds, and some of the sounds are pretty much identical. This is a language that is traditionally not written so numbers are used for certain sounds. For example 7 = ha, 5 = kh, 9 = ka, 3 = ain. Not to mention words, my goodness, words.

There are a number of occasions when I have been talking about the colour white yet I get a vacant look and realise that the person I am talking to thinks I am talking about the wind, the cold or eggs. Asking the bus if it is leaving at seven has the driver and his right hand man in hysterics as they think I am waiting for the morning bus 12 hours early. The difference between the word for morning and seven is almost non existent to my ear.

I study arabic twice a week now and clock up a total of three hours. My usteda (teacher) is great and she is very patient with the group I study with. She teaches english to public school students in the medina and tutors us in the evening. My usteda is very honest and upfront, she has told us to stay away from words, or more to the point sounds until we have mastered them in private. The reason behind this is that I may offend those I am talking to and completely humiliate myself. One example was trying to say that 'I teach.' Instead I said 'I bum.' Not cool.

There are some really fun things I have learned since studying darija, like when you have a cold you say "Drabni l'brd'. Which literally translates into 'I have been hit by the cold', 'Makajneesh n3ss', which means 'Sleep does not come to me', or if you are referring to someone as being stupid you call them a 'della7' which translates into the word for melon. Therefore, it can be used as an insult or at the fruit and veg stand.

Although learning a language is hard going it is one of my favourite things about living in Marrakech. Trying to converse in the safety of your own home during classes, and a shwiya b shwiya (little by little) approach on the streets suits me. Usteda has threatened that we will be taking or school to the streets, by the way of her setting mini assignments. I'm ready for it, bring it on.

I just have to remember not to call myself a bum whilst conversing with a stranger!

Somewhere in the Middle Atlas

I just got back from a weekend away with some friends somewhere in the Middle Atlas. I didn't know exactly where I was going and I am still not sure exactly where I have been. I do know that I feel tired, have a sore bottom and a big smile on my face. Even though the later do not usually go together.

A friend posed a road trip to a small group of us about a trip away to a beautiful little spot in the Middle Atlas mountains, Morocco (obviously!). We set out Friday evening and were to arrive at our 'git'( yes i know what you're thinking you lazy... but it is pronounced 'zheet'), Moroccan home stay approximately 3 to 4 hours later.

The trip there was interesting. A good friend has just purchased a Renault 4 and Anna assured us that the car was made for these roads and would serve us well. I had complete faith in her. If there is anything I do know about country girls is that they know their cars. We left red Marrakech behind us hopeful of some fresh air. The roads got quieter and the towns less busy. We were on our way. A weekend away from the big smoke. We passed through little Berber villages and I imagine they were really beautiful, however, we couldn't see a thing as the sun had well and truely set. We entertained ourselves by imagining what we could be seeing. I fondly named the car Cat-Dog as this ride was amazing. It launched itself into pot holes and around hair pin bends as though it owned the roads. In my eyes it was officially a cat that thinks it's a dog. The best type of cat in my eyes!

We arrived 5 - 6 hours later. Spirits were high and we were greeted by warm smiles and a healthy serving of home cooked moroccan food. My friend Chris and I devoured a vegetarian tagine and the others received their 'normal' meals, as it was described.

We planned with our 'to go to' guy, Mustafa that we would climb Cathedral Rock the next morning and set of at about 9:30am. We were pretty desperate for a sleep in after a long weeks work. Mine consisting not only of work but an annoying cold and a tummy bug.

The git was lovely, clean comfortable and had character, although at that stage I was so tired I probably could have slept comfortably on a bed of nails. And that is what I did, slept.

I arose the next morning excited about the hike but also a little unsure. I am not much of a hiker to be honest and resistence isn't my thing. Ask me to walk on even grounding and I will out Forest Gump anyone but this was going to be different. I climbed up onto the terrace of the git before take off and asked myself, was I really going to make it way up there? Daunting but do-able I assured myself. We enjoyed breakfast outside underneath the increasingly warm sun and were serenaded by the sound of the running stream close by. Picture perfect.

Bags packed, sunscreen on and head count done we headed off. We were a mixed bunch on this hike. We had the serious hiker, the knee problem, the self proclaimed turtle, city slickers, smoker but fitter than us all guy and a little canine friend who decided to come along on the adventure with us. The hike was going to take approximately 3 hours up an 2 hours down. I couldn't help but think of the journey the night before. I hoped that it was not going to be a case of history repeating itself when it was my feet carrying me and not Cat-Dog.

The walk was amazing. I pushed myself physically but never had a moment where I thought I could not do it. I breathed in the fresh air and stopped (often) to take in the magnificent scenery. The sense of accomplishment when I reached the top of the rock was great. The smiles on top of that mountain were priceless, after the gasping had stopped of course!

The walk down was pleasant enough as the sun had ceased and the temperature had become comfortable. Believe it or not we did make it in the 5 hours too. Once again upon returning to the git we were greeted with warm smiles and a delicious potato salad and berber omlette.

That evening some of us were moving a little slower but feeling good after the awesome day. We passed the night once again eating an amazing feast and playing card games with inappropriate names. An earlier night this night, and a well deserved rest.

After having out final meal together we all set off to Marrakech, a little sad that the weekend was over but keen to get on the road as it had rained most of the night. Once again Cat-Dog showed her true colours and launched herself into pot holes and puddles with enthusiasm and grace. Well rattles and bumps mostly.

The view down the mountain would have been amazing had there not been a thick blanket of fog covering our descent most of the way. Once again we used our imagination to fill in the blanks. We stopped a couple of times for natures calls and photo opportunities. Breathing in the fresh air every time I stepped out of the car. Who knows when I will get this fresh mountain air again. I hope it's not too long.

Shukran bezaf Anna x

To Ramadan or to not Ramadan....that is the question.

Currently it is Ramadan in Morocco as it is in all countries at the moment. Choosing to participate is not often an option for Muslims but it is for those of us who have not been brought up following Islam. Ramadan started while I was still holidaying in Australia so I was not aware of the change that would greet me in arriving back in Morocco.

I had often heard about Ramadan and knew that one of the major responsibilities during this time was to fast for a month. This fasting depends on the lunar calendar that Islamic communities follow. Therefore, there are such things as moveable feasts. I could never imagine the Queen's birthday being a long weekend one year and then just a regular one the next. There would certainly be public outrage!

As I boarded my Qatar flight leaving Melbourne I immediately encountered passengers who were fasting. To myself I was quietly overjoyed that I was not seated next to someone fasting because even though Ramadan is an expectation but more importantly a religious duty I still would have felt bad devouring my airline meal. This made me wonder, what do people do when travelling internationally doing Ramadan. With long haul journeys we all know night becomes day and day becomes night and so it goes on and on.

Once I reached Morocco the heat was outstanding and people were looking quite lethargic and the usual hassle that greeted you when arriving as a foreigner to Morocco did not seem to exist. I could only assume that this was the case because of the extreme heat and the lack of food and in particular water that these people were putting into their bodies.

After reaching Marrakech I noticed a number of differences. Hanouts (shops) were closed during the day, my favourite smoothie place was closed for Ramadan, people cruised the medina armed with spray bottles, people slept on the cool tiles of their hanouts , public buses were empty and people were slightly more aggressive.

When I witnessed my first breaking of the fast I was amazed at how many people had something to their mouth as soon as the fast was broken. If it wasn't a date (usually eaten and accompanied by milk when breaking the fast), it was a cigarette or a bottle of water. It was quite a sight to see and definately understandable.

So now I posed myself the question. Was I going to fast? Was I going to partake in a tiny fraction of this religious duty myself? Not being Muslim myself I have no idea on the expectations on prayer and all else that revolves around Ramadan. I mean I know bits and pieces but I am hardly an authority on it. The only thing I can remember doing in the name of God was promise to stop fighting with my brother's for Lent when I was in primary school.

I have decided to fast. I wanted to know what it would feel like to give up things we deem necessities and I wanted to gain a deeper understanding of what it may be like for my friends during Ramadan. I know that it is only a small token a gesture really, my fasting, but there is one thing that I do know and it is this - When I talk to friends they talk about Ramadan making you powerful and gaining the power. After 16 days of fasting I have to say I feel strong more mentally than physically and this is a good feeling, a positive feeling. Maybe I don't feel that way at 5.30 in the evening but after 'el fitr' (breakfast) my body is revived and ready to go again.

During the holidays it was easier to fast. I would stay up until 4am and eat 'dinner' at about 3am. Usually batbot (dense bread) and Lavache (cream cheese). I would then sleep until 10 or 11am. The fast didn't seem so long on those days and I was down the coast so it was cooler and thirst was not in the forefront of my mind.

Now I am back at work and teaching at temperatures in the 40's (celcius). It is difficult but I look at my co workers and many of them are fasting. One had an hours sleep last night due to prayer and visiting family. I can do this.

My day starts at 7:20am (the school has special Ramadan hours) and generally finishes at 1am. I have a nap from about 4:30 -5:30pm every day. Once I awake from my sleep I open the window to my apartment so that I can hear the cannon fire at about 7pm and I know it's time to break my fast. I drink a couple of glasses of juice and at least a litre of water throughout the night. I have breakfast and then snack until I go to bed. Generally (on a school night) my last meal is at 12:30am. I keep a bottle of water next to my bed in case I wake up in the middle of the night. Before drinking the water I check that it is not past 4:00am because officially thats when the fast begins again.

Ramadan will be finishing on Friday or Saturday, we will wait for the moon to decide. Again, during the day, you will see men in cafes, locals at the orange juice stands and tagines being carried from one hanout to another. Life will get back into it's non Ramadan schedule.....until next year.

Home Away From Home

I have just returned home from a trip home. To make sense of the previous sentences let me tell you about my trip home to Australia.
I left Morocco after a month in Essaouira. I sweated it out on the train to Casa and spent the night at the Ibis. This was truely spoiling myself so much so that the shower and the toilet were actually separate in the hotel room. Something I had grown unaccustomed to during my month in Essaouira.

I was excited to be going home and barely slept a wink that night. Not only was I going home but my family and friends had no idea about my pending arrival.



After leaving Morocco, refuelling in Libya and stretching my legs in Qatar I finally reached Melbourne it was wonderful to be home, and cold. The duration of this journey door to door was about 30 hours.
The look on my Mum's face was priceless. Even better was the hair do she was sporting, as I had gotten her out of bed. All that aside mother and daughter sat up until 4 in the morning catching up on the 10 months since we had seen each other and I was tucked into bed with a cuddle and a kiss goodnight. Just like the good old days. I don't care what anyone says you are never too old for that kind of motherly love.
I was so happy to be home. I left Australia for 3 months (initially) and returned 10 months later. I think deep down I knew that would happen.



I spent 5 weeks between Melbourne and Jan Juc. The highlights were of course spending time with family and friends, numerous amounts of baby cuddles and basically just enjoying some of the creature comforts of home.
Some of these including (in no particular order):
Sweet Chilli sauce
Real tea bags
People using lines respectfully
Using my native tongue (even if I did slip up and say Shukran to a waiter!)
The ocean, MY ocean
Laughing with girlfriends
Dates with my friends babies
Amazing South East Asian cuisine
Driving a car
Watching great Australian programs (I'm still disappointed I'm missing out on Offspring - hmmmmm that doctor!)
Walking along the cliff tops in Jan Juc
Cuddles from Mum
Talking to my nephew, Daniel
My best friend 'getting' me

The list goes on and on and on. However, by the fourth week at home I started getting pangs of homesickness for Morocco. Much to the horror of close friends and family I started to referring to Morocco as home. I guess it is for now. I definately have both feet planted in Morocco for the moment. Even if I am a sun dried tomato craving, clucky, ocean missing Australian working in Marrakech.

Thank you to all the people that made my trip home so amazing. I love you and miss you everyday.

Thanks a bunch Mum x

Upon returning home and Mum telling me how much she enjoys reading my blog while I'm away she also felt obliged to add "Erin, you know how your name on the blog is ana mashi toursist, you do realise it sounds like.... I'm a shit tourist!, just thought I'd let you know."
Thanks a bunch Mum x

The Haircut

Two days ago I embarked on a solo adventure. I was going to get my first haircut in Morocco. A haircut can cause extreme anxiety for some at the best of times but it's one of things that just has to be done. Let me say, I have probably not paid for a haircut in years. A good friend of mine and very able hairdresser/beautician/cook/graphic designer/artist looks after that part of my life and is easily paid off with a bottle of wine, preferably white.

I am not one to worry too much about my hair. I prefer it long as my face resembles a basketball if cut short. I also like it straight. I always feel more sophisticated than the Diana Ross like hair do that greets me in the morning most days.

I have friends in Marrakech that are vigilant about where they go, who they see and what they want. I have one friend who was very happy with a French hairdresser and one day called to make an appointment only to be told he had died the week prior and was not available anymore. Obviously.

Some hairdressers charge prices that rival those in Melbourne, New York, London and Paris. If you have a certificate stating that you trained in France, as many hairdressers do, the price increases.

Let me tell you a little about my hairdresser. There were no certificates on the wall as far as I could see. Pictures cut out from magazines adorned the walls and upon entry the young apprentice was washing the teapot in the hair washing basin.

I had been to this place before to have my legs waxed. It is cheap and cheerful even if the waxing table is wonky and you have to press your hand against the wall to maintain balance whilst trying your best to enjoy the experience.

I went in and negotiated getting my haircut using hand gestures instead of arabic. I haven't taken the 'Getting your hair cut' class with my arabic teacher yet, unfortunately. The rest of my experience followed in this fashion lots of hand gestures, facial expressions and some very bad arabic and french. It didn't take to long before I was nervously sitting in a chair. What on earth was I going to look like at the end of all this?

I knew I wanted a wash, cut and colour. First, the wash. After my hairdresser had detangled my hair from the birds nest it was. I don't think I had brushed it in at least a week (Sorry Mum!) she asked me if I wanted it washed - I think? I nodded eagerly and then I can't be quiet too sure but I believe she may have asked me if I had brought my own shampoo. "La" (No) I said apologetically. She then leant into my head and drew a deep breath, a little sigh and "Wakha, via" (Ok, come).

Now 'via' is a French word and the only reason I knew that she was telling me to make my way over to the basin/ kitchen sink was because I often here my friend call his dog using that word. This was very awkward moment as I transformed into King, the pitbull, and obediently made my way over to her to have my hair washed.

Cold water and 2in1 did not take away from the fact that it was one of the best hair washes I have ever had. After the wash I was taken back to the chair. My hair was brushed with one of those brushes you grandpa uses. You know the ones I mean, tiny little spikes and it fits into the palm of your hand.

Then the cut, this was the moment I was most anxious about. I knew that I needed a lot off but when she lifted up may hair, raised her eyebrows, saw my anguish at how much actually had to be cut off, she eventually softened patted me on the shoulders and snipped away. The scissors she was using were not unlike the ones I have on my desk at work but they did the job.

After the cutting was done and my hair was laying scattered on the ground like an army of wounded soldiers the blowdrying commenced. She pulled, pushed and puffed out my hair so I looked like one of the Charlie's Angles and would not let me stand until my new fringe was suitably poofed.

When I looked at myself in the mirror the final product was lovely. Even though this experience could have quite possibly been a nightmare and completely unthinkable to another I was overjoyed at paying 15 dollars for a great haircut. I will definately be returning to Salon Samira.

Ups and Downs

This past couple of weeks I have had some incredible ups and some dissapointing downs. As with school years that come to an end many people are tired and stressed out. The pressure of getting reports done, packing up your room and keeping the kids on task leaves you watching the clock. First you count the weeks, then days until finally you are counting down the hours, minutes and ultimately the seconds before you bid farewell to your class. I will be sad to let my kids go tomorrow, they have been a beautiful group but all good things must come to an end.

At the moment they are the best thing about work for me. I have been tested of late. My patience and more importantly my morals. Some days I really don't like the person that I am. Negative, tired and emotional. Done. There is no other word for it I just feel done.

I have so many things to be grateful for and I know that but at the moment it has been very difficult to see through the hierachy, double standards and down right abuse of power that I have had to witness daily.

Then sometimes out of nowhere a stranger makes it all ok again. This stranger came in the form of a young girl who was playing in an alleyway just near where I live. As I walked past her she sang in her sweet little voice 'Bonjour, ca va?' 'Salamalikum, ca va' I replied, a smile creeping onto my face. As I continued to walk I heard the patter of a little persons feet, she was right there behind me. 'Schnoo smetek? (What is your name?) I asked her. 'Yasmine' she softly replied. 'Metsherfine, Yasmine' (Nice to meet you, Yasmine) 'Izwena' she sang a little louder this time. You can't help but feel like everything is going to be ok when a young girl pops into your day and tells you you're beautiful. Life feels good again. Thank you Yasmine.

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.