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!

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.

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.

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.