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