From Berlin to Prague

It was snowing as we disembarked onto the bus near the terminal, appreciative to have arrived in Berlin; and we had an unfortunate encounter. A Neanderthal like figure pushed past on the bus almost flattening all who were in his wake, including Anne. I called across the crowded, silent, stationary bus for Neanderthal to “Be Careful”, he muttered back to me in German to which I reiterated “Be Careful”. He then continued in perfect English “In this country we move to the back of the bus” to which I replied “In my country we respect woman.” So on it went until Cro-Magnon decided to be quiet. As we alighted the bus and entered the terminal a statesman like German gentleman came up to Anne and said: “I am sorry, not all Germans are like that, I am embarrassed.” Fortunately, all of Berlin was not like this.

A yummy specially made late lunch in the cafe of the Circus Hostel and we decided to pay for an upgrade to an apartment {an extra €15/ night= €85/room}. On Facebook, we learnt that the Odyssey was not what the girls thought it would be. It was dead. Fortunately there was one double room left at the Circus, which was more like a hotel, so they moved from the Odyssey and we ended up having take away-pizzas for dinner in the hostel.

In Berlin there is a proliferation of tour companies: Brewers; Inside Tours; New Berlin, Mosaic; that are ready and  waiting  to provide you with the perfect Holocaust or Cold War or Third Reich tour. There was a certain irony that a city with such a dark past was capitalising on this.  Or was it reminding people of the atrocities in the hope it would never happen again?

The next day, the guide from Mosaic Tours did not show, but a kind Spanish tour guide showed us the train to catch as we joined another group from Inside Tours {€15/person} with the highly capable Pen, an Aussie tour guide, for a day tour of the Sauchsenhausen Concentration Camp {free entry} in -10°C wind chill 35km outside Berlin. Sauchsenhausen was the model for all Concentration camps around Europe and the administrative heart of the Holocaust operations. It was not a pleasant day, nor enjoyable, but terribly meaningful and worthwhile. We were asked to take our lunch and have it during the tour. I could not and would not eat until we were on our way home on the train around 4.30.  

For some shopping and a change of pace we visited the Christmas Markets at nearby Alexandra Platz. The markets lived up to their reputation with beautiful lights, snow, mull wine, bratwurst and many petite presents.

“You are now leaving the American sector” greeted us as Anne and I visited the Checkpoint Charlie Museum: A fascinating insight into life during the cold war and the ingenious ways in which East Germans escaped to the West.  Meanwhile, the girls were off to the movies at the Sony Centre in Podstam Platz watching Harry Potter in English.

A brief visit to the Christmas Markets in Alexandra Platz again and then we had a pleasant encounter with an Aussie couple in the early thirties from WA at dinner at the Circus Hotel restaurant. She had a PhD in pioneering innovative therapies with children with gross motor deficiencies and was currently in London, sharing her research.

A self guided tour in blue skies in warmer -4°C weather and we visited The Reichstag, Brandenburg Gate and The Memorial to the Murdered Jews in Europe, right in the middle of Berlin, near the Reichstag: The name and location says it all. The museum with its letters, personal testimonies, and faces of individual victims is a calculated polar opposite of the dehumanisation process that was practised in the Shoah. Needless to say it was more of a sombre and sober reminder of the past. Purposefully; it never leaves you here.

To lighten the mood we visited the Haupstadt Christmas Markets.   I was beginning to get a touch of the flu, and the girls were immersing themselves in the German night life, somewhat ironically clubbing with Aussies until 6am in the morning but interestingly reflected in the Aussie conversations,  as they pumped the bars, was: “Oh where did you go today?, Oh the concentration Camp, How was that?”


In a subway in Berlin Anne mets two of her ex-Ravenswood students (05) .Two salient points emerged from this encounter: One, Teachers cannot go anywhere and secondly Anne is so much like her late father Denis, with an ability to to talk to anyone, anywhere and anytime.

On a chilly-10°C on the taxi dashboard (even the taxi driver said it was very cold) we said goodbye to the Circus Hostel and onwards to the Bahnhoffan for our train trip to the Bohemian capital, Prague.

Apart from the vistas, different conceptual images flashed before me as I recalled my impressions of Berlin: An abating Underground alternative culture; Generational Attitudinal changes towards the Holocaust with Gen Y sick of the saturation of Holocaust spending to Pre baby boomers ashamed of the German flag;  Good food... the bratwursts and hot mull wine; Obedience to the rules; ruthless German efficiency in the Holocaust; Sauchsenhausen Concentration Camp individuals killed with a single bullet from behind... no mess, no trace.

For Anne and I Berlin was more of a gritty than a pretty city, in search of a centre, with such a heavy cloud of a dark and rich history. I recall a travel podcast caller enquiring about things to see in Berlin saying, “Where are the fun places?” Berlin was like an adolescent, not quite sure of how to live with her turbulent past but at times wanting to break out of the present.  I am glad to have seen her for her history and winter scenery. The snow covered buildings and gardens, still such a novelty, were draped around the Brandenburg Gate as a ‘Bear’ approached me looking at the beautiful winter scenery said “You can have the snow.”  

The girls loved Berlin, especially Katie and especially the night life.

Staring out the windows on our five hour train trip from to Prague reminded me of a scene out of a fairytale: the thick blanket of snow on the rooftops resembled ice-vovo biscuits and ginger bread house. Dresden looked beautiful and the lunch in the dining car restaurant was like something out of an Agatha Christie movie; enchanting and wonderfully exhilarating and comfortable.

We had been warned about Prague’s infamous taxis. Tired, cold and heavy laden with luggage we were greeted by taxi drivers who looked like KGB agents out of the sixties. Reputedly honest AAA taxis were not to be seen so I forlornly sent the girls off on one of these to their hostel. Meanwhile we got in one cab endeavouring to make the 1.3km ride from the railway station to our accommodation, Miss Sophie’s ($AU85/night) only to find out as we were leaving he wanted to charge us 960 Kroner, equivalent to almost $AU50. I asked the driver to stop and he said “500 Krona”, to which I said “No more than 200”. (I felt like I was momentarily back in Morocco).We agreed to disagree, hurriedly got out with our entire luggage and obtained a comparatively more respectable but highly inflated 300 Kroner ride. (One old 22 year girl I spoke to in Prague was charged 600 Krona for a 500 metre trip. On the way back we booked a AAA taxi which cost us 100 Krona.)

Miss Sophie’s gave us some great tips and we ate at an authentic Czech restaurant, Pompikinsky Dum. Anne had venison and I had the smoked pork in dumplings and sauerkraut washed down with Czech beer. We thought of Anne’s sister, Margie, and her travels through here.  

We had managed to arrange to meet in the old town square for lunch courtesy of Facebook. Prior to this Anne and I went on a free two hour walking tour with Brian, from Free Tours, who had only been in Prague since July. He introduced us and the twenty strong gathered to the well known sites in the city with his Irish interpretation of Czech history.  One story captured Anne’s imagination. During the war Hitler had ordered the statue of Mendelssohn to be torn down from the Rudolfinum. But as there where many statues with no names of them the workers inadvertently pulled down Wagner, who was Hitler’s favourite, instead. Justifiably quite ironic don’t you think?

In the afternoon with the girls we walked across the beautiful Charles Bridge and had a look at all the small stalls of painters and artists that lined both sides of the bridge. Katie made the astute observation that all of the many, many statues on the bridge looked surprisingly like King Charles!

At night Anne and I were off to the ballet at the State Opera House to watch Cinderella {400 Krona/person}. It was a beautiful restored rococo building and we felt very ‘Kaltured’.

On our second day full day we all visited Prague Castle. A snack at a cafe near the tram station reminded us all of how stern some of the Czech people are. The girls left early to pick up their tickets for Backlight Theatre, Aspects of Alice, a post modern interpretation, that evening while we went to the popular Brewery Monastery for lunch and sampled famous Czech beers all afternoon.  

A further visit to the Old town and the Charles Bridge and a good chat with an artist off  whom we brought a watercolour painting of the bridge.

Prague is such a beautiful city...the architecture...fine food...the arts... beautifully restored buildings the old town square in the heart of the city...a religious soul... But not quite the nightlife of Berlin and not quite the appeal for the girls.

 Next morning on the 22nd  December we were off to a hopefully a white Christmas with relatives in Hungary, just like Katie wanted.

Until next time,

Good tidings and God’s blessings

Janika

I was lost in France

Fortuitously we had pre-booked a minibus to the apartment and as the Parisian transport was grinding to a halt, due to the worst snow conditions in a quarter of a century, the trip from Orly was slow but comfortable. Our apartment in the heart of the Marais arrondissement was in an old residential building and had beautiful views of the snow capped Notre Dame Cathedral from our 6^th floor balconies. The girls arrived later that afternoon from London by Eurostar after a long wait for a taxi at Gare Nord.  

Their stories...of Wicked the Musical {£40 for a great seat}...Russell Square...Oxford...the Generator...food...the cold complemented the weather over a home cooked spaghetti bolognaise and red wine. It was good to see them again.  

Sleep.

We awoke at 10.30 a.m. to blue skies and a chilly 1°C.

By early afternoon we were off for a three hour walk to make the most of the favourable conditions: Notre Dame Cathedral; Point Zero; Deportation Memorial; Sainte-Chapelle; a walk along the Seine and her many Ponts or bridges; Jarden Des Tuileries and the Eiffel Tower. A quick bite to eat under the Tower, crepes and ham and cheese sandwiches, and we were off via the efficient Metro {€1.70/person/trip c/ to €1.40 in Barcelona and €1.00 in Madrid} to the Ark De Triumph and a walk along the Champ Elyse and dinner unashamedly at our favourite McDonalds there.

The operation was simple but elaborate.

At the Notre Dame Cathedral Anne and I were approached separately by deaf and dumb people asking us to sign a petition explanation on an ‘official letterhead’ to raise awareness of their plight: name; address; postcode; signature and a small donation. Anne gave €1.00 and I thought much the same, while others on the sheet gave €10.00, €20.00 and much more.

My suspicions were raised when I was approached shortly after time and time again and then from the corner of our eyes both Anne and I saw and heard two of ‘the deaf and dumb people’ in animated discussion.

It was Romany gypsies at their best: unashamedly exploiting the disabled and ripping off people for their gratuitous benefit (And casting doubt on genuine organizations asking for money in the future).  The scam was appalling brilliant as it crossed all language barriers.

Another scam that Katie saw was people being approached and asked to translate English and with their attention diverted they were robbed. (At least we were forewarned of this scam in our guide book).

At lunch I noticed the girls getting somewhat agitated and then irritated. Perplexed, it took me a little while to catch on to the amorous couple beside us. Between the entrée and main meal she had longingly starred into his eyes and frequently caressed his hair. By the main meal she was sucking his fingers. By the dessert, well...

We had left.

Riding the Metro in peak period was reminiscent of the crowded Japanese subways. It was here in the carriage that we were caught unaware as we failed, or were unable; to hang on as the train lurched heavily. Colie fell on Katie who fell on me and I fell on a petite woman a third of my size. My best French of “pardon, pardon” did not help alleviate the poor woman’s pain nor our embarrassment. Suddenly the carriage was laughing at us something to the tune of “you silly English”. (A witness to this was our beloved wife/mother who pretended not to know us!).

As we were walking through Paris we had all fallen in love with her. It was not hard to see why with her charming old snow covered buildings and gardens that lined the cityscape. The air was fresh and with the breeze brisk on our faces and the sound of ice crunching under our footsteps the blue sky provided the perfect contrast to the white cobbled stone city pavements.  

I was lost in the moment and began to sing Bonnie Tyler’s homage to Les Bleu: 

I was lost in France. In the fields the birds were singing. I was lost in France and the...

Soon by metro we had made our way to see street performers, elegant boutiques and a cavalcade of movement which lined the Champs-Elysee. Under the avenue of lights we bounced along to the beat of the song:

The Champs Elysee’s is a busy street. We’re getting down with everyone we meet
If you understand, then listen to me.

Parlez-vous Francais?  Oui!

Parlez-vous Francais? Oui!

It was late and we were glad to have arrived back at our apartment {$AU 170/ night}. After some light hearted family repartee we were off to sleep under the city of lights and we could hear the ghosts of the past singing:

Do you hear the people sing? Singing a song of...

The next day, Friday, we all left around midday for the artists’ quarters of Montmartre. It was seven years ago when we took a photo of an artist from whom we had purchased two oil paintings on small canvas depicting classical French windows and doors. These paintings have been proudly displayed in our lounge room ever since. But more importantly: Would he still be there? Would he remember us? Would we still like his work?

Not much has changed. Montmartre was still as beautiful as when we had left her. Perched high on a hill in the northern part of Paris the beautiful Sacra Coeur Basilica is nestled between the shops and artists entreating you to be sketched. Aptly the sound of music filled our senses from the street performers, beautiful to watch and exhilarating to listen to.

With some mull wine under Anne’s belt she jovially approached the artist quarters with a sense of anticipation.  Where is he? Where is his work?

“At last!” Anne cried out in exhalation, “we were here many years ago, and we bought some of your work and you are still here and you still look the same”, to which he responded with light hearted Montmartre banter; “Normally 3 paintings for €50, but for you, I give them to you today for €60”. Needless to say Anne bought another three paintings {€45} and engaged in more banter. Was there was just a hint of romance in the air?

We had a late lunch at the bottom of the hill at a little pizza place and at the girls request we visited the Holocaust Memorial Museum {free}, which describes itself as “the largest information centre in Europe on the subject”. The visit was a sobering reminder of the sanctity and fragility of life. 

As I wandered through the museum and reflected on the words from the brochure:

65 years after the discovery of the death camps, knowledge about the history of the Holocaust helps to fight against all forms of racism and intolerance

I hope so?

But I also questioned whether man’s inhumanity to man had really abated? 

The Genocide’s  in Kurdistan in Iraq in the mid 80’s under Saddam Hussein; By Bosnian Serb forces in Srebrenica in the mid 90’s and in Rwandan also at that time come to mind.

It was a somewhat sombre, thought-provoking and reflective metro ride back home for the day.

 Thankfully, Colie cooked a wonderful Chicken Bocconcino for dinner.

By now Colie was making the astute judgement that not only was I writing a blog but I was living in one, something parallel to the Matrix.  Anne meanwhile was immersing herself in the French language at the local Boulangerie, or Bakery with an eloquent Bonjour, Au revoir, Sil vous plait, Merci, Un Baguette, Pardon and Excusez-moi with every visit. She was in her element. 

The following day, the last with the girls in Paris, we visited the Musee d’Orsay {€8}, one of our favourites from our previous visit. The former old train station is a repository of fine Impressionistic art and such a wealth of social and cultural capital for the world. The Masters from Renoir to Rodin, Monet to Manet, and Gauguin to Van Gough, and Toulouse-Lautrec to Matisse, and Seurat to Signac, Corbet to Degas filled us with wonder.

We saw the girls off at the apartment (a taxi ride to Gare du Nord and then the train to Amsterdam) around lunchtime and then had a siesta.  After, for the next three hours we walked the Marais and its neighbourhood. Visiting what looked like the progressive parish of Saint Merry was interesting and watching life go by in a cafe was like being in a picture postcard soaking up the Parisian way of life. It really was such an accurate stereotype of this romantic city.

We visited the local produce markets, fruit, vegetables, fish, cheeses etc. Upon being offered a sample of fine cheese, which at € 11/kilo was sublime, we ordered a half a kilo. Only trouble was that my eyes needed checking as the cheese cost € 44 /kilo. None-the-less we felt very French.

Dinner was at the Le Bonnes Soeurs {€60}, which translates as ‘the good nuns’, near Victor Hugo’s home.  This convivial cafe was archetypal inner city and we were lucky to eat there as we had no reservation (very popular with the locals). We found out that two nuns actually opened the restaurant three years ago and the walls were lined with photos, caricatures and paintings of you guessed it, nuns. The food was superb, and we splurged on a half a bottle of a € 40 bottle of red. It was well worth it! We raised our glasses to ‘Auntie Vonnie’: such a tragic loss for us as family; to the Sisters of St Joseph and to the indigenous community in WA.  We thanked her for the wonderful legacy that she left us.

Eating here is such an art and not mere function. It is a celebration of what it is to be human. Time is respected, the cuisine savoured and the company enjoyed. Life is too short to forget about what is important. Le Bonnes Soeurs gift to us that night was to help us be present to life.

Our last visit to the Louvre, seven years ago, was a 30 minute mad rush to see iconic paintings like the Mona Lisa; “It’s so small” we remembered saying as we flitted off from gallery to gallery. It was like a scene out of the show The Amazing Race.

This time we took our time and we were able to savour the experience.

On a comparatively warm day at 7 °C a 20 minute stroll to the Louvre {€9.5} was followed by a four to five hour visit of some of the galleries. This time capsule of statues, artefacts and paintings, which in more ways than one belongs to the world, was like knowledge; the more you know, the more you realise how little you know.

Many emblematic pieces caught my eye: From the Greek period- the famous and well loved Venus de Milo (Aphrodite, c. 100 B.C.); The Winged Victory of Samothrace; From the Italian Renaissance- Mantegna’s St Sebastian; da Vinci’s Virgin and Child and the small Mona Lisa with her wandering eyes; Veronese’s huge canvass, The Wedding Feast of Cana; Michelangelo’s The Dying Slave; Psyche and Cupid; and from the French Neoclassical and Romanticism period- Napoleon’s official painter, Jacques-Louis  David,  The Coronation of Napoleon, Delacroix’s thought provoking Liberty Leading the People; and my favourite of them all, Theodore Gericault’s, pronounced ZHAIR-ee-ko, engaging masterpiece  The Raft of Medusa.

After a walk back to the apartment in the fading light it was time to rest and reflect upon the fruits of our day.

Mid Monday morning, December 13^th, the Hotel de Ville Metro Information board lit up with -1°C as we were on our way to Chartres via Gare Montparnasse. The one hour pretty trip {€28 each rtn} was filled with beautiful vistas of the French countryside with thinly wooded forests and gentle rolling plains and the residues of last Wednesday’s snow falls was still apparent.

Chartres and the village were impressive. The labyrinth and the stained glass windows all had a story to tell. Walking inside the Gothic Cathedral you could get a real sense of the pilgrims that would have visited in medieval times; people of simple and great faith. Lunch at the suitably named Le Serpent Cafe adjacent to the church, a quick stroll around parts of the village and we were on a way back to Paris.

We decided to walk from Montparnasse and we took in the illuminated sites of the Pantheon, Cluny Museum, Luxembourg Gardens and a visit to the St Surplice Cathedral (also of Harry Potter fame). Our very full day was complete with a two hour visit to third of the Holy Trinity of Art Museums, The Pompidou Centre {€12 each}, which houses a collection of modern and post modern 20^th and 21^st century art. (The Louvre and the D’Orsay form the other parts of the Art Trinity).

I have always had a predilection for cemeteries. In recent times with my sister Helen we would walk through the church graveyard at Punchbowl and remark on the early 19^th century graves. So a visit, on our last full day in Paris, to the Pere Lachaise was a must. This 100 acre city of the dead had some impressive long term residents: the writer and much maligned Oscar Wilde (whose grave is sadly gratified); Parisian singer Edith Piaf; the wayward and much revered 70’s rock star Jim Morrison; composers like Chopin and Rossini and Holocaust victims and members of the French resistance. It was an inscription from them that resonated most:

We, the survivors, have erected this simple monument as a witness to the faith, courage and hope that have ceaselessly driven and supported us through our ordeal.

So much of death reminds us of life. What are we here for? What have we done? What will we leave behind?

Two hours later, Anne was off shopping in the Rue Cler; traffic free with tiny shops that spill out onto the streets. Meanwhile I clearly did not have enough of my morning experience and visited the Catacombs. This ossuary from 18^th century Paris in a maze of underground tunnels is a tribute to French pragmaticism. Dinner at the hip Lizard Lounge {€27}, not out of place in Surry Hills, we reflected on our week. Anne named Le Bonnes Soeurs; Reconnecting with her ‘artist friend’ at Montmartre and the Louvre as her favourite experiences out of many.

On our first day in Paris in the Metro a couple of kind French residents recommended to us that we buy a carnet, a ticket of ten single tickets as it would be cheaper. They also said that the unused tickets are good for a lifetime. We hope one day to honour that promise.

In one weeks time we will be in the land of my mother and father’s birth under the roof of some fine Hungarian hospitality of my mum’s brother Pisti and his wife Ili. It is always a privilege to share precious time with one’s relatives.

But before then, I am reminded of the late US President, John F Kennedy’s words as he proudly proclaimed, “Ein itch bin Berliner”.

Soon, after a 90 minute delay on the tarmac because of heavy snow in Berlin, we arrived in this city of paradoxes,  bright and bubbly with a deep and sometimes dark history.

Until next time,

Good tidings and God’s blessings

Janika

Held captive by Catalan charm

We were lucky to get out of Morocco

Oblivious to all of us in Marrakech, a snap traffic controllers strike {talking to locals they said the Government  handled the altercation badly as the controllers who earn over half a million dollars a year many many perks from the past regime}in Madrid over their long weekend holiday meant that all planes had been grounded and chaos had ensued in the previous two days before our flight: queues of six hours at Menara Marrakech airport for people only to be sent away; Brits buying additional € 600 plane tickets trying to get home; hotels in Madrid charging € 300 per room when a week ago they would have charged only € 60 for the same room. A reality of plane travel.

Some flights were only being resumed at 6.00 am of the morning of our scheduled 2.00 p.m. departure from Marrakech. A trickle of flights with a huge backlog. With limited expectations we arrived at the airport to find our flight leave only 45 mins late and both the girls, to London, and Anne and I to Barcelona made our connecting flights from Madrid.

We were lucky.

I was at my vague, absent- minded and spatially challenged best in Barcelona airport.

Somehow I had managed to find myself wandering out of the airport without my luggage, passport or wife! Anne had earlier gone to find an ATM, she had my passport from the flight, and I went looking for the luggage carousel. I went to information booth were they told me I had to go back in to arrivals. Only trouble was that security would not let me back in without my passport. With the aid of some sweet talking and my driver’s licence I was eventually reunited with my wife, passport but not my luggage. It had been mislaid and I would only see it in another two days time when it was couriered to our accommodation at Casa de Marcello (€75/night) in the heart of the old town of Barcelona. This beautiful guest house was surrounded by hip cafes, chic boutique shops and wide tree lines streets and the leaves still hung with their late autumn colours.

After our €30 taxi ride we headed for one of those nearby hip tapas cafes. It was late by our standards, 10.00 p.m. but sitting outside in the mild evening air, enjoying a selection of delectable tapas’, immersed in a family atmosphere and washed down with wine and beer was the best €40 we had spent for a while on cuisine. We were already falling in love with Barcelona. (Marrakech, are you listening?).

The next day we were off to Montserrat, a Benedictine monastery perched high on a serrated mountain.

   

But before our visit, Barcelona put on her charm with blue skies, a mild 19°C as we visited the Picasso Museum, Santa Mar Cathedral and Barcelona Cathedral. Lunch was a quick bite to eat with the rest of the Catalan community on the steps of the Barcelona Cathedral, as it was a five day religious long weekend.

The one hour train trip followed by a stunning cable car ride to the top as the sun was setting over the monastery was stunning.

There are moments that remain with a man forever.

The vespers sung by the monks in Catalan in the Basilica was hauntingly beautiful, ethereal and deeply spiritual. There was such a deep connection to my Benedictine spirituality cultivated over the last ten years of my professional life.

Veneration of the Black Madonna and a prayerful excursion of the Basilica was a humbling experience. In this very place, for religious buffs,was a meeting point between the Benedictine and the Jesuit charism. It was here that a young Ignatius of Loyola prayed and found metanoia. I was in my element.

A Michelin star dinner followed with free wifi in the hotel room, Benedictine hospitality again.

The following morning we soaked up more of the atmosphere and heading back to Barcelona around lunchtime. It was there on the train that Anne was violently ill, not once but three times. This was to pass over the next 24 hours but the trip back to the guest house was slow and painful for Anne.

After a nap (I was feeling queasy too and out in sympathy with Anne) we went for a three hour walk down to Port Vell and then along the famous La Rambla, the ‘Champ Elysees of Spain’. An avenue of street artists, both conventional and unconventional, various stalls and a great vibe filled the night sky.

As we walked hand in hand in the last rays of the Catalan sun, we had come to the same conclusion that the people of Barcelona are gentle, warm, family orientated, kind, proud and love their food. The cities topography opens its arms and invites you to explore its architecture, its food and her people. She teased us and enticed us to come back for more. The Sagrada would have to wait. God willing we will be back one day.

The following morning we learnt a new word in Spanish cancello, as we looked at the Flight Information Board at the airport.

The weather gods had closed Charles de Gaul airport in Paris. Through fate or good fortune we were offered and accepted an earlier flight to Orly airport. As we landed at 11.20 a.m. the snow mercilessly spared none. It was perhaps the last flight for the day.

We were lucky again.

The city of lights beckons as does the tales from our daughters of their adventures in the old dart.

Until next time

Good tidings and God’s blessings

Janika

Moroccan Odyssey Part Two

Day Five of our Sahara Adventure concluded at 5.00 p.m. in Fez: A long, long nine hour journey. Memories flooded back: of the quirky young Hassan, “My English is crazy”,  who by now had endeared himself to the girls, and gave them his Facebook details; of Hassan our 4W driver who told us he now had to, I suspect forced to, by his boss (his wage-a miserly 100-150 dirham’s per day) drive back to Marrakech, 500km and a further 10 hour away; of the authentic desert Auberge Chez Tihri 'Suerte Loca'  where they had to light the fire for a hot water shower; beautiful Ifrane, located near Fez, that resembled more a Swiss chalet and George who we all have missed terribly.  

Upon arrival, I was feeling much better, but my camera was still not talking to me and inoperable, but we found comfort in Antony, an Aussie owner/manager of the Dar El Waha, the newly restored Dar, which was to be our home for the next four nights. After the obligatory formalities we were off to dinner. Typical of the labyrinths of the Medina I was sent into a dark alley by the girls, much like a canary down a mine, to find the cafe. In time it turned out to be our favourite and every bit the description of Lonely Planet; “Cafe Clock was love at first sight. In a restored townhouse, this funky place has a refreshing menu...and their ‘Clock Culture’ programs include {belly dancing} calligraphy and conversation classes”. A great vibe: something akin to Newtown, with free Wi-Fi, and owned by an Englishmen, Mike, with alternate offerings such as Camel Burgers. 

The Preface of the excellent book, FEZ from Bab to Bab {Bab = gate} describes the 1,200 year old medieval Medina as “not merely to be visited. It is to be savoured as one’s senses engage in a journey through time and space”. It concludes by saying; “After visiting the Medina, you will never be the same. You will have had an exceptional experience, causing you to respond, in your own way, to the appeal of the perseveration of this world heritage site”. Even walking through the unceasing and at times torrential rain on our first full day, the Medina did not fail to disappoint.  We postponed our guide to the following day, due to the rain (twenty five hours non-stop and counting).

On our second full day in Fez the weather was overcast but the rain had abated, and our guide Ali met us at 10.00am at our Dar. For the next seven hours he would weave his magic and help us uncover the beauty of the Medina and Islam.  He was charming and had a good mind and a good heart and for 400 dirham the experiences were priceless: Bab Bou Jeloud; Fes El Bali; Kairouine Mosque and University; Medersa El Attarine learning about the geometry and theology of Islam; the sights, smells and shopping at the Tanneries; 14th century water clock, the home of Moses De Maimonides (A 12^th century philosopher and pillar of Judaism); Zawiya (shrine) of Moulay Idriss II; the brass makers square Place as-Seffarine; Qu’ranic Pre- Schools chanting among other things “Ossie, Ossie, Osie, oi, oi, oi”; visiting and eating at medieval Bakeries and so much more.

I asked Ali how he coped with the complexities of the labyrinth called streets in the medina. He pointed to his head and whispered “GPS.”

Our last full day in Fez was somewhat of a parody.

Colie had decided to stay at the Dar for the day. The rest of us went to Meknes, an hour train trip from Fez. A whistlestop tour and it went against the grain of everything I believe is good travel.

In the pouring rain, the train to Meknes was retard, delayed, 20 minutes. When we arrived we were approached by guides. One caught my imagination. I agreed on a 50 Dirham fee for a one hour tour of the medina so we could be back for our return trip in 90 minutes.  As we began to walk to the medina, the rain got heavier. He said ‘No problem, I get taxi, included in the fee, of course.” We waited twenty minutes, and as I was about to walk away his ‘mate’ arrived in what was loosely called a car. He would now be our ‘chauffeur’ and ‘guide’ in his halting English. So the ‘taxi’ sped away and comically stoped at one site after another. Each time I would manically get out take a photo with Colie’s camera get back in the car and so on to the next site.  We were suddenly inside the medina and whisked away to a site by another guide who told us this site had historical and architectural significance in Morocco.   As we arrived at the Riad de Mansour we were left upstairs and suddenly a host of ‘smiling and charming’ young men appeared explaining the merits of one kilim to another.

We had just met our first carpet sellers in Morocco.

Time was ticking and we had only 17 minutes to politely but forcefully negotiate our way back through the medina to our ‘taxi’ and then back to the Gare (station) de Meknes. We arrived with only two minutes to spare, only to find our train was retard 40 minutes. It was a scene out of a cartoon comedy.

Trying to procure a petit taxi back to the medina was a nightmare. I would hail one down only to be regularly gazumped by a local who had taken the initiative to run the show and get taxis for anyone, Moroccans first then tourists, for a fee of course. Either this or the taxi drivers ignored my plea and picked up the locals. Finally I relented paid the small ‘service fee’ to get a taxi.

Morning greeted us with fine weather and yet another altercation with a luggage man who wanted almost as much for transporting our luggage 100m through the medina to our mini-van, then the cost of the van to the beautifully new FEZ railway station 10km away. (This was despite an agreed price negotiated by Antony, the Manager, the night before which was 250% less than his demands).

“Don’t you know we are riding on the Marrakech express? Don’t you know we are riding on the Marrakech express? All aboard the train, all aboard the train, there takin’ me to Marrakech.”

And so began our seven hour train trip from Fez to Marrakech the following day. As we were approaching our last two days in Morocco it was appropriate to have Q&A retrospective on the country.

My Funniest moment here was...

Anne- “’Fatima dance, Fatima dance.’ When young Hassan asked me to dance as he played his drums in the dark in the desert.”

Katie-“The horse and carriage ride through the Medina in Marrakech.”

Nicole- “When dad fell, closely followed by Katie, in the sand in the Sahara”.

One thing I did not find in Morocco that I did back home was...

A- “At home I feel confident the way I communicate and I understand the way to do things. In Morocco I did not have that. It is a self assuredness that I have at home that I didn’t have in Morocco. I felt lost.”

K-“ To be able to drink tap water, brush your teeth in tap water, not having to wait ten minutes to have a shower that is hot, paying to use the toilet and being on guard 24/7.”

N- “A real supermarket and take –away pizza”.

The most stunning natural scenery I saw here was...

A-“I would have to say the Sahara and the Gorges maybe.”

K-“The sand dunes in the Sahara.”

N-“Either the Gorges or the Sahara sand dunes”.

One place I would never visit again in Morocco is...

A- “I wouldn’t visit the desert again, and probably Marrakech.”

K- “Marrakech or the desert because it is a once in a lifetime experience.”

N- “Marrakech because I don’t like the vibe. It is too much of a hard sell and an effort”.

The finest monument I saw here was...

A- “I actually liked the one in Fez where Ali, the guide, explained all the symbolism- the Medersa. Also, I actually quite liked the Kasbah in Ouarzazate because it gave you a sense in the part that had been restored the grandeur, exotic and opulent nature of the past.”

K- “The ramparts at sunset in Essaouira.”

N- “I like the Kasbah near the river we crossed at Ait Benhaddou. Also I liked the famous medersa in Fez”.

One thing I would never do again in Morocco is...

A- “Ride a camel in the desert and sleep in the desert.”

K- “Camel ride in the Sahara not because I didn’t enjoy it but because it is a once in a lifetime experience.”

N- “Go to the Sahara”.

The Best Food I ever had, and where, in Morocco was...

A- “I have to say the desert tagines and food at the Auberge was pretty good.”

K-“The Tagines at the Riad, Jnane Mogador, in Marrakech.”

N- “Last night, the chicken and vegetable tagine at the Thamis restaurant underneath the Mulberry tree in Fez”.

If I came back to Morocco I would definitely visit....

A-“I definitely would go back to Essaouira and Fez and I would come back to explore the mountains, Ifrane and Moulay Idriss.”

K-“Essaouira as it is a completely different vibe: easy to find your way around; not harassed as much and the views of the water was great.”

N- “Essaouira, because it was just like a little chilled beach town and maybe Fez because it is quite beautiful, an urban beauty”.

My saddest experience here was...

A-“I have to say seeing the people begging in various parts of the country. Women sitting in dark corners of the medina begging, and seemingly still there in the morning.”

K-“Leaving Hassan in the desert.”

N- “When I was throwing up at the side of the road on the way to the Sahara (near the Tiz N’ Tickha).”

One piece of advice I would give to people intending to travel to Morocco is...

A-“Have an open mind, expect the unexpected and have an open heart.”

K-“Don’t have any preconceived notions or expectations and just go with it.”

N-“If you are young women to make the trip easier I would travel with a guy (it pains me to say that) and don’t have any expectations of what Morocco is like.”

The strangest thing I saw here was...

A-“I suppose the local food markets where you have all sorts of animal parts hanging, the live chickens ready to be chosen for dinner that night, the cats sitting expectantly waiting for morsels of food that are thrown to them at the end of the day and the Qur’anic  pre-schools tucked away in the medina in Fez, one with a picture of Mickey Mouse on the outside.”

K-“The animals, such as the monkeys without tails, the clipped owls, and snakes in the square in Marrakech. You just don’t see that anywhere else.”

N- “The copious amount of cats everywhere wandering the streets (Cats coming out of drains in Essaouira).”   

The thing that made me most angry about Morocco was...

A-“John getting angry about cultural misunderstandings...but he has learnt”

K-“The corruption, police and stuff, and also how I got treated by the young men. They think they can just say anything to me.”

N- “Getting harassed every time you walked out your front door. Men constantly talked to you like you were a piece of meat.”

Three words to best describe Morocco are...

A-“BEAUTIFUL, UGLY, EVERYTHINNG-IN-BETWEEN.”

K-“INTIMIDATING, ASSUMING, VAST.”

N- “CHAOTIC, SURREAL, IN-YOUR-FACE.”

As our comfortable train ride finished in the late afternoon Marrakech sunshine, she was up to her old tricks again. After agreeing with a petit taxi for 40 Dirham to the medina, for Anne and me, he changed his mind “No 40 Dirham each.” Finally, he relented to 50 Dirham and as I was about to get out of the taxi he begrudgingly agreed to the price he had originally agreed to ten minutes ago. Oh it is so wearing. And all for a three km ride. If it happens once I can perhaps understand but it is a constant as sure as the sun will rise over the Moroccan landscape.

 We were then back at the same beautiful authentic 19th century Riad for two nights. We had dinner at the Riad and then off to sleep. By now Colie did not want to leave the Riad the following day. She had had enough.

With some quick thinking I had managed to coax Colie out of her urban oasis. I was determined to leave this country on a good note.

Our last full day was collectively our best in Marrakech. It was a shopping day with a difference. Up until now on principle we had not bought anything here.

But today, we visited three women cooperatives; Fair prices for you; Fair wages for Artisans, at Handicraft exposition of 27 cooperatives around the country, Marche Maroc, held only this weekend at the Ensemble Artisanal. We also found through the rabbit warren the Cooperative Artisanale Femmes de Marrakech, Kif Kif and Assouss Cooperative d’Argane. All these four were hassle free, fixed prices and sustainable shopping. We were happy to part with our money and talk to the many women who were in some ways the real face of Morocco. Interspersed with this was a visit to the curious Cyber Park: an 18^th century royal garden given back to the people with free wifi and kiosk terminals throughout the park; a Caleches, horse drawn carriage ride, and a quick meal in the square at stall No.1, our favourite, amidst the 10^th International Marrakech Film Festival. The square was a teeming mass of humanity with two huge screens erected showing foreign films.

At last, I could echo the words of Maha El Madi, the program director of Dar Bellarj, a foundation for the arts in Marrakech, who said of the famous square Djemaa El-Fna;

It isn’t a building or piece of real estate: it’s an open space for exchange and ideas. It belongs to Marrakech, but it belongs to the world, too. I think we are aware of that in the medina. The history of trade, religion, art and power that you see all around you here is the world’s history too.

So what of my impressions of Morrocco.

Morocco is at the confluence of three cultures: Europe (French and Spanish); North Africa (Berbers) and Middle East (Arab). At times it felt like we were more in the Middle East than in Africa because of the predominant Arabic and Muslim influence.

Hence, the theology of Islam reflected in the architecture is thought provoking. I can remember an explanation from our guide Ali of why all the Riad’s windows faced inwards. “The Beauty is on the inside...in the centre.”  It dawned on me that this is why the facade of the buildings is so plain but once inside there is so much stunning architecture of antiquity for the eyes to feast on.

But also there is a darker side to Morocco, especially in the souks where we were often greeted with disingenuous hellos. The girls were barraged with sneers and sniggers and some comments that were luridly unprintable. This seemed to be culturally endemic among young males. If King Mohammed VI wants to attract 10 million tourists to the country he not only needs to readdress the countries transport infrastructure he also needs to hard wire some of the males attitudes towards the opposite sex. Respect would be a good place to start!

There seemed such as contrast between this and Morocco's natural beauty. 

According to the Moroccan Constitution the monarch can only be male. Sadly this absence of women, the voiceless and marginalized, was so ingrained in the culture. Spain is such a contrast: women having a coffee together; sharing a moment walking through the malls; shopping. None of this public feminie comrade in Morocco.

Would I come back?

Probably Not.

Not because I did not have memorable experiences in the country. But because there is a big wide world out there, that I have not seen, that is waiting to be savoured.

The following day, on the eve of my father’s 86^th birthday, Anne and I are off to Barcelona, the girls to London.

But that is another story with another twist for another day.

Until next time

Good tidings and God’s blessings

Janika

The Moroccan Odyssey Part One

Our arrival into the new Menara Airport in Marrakech was greeted by an inability to obtain Moroccan Dirham as all the ATM’s were empty on Sunday, and also they would not exchange Australian currency. None-the-less our spirits were raised when we were greeted by our pre-booked smiling taxi driver who would take us to the laid back sea side town of Essaouira, a distance of 175 km for 750 Dirham ( 1 AUS $= 7.5 DH) for a gentler introduction to Morocco.

The taxi ride afforded us with an enchanting panorama of terracotta buildings that punctuated the arid landscape with vast open and deep azure skies. The scenery was truly beautiful. This would be a mantra that would be often repeated on our travels here. An inauspicious lunch interspersed the journey.

Essaouira was everything that we had imagined it to be and more. A delightful array of exotic fortified walls in the UNSECO world heritage listed medina, expansive water views, fishing boats, seagulls, the gentle taros or breeze, friendly Moroccans like our concierge Abdul and his wife Saida and strangers who would say “Welcome, welcome to our country” and cats and more cats, (we are all convinced George is Moroccan). Our two nights stay at the Riad des la Mer, for £65 per night for the whole of the first floor, would pass quickly.

It was here at a restaurant that a young waiter who was looking for a wife proudly announced that Katie had ‘desert eyes’ and that she sounded like Norah Jones. (A pick up line Moroccan style!) It was also here on the way to the outdoor fish grills where we had lunch (choose your seafood and they cook it in front of you) that Katie was approached by a man who she thought said; “Do you have some cash?” to which she replied, “No thanks, I have no small cash”. As it transpired what he really said was; “Do you want some hash?” We had a bit of a giggle at Katie’s expense.

After a bout of clothes shopping in the souks and an altercation with the luggage man, we somewhat reluctantly left Essaouira as we had a date with Marrakech.  In some ways this altercation was a portent of things to come and some things that passed.

On our taxi ride back to Marrakech I noticed what was to be a common occurrence on Moroccan roads. “Police check points” every 30 minutes or so along the road. At these ‘check points’ you would often find cars emptied and searched by the Police. Unsurprisingly our taxi driver, who was good friends with all of them, was always waved through. I am sure a little Machiavellian donation always helps the cause. 

In a Lonely Plant TV documentary on Marrakech, shortly before we left, the reporter said; “Marrakech if you are not careful, I will not go out with you.”  In part, this summed up Katie’s and my experience of Marrakech.

Katie’s assessment; “Marrakech is what it is” turned out to be rather prophetic. The UNSECO world heritage listed square, Djemaa El- Fna lived up to its billing, with a vibe and a cast of thousands including snake charmers, dancing monkeys, walking owls, freshly squeezed orange juice and a plethora of food stalls. Yet on the surface Marrakech did appear suffocating. People seemingly only interested in conversation if you bought something, exploiting your trust, pushy, rude, demanding, incessant, beggars being wheeled into restaurants where you were sitting asking for money and people literally chasing you for money if you took a photo; snake charmers particularly.

At one stage unannounced a young male, with a cheesy grin, came up to Nicole and put his arm around her and proceeded to walk her through the medina. To my disdain, I removed the offending arm and politely told him to “&^!@##!”. Much to Nicole’s annoyance who said; “Dad I can look after myself thank you”.  A point well made by Nicole and taken on board by her father.

Cries of “Hello baby”, “Hello flowers” and “I give you a thousand camels” from virulent young stags followed the girls throughout the medina. At one stage, when Katie and I were walking together one of them yelled out somewhat luridly to me; “Oh you are a lucky guy.”

I was beginning to think that Marrakech was not so much an awkward first date but rather a tempestuous relationship that was terminal.  I was struggling to get beneath this layer to uncover another of her faces.

This view was coloured by the fact that, by Moroccan standards, we were badly ripped off when we had lunch on the way from the airport despite being promised by our smiling taxi driver that the food at this cafe was much cheaper and better than at the airport. Also ironically as we were hassled on the way to the fish grill by a restaurateur who advised not to go there as they hassle you. While the food was good it was much more than we should have paid. You see in some places there are no menus or prices and while I am quite adept at bargaining for clothes etc bargaining for such a basic commodity as food (not required in Nepal) was something foreign to me.  

And lastly the departure from Essaouira left a bad taste in my mouth where we had our luggage transported on something akin to a wheelbarrow for 100 m to our taxi. I gave the person a tip of a couple Dirhams which he literally threw back at my face, not enough you see.  In hindsight it was a misunderstanding and my lack of understanding of North African culture. At the time it was incandescent rage and layering my animosity somewhat unfairly toward the Moroccan people. Travel is such a good teacher.

Our Hotel, the Jnane Mogador, in the heart of the medina for two nights was fantastic (except for one morning of cold showers). The tagines and breakfast were simply divine as was the hammam experience at the hotel for Anne and Katie. 45 minutes of exfoliating, covered in black soap and clay splashed with lots of hot water lying butt naked (apart from the undies) on a heated floor. All this pleasure for 125 Dirham or $16.

Our one full day here was spent walking through the medina, listening to the muezzin call to prayer five times a day at the Koutoubia Mosque, a visit to the Mellah (Jewish markets, which is great for spices) and a walk through the 16th century ruin; Badi Palace.

After renegotiating our five day Sahara experience with another company (Mami Tour)supplied by the hotel, some $300 cheaper than what I obtained through research on the net (always cheaper in country), we were to leave Marrakech at 7.30 the following morning.

But before doing so, with the help of my better half, I was determined to put on a new disposition towards the country and its people.

Day One of our Sahara experience was bursting at the senses. We would eventually arrive at our first nights stay at Dades Gorge at 7.00 p.m. With our driver Hassan who spoke five languages: Arabic; Berber; French; Spanish and English we left in our Toyota Land cruiser for the Atlas Mountains. After an hour the road snaked its way up to Tizi N’Tichka at an altitude of 2,400 m. This pass connects Marrakech with the pre-Sahara oasis and it was along this way that Nicole christened the road more than once as we had to regularly stop for her due to a mixture of car sickness, flu, and tummy pains. Colie was still feeling lousy.

Next stop was the town of Telout and a visit to the Giaoui Kasbah. A beautiful old Kasbah and an enjoyable fossick through its ruins. The next two hours of travel through the Telout valley to Ait Benhaddou was majestic and unforgettable.  At Ait Benhaddou, where we had lunch, it was easy to see how the red mud brick Kasbah formed the back drop for films like Lawrence of Arabia, Jesus of Nazareth, Jewel of the Nile and Gladiator. I was really beginning to feel like I was in another continent.

Onto Ouarzazate, pronounced war-zazat, where we visited the Kasbah Taourirtt. By now the afternoon sun was in all its glory and casting a beautiful hue from its radiant light. The sky was a deeper and richer blue to the one at home.  Another two and half hours driving through Skoura, Kelaa M’gouna (known for its pink roses) and Boumalne Du Dades we arrived in the dark at Hotel Restaurant la Vallee. It had been a long day and we were very tired and after a quick dinner and Berber hospitality we were off to bed for a very respectable 9.00am breakfast and 10.00 am departure for Todra Gorge and the desert the following day.

We awoke to views of the majestic Dades Gorge, an extraordinary red rock formation, from our hotel window. After some obligatory photos of the Gorge and amazing vistas of the meandering road which lazily climbed steeply off the valley floor we were gone.

Day Two saw us drive through the valley and the town of Tinehir and after two hours we bore witness to the gorgeous, gurgling Todra Gorge. The Lonely Planet Moroccan guide book describes approaching the Gorge as”thrilling and somehow urgent, as though the doors of heaven were about to close before you.”  This was such an apt description. Breathtakingly beautiful.

With the 4WD we travelled deeper into the gorge and had mint tea at the fantastic Auberge Le Festival with cave guest rooms. Sitting on the terrace we were surrounded by scenery which was something like out of a Star Wars film, barren but beautiful. During the day, our thoughtful but reserved driver, asked Colie’s name. Somewhere lost in translation Colie became known as Au lait or Olay.

Travelling through Efroud we came across a desert sand storm, a Moroccan willy willy, and the sun had an eerie translucent glow reminiscent to a raging bushfire in the Australian outback. From here onto Rissani and then around 5.00 pm we finally arrived at our Auberge for the next three nights on the outskirts of the village of Mezzouga. We were greeted by the mad and eccentric twenty something Berber, Hassan, who was the Auberge’s customer liaison. He immediately christened us with Berber names; Anne was now to be called ‘Fatima’, Katie was to be known as ‘Aisha’, Nicole as ‘Hidiysha’ and yours truly as ‘Ali Baba’. Hassan insisted that we adhere to these names till the end of our stay. That night at dinner I had my best tagine in Morocco.

After dinner Hassan invited us to a night of Berber music and dancing.  What followed was an experience Katie and I would not forget for a while.

We all went back to Katie and Nicole’s room, which was set apart from the main buildings, as Colie was feeling decidedly unwell. Anne stayed with her while Katie and I fumbled our way through the darkness towards the Auberge’s restaurant.  As we approached we heard a muted cry saying; “Kaaam... Kaaam” and saw a faint light which turned out to be Hassan’s mobile phone.  We could then make out his shadowy figure outside the restaurant where he enquired; “Where is Fatima?” He then proceeded to lead Katie and me into the pitch blackness of the Sahara desert to the sounds of a drum playing in the distance. 

Both of us were becoming increasingly bemused as we went further and further into the desert with a person we hardly knew. The sounds of the drum faded and after repeatedly asking him where we were going with little or no response we approached a dense thicket of what looked like bush. A little uneasy we wanted to turn back. He insisted that we go on further. Our imagination, and his Jack Nicholson type Shining snigger, got the better of us which was fuelled by earlier discussions of Bradley Murdoch and Joanna Lees along part of a long and lonely road from Tinehir. We both felt a little vulnerable.

Abruptly, we turned back and headed for the Auberge stumbling in the desert closely followed by the hovering Hassan. When we arrived back he said “No problem, we stay here.”   What followed was bizarre and somewhat comical.  In between Hassan playing the Tum Tum, drums, and singing traditional Berber songs, in casual conversation we asked him about how many in his family to which her replied; “Caravan”. When asked about whether the camels had names he bleated out “Jimmy Hendrix.” Do people get lost in the desert? “Berber GPS” was his response. When Anne appeared he chanted to the beat of the drum; “Fatima dance, Fatima dance, Fatima dance” much like the chanting in William Golding’s film Lord of the Flies. The guy was mad as a meat axe. He very much reminded me of the Russian cosmonaut in the film Armageddon.

He kept repeating throughout the night in his now infamous chortle; “My English is slipping”, “My English is crazy” “No problem Ali Baba” and “Where is Fatima?” Around 10.30 we escaped to the refuge of our room and settled in for a long sleep.

Day Three was a rest day at the Auberge till mid afternoon. Refreshingly, no 4W driving today. After a late breakfast we did nothing, except for reading, writing blogs, resting and eating. The electricity went off for the morning and the showers were intermittently cold. This was a faint echo of Nepal, deep in the Sahara, less than 50 km from the Algerian border. Later in the afternoon when the winds died down we would go on our camel trek and bivouac.

We boarded our ships in the desert just after four still with a hard wind that blew. As we rode further and further into the Sahara my sand blown face was filled with exhilaration. It was one of those junctures in time where you had to pinch yourself. The Father of Mythology, Joseph Campbell, called them moments of bliss. Katie appropriately led us onwards with our camel guide who walked the small caravan of four. After 90 minutes we dismounted and were asked to walk the final 20 minutes in fading light to our camp.

Here we were greeted by a United Nations of tourists: Poles; Americans; English; Italian; French; Scandinavians- about 25 in all. Amidst the swapping of camel stories, histories and travel sojourns we ate a traditional Berber meal and were treated to traditional music and ‘camel dancing’ which was illustrated deftly by Colie. We struck a particularly good relationship with some New York and Buffalo girls who were studying in Italy and having a brief holiday in Morocco. It was refreshing to meet such self effacing and unpretentious Americans. Off to bed around 9.00 p.m. in our own Berber tent we managed some intermittent sleep with the sand in our teeth, hair, eyeballs and other cavities and surrounded by the noisy Scandinavian and French chatter of “ooh, more hash cookies please...”

Night left us quickly as we were awoken at 5.30 to the drum beat of “welcome, welcome” for a very early morning breakfast. Some chose to leave early courtesy of camels, while others like Katie and I chose to climb the dunes to wait and witness the sunrise. There was a stillness here that reminded me of Michael Palin’s reflections in the desert of how the three great monotheistic religions found God here. It is easy to see why amidst such endless and eternal beauty.  Katie and I especially, had developed an insatiable appetite for the Moroccan landscape.

There are special moments, sacred moments that embolden a father daughter relationship. As a father, sitting on a sea wall, watching a sunrise or putting your arm around your daughter in a souk builds an indelible legacy, especially as no two experiences are ever the same. It is one of the real blessings of travel.

Day Four had dawned and the Berbers attempted to cajole us into remaining in the desert for the day, an invitation we politely declined. Soon after we were 4W driving along the dunes, (with Colie on the roof!) somewhat mimicking the rollercoaster rides in my youth, back to our Auberge.

The metaphor of the rising sun to greet yet another Moroccan day reflected my developing symbiotic relationship with the land and its people. I had begun to scratch the surface and venture a little deeper into the culture.

It was on the 36^th day into my trip that the Sahara claimed me and my new $600 camera. I succumbed to the tummy bug and Dr. Colie prescribed me three gastro stop tablets, a stematil, and a good lie down.  Meanwhile, the ‘good doctor’, who was thankfully decidedly better, and ‘the rest of the girls’ visited the nearby town of Rissani, for the Sunday souks, or markets and the internet cafe to reconnect to the outside world. (As it turned out the town folk where rather intimidating, and the girls were the only Westerners there so they stayed only an hour in the cyber cafe).My camera succumbed to the sands of the Sahara. I hope they both get well soon.

In the afternoon I watched on my laptop the beautifully crafted Sean Penn film Into the Wild, based on the true story of Chris McCandliss, a 23 year old, who rejected the trappings of Modernity as he escaped from a tormented family life and sought solace in nature and finally in the Alaskan wilderness. Chris’ reflections in the final chapter of the film, The getting of Wisdom; “The core of man’s (sic) spirit comes from new experiences” resonate with me on my travels. The rest of the family watched a slide show of Colie’s photos, something of a retrospective of our time in Bangkok, Madrid and Morocco.

For the late afternoon we all chilled on the terrace and watched the evening arrive in glorious desert surroundings.

Dinner, than early bed as we are off tomorrow at 8.00 a.m. for our seven to eight hour drive to the Imperial city of Fez.

Until next time                     

Good tidings and God’s blessings

Janika