You know you are in Australia when...

While waiting to pick my mum up from work I decided I would have some good old Aussie fish and chips from the main street in Shellharbour Village. I was quickly reminded how long I'd been out of Australia when theman behind the counter asked,
Would you like plain salt or chicken salt?
Wow! I had forgotten all about that yellow chicken salt!
I sat in the car, watching the waves, and enjoying my calamari, fish, and chips with chicken salt. Oh, I also added a bottle of creaming soda to my meal for good measure.

Some others...

Heaps.
Everyone says heaps, heaps of times.

Thongs.
In every colour, in every shoe store. I got some in Target for $3!

Very pretty dresses.
Worn with rubber thongs.

Flat Whites.
The only country in the world to serve this type of coffee.

Sour cream and sweet chilli sauce.
On potato wedges. Yum.

Sweaty heat.
Walking in the hot sun for 5 minutes does it. I must say, I really prefer the non-humid Moroccan sun.

Ta.
Thanks from a little person.

Disrespectful tourists and the Waterman

Jeff and I sat at our favourite cheap eat in the Jmaa El Fna (main square in the medina), watching the tourists and locals walk and ride by. I love to sit there and people watch from the table with the unobstructed street view of the square, but which also says ‘don’t approach me’. I love to watch the veiled women hold their photo albums of hennaed hands to the western women as they walk by, to see the well dressed young men unsuccessfully selling balloons, wooden snakes, watches, glasses and recycled cola bottles filled with Argan oil.

On one particular day a colourful Berber Waterman caught my eye. He was being swallowed by his outfit of mammoth red and green hat and faded red tunic. His weathered skin and dark moustache made him look very grandfatherly. He was trying to talk to the tourists who walked by, camera in hands. No one wanted any water. No one wanted a chat. So I was feeling sorry for the Waterman, thinking I would soon go over for a glass of water. Then two blonde women approached him, lifted their cameras, and took a portrait shot. He held out his hand for some obligatory coins and the women rudely shook their heads, ignored him and walked away. Not a smile, no permission asked for the photo, no courtesy.

So I went and asked the Waterman for a photograph. He smiled politely showing his browned and missing teeth. He lifted his tongue and made that high pitched ‘lalalalala’ noise and Jeff snapped away. He was also very grateful for the coins that landed in his hand.

Chilly in Marrakech

So my Australian blood must be resurfacing, as I am finding the recent Moroccan weather quite... cold. After coming back from a recent trip to lovely London, I am feeling the chill more than ever. Although I have a fabulous new travel mug, purchased from my favourite 'Lilly Whites in Piccadilly Circus', which takes the chill off the morning bus rides to school, it is not enough.
I do not want to be like one of the locals, who I admit to laughing at, wearing winter gloves, faux fur coat and a beanie. No, I refuse to look that ridiculous when it is really 20 C out. So I guess I will remember what winter cold was like in Canada and suck it up.
I am going to get my summer fix soon enough. 10 days in Australia. Then hopefully upon my return, I will bring the summer sun with me, so along with everyone else, I can complain about the stifling heat instead.

My first haircut... in Marrakech

Waiting for my hairstylist to finish with a client, I surprised myself and read a whole magazine article in French. Granted, I didn’t understand every word, but my reading of French is a whole lot better than my pronunciation and grammar. So when my hairstylist was ready, a quick introduction occurred. Our conversation ended as soon as my French ran out. Some global sign language ensued and then I was relaxing with my neck bent over a basin.

What a head massage! I was feeling a little apprehensive about describing my desired cut in French, but at that moment I was satisfied with the head/ neck/ face massage which was being carried out. ‘I hope this is included in the price… should I tip?’ was racing through my mind. ‘Just enjoy it!’ So I did.

With a printout of the desired haircut in tow, the snipping began. He seemed to know what he was doing. My thick, curly hair – the bane of my existence, and also the source of many compliments, was being cut into shape. With some mousse, drying and some finger work, I had an afro. Not good. My face must have said it all. I couldn’t even think of the words in French, except for malade. So with some tweaking of my own, and some extra scissor work, my mane was now complete.

I was feeling a frizzed, but cast my mind back to that head massage. I tipped the guy for his exceptional handwork – not with the scissors, but with the relaxing 20 minute massage.

It had been organised for weeks, my fist visitor to Marrakech! All day at work I kept telling my students, “My friend arrives today! I wonder what she is doing? I hope she doesn’t get lost!” When I got off the bus in the afternoon, I walked towards our meeting place. Jodi was there. It was great seeing her again, and after her months of travelling on a around the world ticket, she was also happy to see me.


“We had the best day. We bought carpets!”

“You did what?”

The girls had walked out of my building and turned left. When doing so, there is always the chance that you will run into, quite literally, a jolly, overzealous Moroccan named Abdul. Abdul owns a shop wheeling and dealing in eclectic Berber wares. It is impossible to walk past the shop and not be pulled in. He has given me silver bangles, a Berber necklace, and offered me many other things which I decline for fear of obligation… However, on this occasion the girls weren’t experienced enough to know it is better to walk on the other side of the street. Their inexperience did pay off, however. Abdul was kind enough to offer them a driver for the day to take them to the souqs, camel riding, and to general touristic hotspots. After, the girls were then lured into Abdul’s store, promised a glimpse at the much talked about photos of Abdul with Bill Clinton, Tom Hanks and other celebrities. And before they could say ‘mint tea’, the girls were the proud owners of authentic Moroccan carpets, wrapped in brown paper and ready to be posted back to Australia.

We visited the Ourika valley and had tea at a traditional Berber house.

Jodi and a huge hay stack.

Jodi and myself at enjoying one of the waterfalls in Setti Fatima.

Jodi and Nat with Andy - a tour operator, and friend, working in Marrakech.

Fresh meat - an inescapable experience in Marrakech.

Peering from the window of the bus on the way to work, I see naïve chickens, feeling the cool breeze in their feathers as their heads jolt out of the cracks in the crate. They are passengers of a donkey sprinting down the road getting ready for the market.

I see nonchalant turkeys tethered to a bolt in the dirt, beady eyes scouring the air for commotion.

Fluffy bunnies huddled in cages, munching on limp lettuce, ready for the sizing up by hungry human eyes.

Fresh food takes on a different perspective in Morocco. Choose your chicken. Look for plumpness, healthiness and baraka. Watch as the skilled butcher drains the blood from the neck, de-feathers and delivers the comatose chicken to you by the feet.

Skinned carcass’ hang from the butcher's hooks in the tiny storefronts. The entrails sit in glass bowls on top of strips of astroturf in the glass counter. Brains, liver, heart, kidneys and all other kinds of unidentifiable objects. I like the idea of nothing going to waste. A use for everything.

It doesn’t bother me as much as you might think. To be honest I am more annoyed with shrink wrapped sausages and meat amalgamations in Western supermarkets. At least in Marrakech you know exactly what you are eating and its journey to your plate… or tajine or couscous.

The Inquisition

Halfway home on the bus from Beni Mellal I lept to sit in the recently vacated seats next to us on the definitely non-sunny side of the bus. I was feeling as though my right arm and leg were being slow roasted in a giant oven on wheels. Just as I jumped at the chance, the passengers sitting in front of us, a conservatively dressed Muslim couple, with a baby girl in tow, also made a move for the coveted seats. Begrudgingly, I gave up the seats and then the broken conversations began.


Bonjour,
Hello. Me? I am Australian, he is Canadian.
America?
No, Canada. Oh, you are 30? I am 26, Jeff is 27. Your wife?
I am…vingt-et-un.
Yes, 21, you are very young!

The man pulls out his Qu’ran and begins singing verses. Perhaps to us, perhaps it was time for prayer. We look at him and he and his wife smile at us while he kisses his Qu’ran and puts it in his bag.

No, we are not Islamic.

He traces a ‘t’ on the back of the chair in front of us. T?
He then sits back in his chair with his arms outstretched beside him. I understand now.

No, we are not Christian.

He points to the wedding band on his finger and then holds his hand to his heart.

No, we are not married.

A look of comic horror spreads across his face, his arms flail in the air. His wife looks alarmed and then laughs with us. We are just an Australian-Canadian couple living in Marrakech.

We teach at the American School of Marrakech. Proffesseurs. Oui. My students are 7 and 8 years old.

His wife looks impressed and nods in approvement. The man then wiggles his fingers excitedly and then puts his hand on his chest. The game of charades begins.

I don’t understand.

Again, he repeats the motion. Then he puts his fingers through his daughters hair and uses his fingers to ‘snip’ at her hair.

Oh, yes, barber. Coiffure, I get it.

The conversation changes and comes to an end. He points to a man who just boarded the bus.

Yes, that man, with the beard? No way I don’t believe you!

Taliban, he says, with a cheeky grin.

Just outside of Marrakech the bus comes to a halt in a small village and they grab their things and leave the bus. A handshake here, a wave there and they were on their way.

Enchante

Enchante

Beni what? Beni Mellal

With 4 days off work due to Eid, Jeff and I decided to hit up Jebel Toubkal. Our attempts however, led us around the medina, to numerous bus stops and Grand Taxi ranks until we discovered that our attempts to get to Asni or Imlil would continue to be futile, until after Ramadan.

So, after consulting the travellers bible (Lonely Planet) we decided it would be nice to hit up Beni Mellal. Only 3 hours away, mountains, albeit smaller than Jebel Toubkal, some cheap accomodation and a working bus service, sealed the deal.

On the bus to Beni Mellal, all of the memories of local bus travel came flooding back - ash trays filled with ancient gum and rotting paper. An empty water bottle wedged in the ceiling vent to maintain badly needed air circulation. Numerous teenage boys and the occasional woman briefly boarding the bus to sell shoes, tissues, necklaces, fake Dior sunglasses and trinkets.

A devilish young boy sat next to us on the back of the bus. After some recipricol smiles, he was turfed by the overzealous attendant. He returned a few moments later, proudly displaying his ticket which was in his jacket pocket all along. He again looked up at us for a smile. We nicknamed him 'sneaky smile'.

Once in Beni Mellal we discovered the garden and springs of Ain Asserdoun, numerous sheep and goats, mountains to climb and a sunset that was upon us before we knew it.

The next morning we got ready for our hike.We passed the beautiful gardens on our rocky path up the mountain.

We walked around the Berber village at the top of the mountain, and during our descent, encountered some cheeky boys and...

...also the odd goat up a tree.

Just what the doctor ordered

After a day and a half of stomach cramps and frequent visits to the bathroom, I thought it was about time to visit a doctor instead. From work (I thought I could manage a day...) the driver took me to a pleasant doctor right on Mohammed 5. As the driver left me in the waiting room, all I could think was 'English?'. Finally the doctor arrived and I was ushered in.
"Parlez Anglias?" I asked in French, already knowing I was dooomed.
"No, French."
Ok, with a bit of universal sign language, pointing at my stomach accompanied with 'malade', it was time to hop on the examination table for some prodding. Just in case my vocabulary couldn't describe it, my stomach let out an enormous groan which transecnded French, Moroccan and English and told the whole story.
Then came the prescriptions. "Mange quarot" he said.
"Hmm, quar ot? Je ne sais pas." Eat what? Oh, carrots, yes, I ate carrots the other day, so no carrots?
"Non, mange, mange carrots et riz!"
Ok. Yes, carrots, rice, couscous, tajine, sashay? Huh, no dancing? Oh yes, satchet of powder after eating, yes, oui.
With a never endng prescription in my hand my visit came to an end.
Shukrun, I said with a handshake. Thankyou, he replied.

I went to the pharmacy where they deciphered the doctors code and handed me 4 lots of medication. I guess I was on my own with the carrots and rice.