krakow is weird, in a good way

i finally got a room last night. the girl finally woke up and realized where she was. another cop showed up and asked to see everyone's id. except for mine. i felt a little left out.

wandered into a cafe this afternoon and soon found myself embroiled in conversation with drunk Ian the british composer, who called his friend Keith from Saskatoon to come meet us. Then there was another Canadian and a Belgian. I am supposed to go back to meet them in about an hour, and then do something with Keith tomorrow. Drunk Ian is on a bender but thinks he wants to go to Gdansk with me. But I am pretty sure I do not want to go to Gdansk with Ian! I have never seen one person drink so much vodka.

when i went to a pierogy place for dinner i ran into the same Serbian couple i had breakfasted with this morning so we had dinner together as well. Polish food is great so far. Cabbage with sausage and of course pierogies. Perogy perogy perogy. I could eat them all day. Probably will.

christmas day as a backpacker?

carrie wants to know about backpacker christmas? as you know i am not the most christmasy of individuals so for me it wasn't especially exciting...normally in my family we celebrate on the 24th anyway so i can tell you about both action-packed days...

xmas eve - up pre-dawn to attend Catholic Mass. the point of this was to hear the Vienna Boy's Choir who perform at this particular mass every sunday. i was near the front of the standing room line which is free so i was basically standing in the middle of the chapel which was awesome. near the end the boys came down to sing a few carols. a couple were so tiny!
then...i went out for chocolate cake and hot chocolate with a couple of australian girls i met in line, then went back to the hostel to eat lunch. spent a couple of hours talking with an american guy who kept talking about how places like Spain didn't jibe with his 'culture'. Huh? After a while i figured out that he was some sort of evangelical christian. we went for a walk to the christmas market at the town hall where i tried to take photos of the very cool lights in the trees, mostly unsuccessfully. then i went back to the hostel and ate pasta and went to bed early (only 5 hours of sleep the night before).

xmas day - um...i don't know what i did actually. oh, i had breakfast and then went to the ballet. then went to a cafe for more hot chocolate and apple strudel, then called my parents, then went back to the hostel and...went to sleep.
exciting stuff!

scene from the glamorous life of a backpacker

it is 4:30 a.m and i have just arrived in krakow after 7 hours on a bus. walked into the hostel to find a girl asleep on the couch and one guy passed out standing up at the reception counter. i woke up the guy but he doesn't seem to work here. then another drunk guy came in. then we found some sober people and they said the girl on the couch works here.
i shook her for a while but she only snored louder.
now both drunk guys are behind the reception counter raiding for goodies. i don't think they are even speaking the same language to each other.

this place is fucked. i will try again to wake the girl up now. stay tuned!


UPDATE:
Paul the drunk Dutch guy and i managed to briefly wake the girl up, but when I asked her if she works here she said NO and went back to sleep.
then Paul gave me a beer.
then a cop came in. but he didn't speak any english or dutch or french. so he just looked around. then left.

now the girl has a phone call and Paul is trying again to wake her...

black peter (a bit late...)

so I must talk about Sinterklaas and Swarte Piet, although they have come and gone already this year. in Belgium and the Netherlands there is a tradition that Sinterklaas (and Sint is the real deal, the inspiration for our Santa Claus) comes to town sometime in November - he sails in from Spain - and then distributes presents on Dec. 5 or 6 (depending on the country). He is accompanied by his 'helpers', Swarte Pieten (Black Peters). See the wikipedia entry for more information.
Anyway, even before Sinterklaas arrived I was noticing these strange decorations and advertisements that featured what appeared to be people in blackface! Woah! I didn't know much about the tradition here and so someone had to explain it all to me. All right, I guess...but it was still really weird and not a little uncomfortable for this white north american to attend the Sinterklaas parade in Amsterdam and see armies of mostly white people running around painted black.

But at least I knew what was going on.
Back at the hostel I listened in as some very stoned young (white) Americans tried to figure out what the hell they had just witnessed and they tried to explain it to someone who hadn't seen it.
"...and it's like...these little kids are like, painted, like, black!"
"Oh my god!"
"yeah! and they're like, with their like parents and everything! and it's so..."
"oh, weird!"
"...and they're like wearing these like little outfits, and like hats and stuff. they're like Shakespearean or something..."
"wow...it's so like...weeeeeird...."
"um...what are you guys talking about? I wasn't listening..."

the conversation lasted for like, an hour.

"red light" = very popular

hilariously (or pathetically), this photo which has been tagged and titled with the words "red light district" has been viewed more times in the past 5 days than most of my other photos combined.



I'm thinking of putting "hooker boobies" in the tags of all my photos from now on. Is that cheating?

quietness

december 9 already? how?
right now in antwerp, recovering from a week long bout of...something...food poisoning? flu? who knows, but it kept tricking me into thinking i was better and eating things and then making it worse. i think it was from eating a couple of unwashed grapes at a grocer's in the netherlands, the guy wanted me to try them so i could choose which kind i liked best. bad idea. anyway i am very familiar with my bed here in antwerp.

it's too bad too because Shannon introduced me to her friend Ken who introduced me to his friend Nathalie and they are both very cool, taking me out for a really nice dinner on my first night, which I couldn't really eat being already sick and all. I also got a tour of the antwerp red light district which is quite impressive.

it's been a quiet month. i read a massive and incredible book (Black Lamb and Grey Falcon by Rebecca West) which has inspired me to get down to the Balkans asap.

spent a total of two weeks crashing with Frederico in Eindhoven ("probably the least interesting city in the netherlands"...well I wouldn't agree with that, it's a nice livable place with a good museum), went to see Misia, a fado singer - too bad i can't understand Portuguese. i like fado a lot but i get the impression that it's about 50 times better if you know what they're saying. we went to see Babel one night and didn't realize till it started that the film was in Berber, Arabic, Spanish, Japanese and English with Dutch subtitles. perhaps an appropriate way to see that particular movie.

visited Rotterdam and hung out with the Saddest Australian in the World (dutch girl, heartbreak, you know the story)...the hague...

amsterdam was agonizingly and unexpectedly sordid and teeming with shitfaced losers. i arrived on the eve of a football match involving a british team which is never the best time to arrive in a city. walking down the Damrak in the middle of the day felt creepy and gross. maybe i'm just bitter because i couldn't get into any fun hostels (even in low season, you need to book ahead unless you want to stay someplace crappy in the red light district). wandered into the red light district once in the middle of the day and didn't feel comfortable - a man leered at me and said something dirty in dutch. funny how you don't have to be able to speak the language to understand that particular sentiment.
not to completely slam amsterdam, it was also very beautiful and i had some nice times there. just too bad about all the tourists.

in a used bookstore i finally found some books I have been searching for for months. i must have looked in every new and used bookstore and charity shop in the UK, only to find them in amsterdam. happy day.

that's about all. how are you?

new photos

finally uploaded new photos from Iceland, Denmark and the Netherlands.









more photos on flickr.

the decline and decline and decline of the american empire

oh my god...i am sitting in this hostel where MTV's my super sweet sixteen or whatever is on tv right now. if this spoiled bitch Ava was my kid I would shoot myself. sweet christ.
this programme makes me want to punch things in the face. and I was all peaced out today too. screw you MTV, I hate you and your stupid squealing bullshit.

I think it is extra offensive right now because I just had 10 or so days of wonderful TV-free peace and quiet and conversation and food and music and port and Icelandic liquor at a friend's place...and now I am in beautiful Utrecht in a hostel where the tv dominates the lounge thus forcing me to endure MTV and the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. but i will put up with a lot in order to use free internet.

on the upside, Utrecht is really very beautiful, canals and bricks and armies of cyclists. they really know how to do cycling as a form of transport in this country (in Denmark too). there are proper lanes (that people actually don't seem to use as a parking space), even bike specific traffic lights. And even though they sell helmets in the stores, I have not seen a single person wearing one.

copenhagen i love you

My last two days in Reykjavik involved drinking way too much beer (trying to keep up with Frenchmen), finding a whole brand new still sealed 1 litre bottle of vodka in my room (nobody knew where it came from so it´s mine now! that´s worth about 70 bucks in iceland), and not sleeping at all the last night.

I also got to sample the delights of the Nordica Hotel, courtesy of Monique, which after the Salvation Army dive was like nirvana....spas and massages and big clean bathrooms.

Then Monique and I flew to Copenhagen and into yet another fabulous hotel, the Hotel Skt. Petri which has the BEST beds and extra-nabbable products. Monique was here for about five days during which we changed hotels a couple times (including the D'Angleterre which has a sort of faded grandeur thing going on), drank a lot of beer, were treated to Mexican food by some random guys (just when I was craving Mexican too), did a tour of various castles, walked past Pink on the street (I swear it was her, she was playing a show here that night) and saw Sweden. We didn´t go to Sweden but we saw it from across the water at the castle at Helsingør (aka Shakespeare´s Elsinore from Hamlet).

Now she's gone and I'm back at a youth hostel where I belong...sleeping in and walking around this gorgeous city and buying hot new Camper boots because my running shoes were so busted they were making one of my toes go numb. It would be stupid to let one of my toes fall off just for the sake of economy.

Copenhagen is not really what I expected...I am not sure what I expected but it's much more beautiful; filled with spires and canals and bridges.

I have to say I am not as enamored of Christiania as I had thought I would be. I went there twice - once in the evening with Monique and once during the day by myself. In the evening it was fine and we hung out and had a beer and wandered around. That is it was fine till it got dark. We were mostly on and around Pusher Street where there were no streetlights and a lot of dudes hanging around fires in barrels. At one point we just both looked at each other and said "I think we should leave now."
I went back a few days later in the middle of the afternoon. Again I was mostly on Pusher Street so maybe other areas are less creepy but I have a serious problem with any place that has a 30:1 male to female ratio. I especially hate looking around and realizing I am the only female person in eyeshot. There was a big squad of police roaming around but that really didn't help the atmosphere. Lots of dogs too. Big aggressive dogs off leash.
I don´t know - maybe if I knew my way around a bit more I would like the place better, but it all just felt really furtive and sad, for all the bright paintings and murals. It's no Kensington Market.

"oh my god. oh my god!"

that is what you would have heard me screaming last night (this morning?) at approx 2:30 when I ran into Monique, my roomate from french school in Villefranche, in the middle of Laugavegar street in Reykjavik. I had no idea she was there, she had no idea I was there, yet there we were. I had already found and been separated from several groups of "instant friends" that night so why not one more? So off we went to some extra swank bar (a far cry from the dives I have been frequenting of late!) till about 3:30 and then Monique and co. went to bed and Jose (another instant hostel friend) and I went off and found some other friends in the lineup for a much smaller sweatier dingier place. Dancing till 6 a.m. - it's even crazier than Barcelona!
Even more amazing - we're on the same flight Tuesday morning to Copenhagen and since Monique is there for work, I get to crash in a sweet sweet hotel room and tag along as she investigates the best food, clubs, and activites that Copenhagen has to offer. I have a lot to learn from this woman.

Airwaves has been freaking incredible...I've seen 30 shows in 4 days and there are a few more tonight yet..including Patrick Watson who is playing his ass off at this festival. Highlights were We Are Scientists, Datarock, The Whitest Boy Alive, Islands (I only saw their in-store performance and decided to see another band, 120 Days instead of their full show at the Art Museum...a decision I have come to regret since even though 120 Days was pretty good, I suspect that Islands show was transcendental. It was later described to me as "the best thing I have ever seen in my life". damn), Brazilian Girls...the list goes on and on and on.
God I've missed music.

James and Robyn, this is for you.

In honour of Robyn's upcoming birthday (and for James just because he mentioned it earlier)...I ate it. I ate Hakarl.

I ate putrid rotting shark meat. Actually it wasn't as bad as I had feared. Although it was pretty damn bad.

Evidence, and dozens of newly uploaded Iceland photos, can be found here on Flickr.

rock in reykjavik

i don't think I have seen a real concert since I left home (aside from some dubious performances in Barcelona...), so it´s pretty exciting that I will be attending this:
Iceland Airwaves from Oct 18 to 22nd. Well, exciting for me anyway.

This means I get a week or so to relax and chill and then about 5 days of unapologetic rocking out, $10 beers be damned.

I have been taking a rather 'what happens in iceland, stays in iceland' approach to food and vegetarianism. sort of like my previous 'what happens in france/spain/morocco...' experiences. I'm pleased to report that Icelandic hot dogs are freaking delicious. Apparently they are made with lamb.
They are even better when rolled in bacon, deep fried, and then covered in cheese and crispy fried onions.

iceland: fog, skyr, and amorous horses

we have been driving around iceland for about 11 days...for six of them there was no sunlight at all, only fog. also, a horse tried to have sex with our car (while three others tried to eat the paint off it).

we left Reykjavik on Friday with our little green car, Thor (or þor, if you want to get technical about it) and started around the island clockwise.
Two days on the Snaefellsnes peninsula (home to the access point for the centre of the earth - read Jules Verne if you don´t believe me), then up through the Vatsnes peninsula and over to Sauðarkrokur, home of slightly creepy men, excellent farmstays well out of town and away from the crepy men, and exceptional librarians. When I logged in and found some information about my great-grandparents in an email from home, along with the name of the wife of a distant relative who lives nearby, the librarians got in gear, calling up people in the phone book ("we're not going to give up until we have his phone number!" she said to me), looking at the list of farms where my great and great-great grandparents were born and telling me which ones are abandoned, which are now inhabited by people she knows...apparently one, where my great-grandmother's mother was born, is now abandoned but was a location used in filming ain Icelandic crime movie last year, Kalda Sloð.
Then she called the Emigration Centre is Hofsos (Hot Sauce!) and got the guy to open up for us even though it is closed for the season.

He was nice and let us in for free even, looked through the database and told me that I could probably knock on doors throughout the country and announce myself as a relation. He even called a guy he knows, who is my...i don´t know, like eighth cousin 3 times removed...and jokingly told him that we were showing up on his doorstep to stay for a couple of weeks. Unfortunatly he lived in the opposite direction of the one we were going in and we didn´t have time to see him or the relations in Varmahlið either.

We spent a day in Akureyri and then two in Reykjalið at Lake Myvatn where we did driving lessons on top of volcanos, watched pools of boiling mud, and swam outside in a hot pool at night.

On the way to Kopasker we stopped in Husavik which we soon discovered is the new-ish home of the Icelandic Phallological Museum - actually it´s been there for a couple of years but our guide book is old. If you're on the verge of looking Phallological up in the dictionary, don't bother...yes it is indeed a Penis Museum.
The museum was closed for the season but as we could hear someone in the basement we knocked on the window and hoped for the best ("willy answer the door?" - credit has to go to Jessica for that one).
He let us in and we took in the sight of dozens of animal penises - whales (enormous and terrifying) to mice (hee!). Also displayed with pride and anticipation are agreements from four men who will donate their genitals to the museum upon passing (and possibly even before in one case!). Each contract is displayed alongside images and artifacts relating to the member in question, these range from photos to plaster casts to silicone. The silcone is ELMO, who is quite a specimen indeed. I took a photo (which I will not display here) and it makes us giggle every time we see it, like two old ladies at a Chippendales show. Apparently if you go to the right sort of store you can buy your very own silicone Elmo, he´s that famous.

Amusingly the Husavik church sports an extremely penis-like doorknob, however we were unable to determine whether the two institutions were in collaboration on that one.

We went to an amazing enormous horseshoe shaped canyon called Asbyrgi (legend has it that this is where Odin's horse accidentally touched ground once) and were the only people there, wandering around this gorgeous silent place filled with trees in full autumn colour. Legend also has it that this is a haven of the Hidden People as well but they were, well, hidden to us.

Beautiful waterfalls (the biggest have names like Dettifoss and Sellfoss and Hafragilsfoss...can you guess what FOSS means?) but we drive past dozens of smaller and maybe even more beautiful waterfalls every day, just spilling down over the mountains behind farms and in the middle of nowhere.

We drove around the northernmost point of Iceland, a couple of km from the arctic circle, went to the visitor's centre for an enormous dam that is being built and has just started to be filled a couple of days ago (there have been lots of ongoing protests but it looks like there's no going back now) - we couldn't get in to see the dam itself though as it's on a 4x4 track and our insurance won't cover it. All the good stuff is on 4x4 tracks. I must come back here in the summer time.

On the shores of the apparently monster infested Lögurinn lake we visited Iceland's cute little 'forest'...actually it´s quite nice. Nestled within is Iceland's oldest tree. It has been named GUTTORMSLUNDER. It was planted in.... 1938. It is about 20m high and when I saw it I accidentally yelled "you mean that's it?". Sorry Guttormslunder...

In Stöðvarfjördur we spent the night in the cutest little converted church imaginable, what a great place to stay. Visited one of the world's largest mineral collections and bought some shiny rocks to carry around with us.

Last night we stayed in Höfn and spent about 3 hours swimming outside again in the heated pool. Towns in Canada should do this too - even when it's 3 degrees outside, as long as the pool is warm it is very comfortable.

We have finally reached glacier country, I don´t know if we will actually go onto it today but we can see it which is pretty cool. This is the third biggest icecap in the world after Antarctica and Greenland.

Okay, I know, what you really want to know about is Þor and the horses right?
We stopped at the edge of a field one day to take some photos of some beautiful Icelandic Horses, not noticing that they were not fenced in...we rolled down the windows and the horses came right over and soon our car was surrounded - they must be used to tourists with free food.
Unfortunately we didn´t have any food so since the windows were still down the horses started trying to get IN the car. Then we noticed that all the horses were licking the windows and the trunk, a couple at the front were gnawing on the headlights, and one resourceful filly had located the rear door handle and was rubbing her backside against it. And she wasn´t scratching anything, folks. It took several beeps of the horn and finally just starting to move the car slowly to get free. We still haven´t washed the car and you can see horse tongue marks all over it.

Poor Þor, we haven´t been treating him that well...driving over a road that was only about halfway constructed we started to notice a scraping sound coming from the right wheel well. We had to stop at the nearest mechanics shop where Gunnar extracted a tiny stone and identified the source of our troubles.
We christened the stone Elmo.

It's strange but a lot of the people we've been meeting remind me a little of Grandpa - quiet men who have his voice and way of speaking. It makes me miss him and I wish I could send him a postcard and a bucket of fresh Skyr.

photos have been uploaded to flickr. see here for scotland photos. it´s too expensive right now to get the iceland ones posted.

congratulations!

so it took some clever sleuthing but I can finally say

congratulations neena and chad!

send me a picture! i want to see this beautiful new addition to the world.

love
a

london love

ahhhh...i am so rejuvenated.
Shabnam (from the famous Spain road trip adventure) just happens to be in London right now so when I arrived I found an email inviting me to come and hang out and stay at her cousin's place. just fabulous, after 6 weeks or so of wandering around it was so great to see someone I know and eat a delicious and incredibly well presented home cooked meal with warm and wonderful and welcoming people. thanks nanaz and eric and raphaelle!
plus Shabby and I have been going through some of the same things lately and it was really good to be able to talk to someone I can relate to on this. I feel much better now.
so we hung out for a couple of days and just wandered the city, slept late, had long discussions over beers in pubs, and then I got on a train and came out to Stowmarket to spend the day with Jane and her family. Also wonderful and warm and welcoming (her dad printed me out a map of Iceland!).
There are some strange things swirling around like how I was magically presented with 10 pounds by an Underground ticket machine (I tried to yell for the guy whose change it was to come back but he didn't hear so I just gave it to an attendant), and then how I missed my train today and had to sneak onto the next train which technically I wasn't allowed to be on with my 'cheap' ticket, but the ticket guy didn't even say a word, like how I accidentally came away from the chocolate shop with two bonus bags of chocolates instead of one...

Iceland is going to be expensive and the conversion from ISK to $ is going to be a tough one to do in my head (63 to 1) so I guess what it means is that I should just not bother with conversions at all.

Tomorrow Jane will drive me to the airport and then I'm off to (one of) the ancestral homeland. Jessica whom I met in Inverness might be renting a car so our tentative plan is to drive around the country.

ouch (body and bank account)

Manchester is all a blur, as my night out with Joey involved several gin and tonics too many and the next day was spent on the hostel couch trying not to move. As a consequence I know nothing about Manchester other than where all the good gay bars are.
We were sitting in one place when we were approached by drunk Mancunian Martin.
"What's your name?"
"Maaaaaaa!"
"What?"
"Maaaaaaaa aaah!"
"What is he saying?"
"It's Maaarhaaan!"
It was sort of entertaining trying to figure out what he was saying all night. But not really.

Bizarrely I get hit on more (by men) at gay clubs than at ostensibly straight ones. I suppose it helps to be one of the only straight females in the place.

Then I came to Bath which I love, it's beautiful and loaded with things to do. Everything is very expensive. The Roman Baths are interesting and of course I had to have the traditional tea at the Pump Room, it's the aging bookish spinsterly thing to do. Pricey but tasty (clotted cream! Where have you been all my life!?!?), I couldn't eat again for the rest of the day. I also drank the water (the natural mineral hot spring water) which is served up by a strange man in period livery. He was impressed that I drank the whole glass, apparently nobody ever gets through it all. It is pretty vile but there are something like 43 minerals in that water. In retrospect it tasted a little like Leslie tap water.

Unfortunately I cannot recommend the Jane Austen Centre which doesn't have a lot going on other than an "exclusive" video featuring Amanda Root (from the movie version of Persuasion), which features Ms. Root wandering pensively around the Assembly Rooms. Because I'm a nerd I already knew everything they were talking about and at 6 quid to get in, it's too much.

Yesterday I did a tour of Stonehenge/Avebury/Silbury Hill/Lacock (where some Harry Potter and new Pride and Prejudice stuff was apparently filmed)/Castle Combe. I've never done a day tour like that before (a horror of those enormous coaches that pull up and disgorge a wave of tourists at the 'attractions') however this one was really good and I saw much more than I would have on my own in my limited time. It was a Mad Max tour if anyone is looking for something similar, only 16 people in the van too so you feel like less of a jerk.
At Avebury our guide Keith handed out a couple sets of dowsing rods, as Avebury seems to lie on a 'ley line' (invisible energy line). I was the recipient of the first set of rods, along with another man, and we were instructed to walk toward a large stone. Oh the pressure! We wandered around for a couple of minutes with nothing happening and then one of his rods swung off to the right. Nothing had happened with my rods yet and as I walked toward the other man a skeptical American woman jeered "You must have bad karma!" Oh shut up.
Anyway as soon as I passed over the same spot as the other man, sure enough my rods swung around. It was pretty cool, they just moved in my hands with no interference from me, and according to Keith there is no water or electricity line in that spot. We passed the rods on and it worked for most of the other people as well.

Somewhere between Manchester and Bath something happened to my left shoulder, something like a pinched nerve, I don't know, which means that when I breathe deeply or move in certain seemingly random ways or try to sleep I find myself in excruciating pain. This is very bad considering I live out of an enormous freaking backpack. I'm going to London this afternoon and hopefully will be able to find a doctor. Painkillers don't seem to be working (although I haven't tried the ones with codeine yet...).

random bits

on Lewis I took the bus one day out to see various sights like Callanish and the blackhouses at Garenin and the broch at Dun Carloway. Sitting with an hour to kill in a very rural bus stop - I wasn't even sure the bus was going to pass by there, just living off hope really - a woman and her little boy wandered by.
"Hello hello!!" the boy shouted at me...I had passed them earlier and he had given me a dried up seedy flower so we were now on quite intimate terms. He ran into the shelter and jumped on my lap while I chatted to his mum. Boring boring for little boys so to get our attention he ran around the sides of the shelter, licking the windows. I didn't find out till later that "windowlicker" is a really really rude thing to say to someone in Scotland, so it'a a good thing I didn't say "Your son is a real windowlicker!" to this poor woman.
He wanted me to come home with them but when I said I had to wait for the bus he settled for making piles of earthworms on my shoes. After a few minutes a car pulled up, it was a woman who knew the woman I was talking to. A few minutes more and I had somehow been offered a ride back into Stornoway with this new woman and her very amusing boy, Alex aged 4. Alex didn't have any worms but we got along just fine anyway.

After the Callanish debacle I went down to Tarbert on the Isle of Harris (which is actually connected to the Isle of Lewis...shh...don't tell anyone, I'm not sure they know). If Harris sounds familiar to you, think tweed...Harris Tweed. Given my unholy lust for all things tweed it's quite lucky I managed to get away from there without buying a whole new outfit. However the stylings on offer in the shops ran more toward the Stout Matron side of the spectrum, while I was looking for Naughty Librarian clothes. I do however have a small new tweed wallet which I fondle with great happiness.

From Harris to Skye, two days in Portree which seem to have been completely uneventful because I can't remember anything about them. Then a day in Kyleakin and Kyle of Lochalsh, where I spent the evening trapped in conversation (only one small lounge and an Italian couple getting it on in my dorm) with the lamest Australian I have ever met. A homophobic jackass who looked like Benny Hill, he put that idiot Said to shame (see Said's story here). Within 45 minutes: "have you ever kissed a girl?" "have you ever had sex in a hostel?".
I even told him the Said story laced with all of the sarcasm and irony I could muster but he wasn't getting it. Poor stupid fool.

Next morning a bus to Inverness with the intention of going out to Speyside to check out the distilleries, however by the time I got there it was really too late, and there was no accommodation east of Inverness anyway. Snap decision time - get on the next train south and get the hell out of Scotland.
It wasn't till a couple days later that I slapped myself on the forehead...dammit! I went to Scotland and forgot to eat Haggis!? Even after I've been told that vegetarian Haggis is really really good? Grrrr. Add the fact that I didn't eat a deep fried Mars bar either. I am ashamed of myself. At least I drank a little scotch.

So I ended up in Penrith at the edge of the Lake District, in the fleabaggiest hotel room above a bar. At least there was a tv. And the shower was hot.

Then to Windermere and Ambleside in the midst of the best weather I've seen in weeks, clear and sunny and actually HOT. The scenery is spectacular as well, or at least it would be if the place weren't lousy with tourists (yeah I know I am one of them). Tourists tourists every where, roads filled with cars, lakesides covered with shops and marinas. The hostel in Ambleside was great though, a huge old place with giant lounge and dining room, and the nicest Melmac plates I have ever seen.

Today I arrived in Manchester where I met up with Joey from Valencia who is working here now. Tonight is going to be good.

communing with the rain

I really went to the isle of Lewis to see this (photo borrowed from here:
)


The standing stones at Callanish / Calanais. I went out Thursday morning and was suitably impressed, wandered around...browsing some of the literature in the shop I learn that one of the theories as to its existence is that is was built to track various lunar phenomena, such as the 'lunar standstill' which occurs every 18.6 years.
Later that day I heard something about some 'lunar event' happening maybe next week at the stones, and resolved to find out what it was.

The tourist office gave me a number. On Saturday afternoon, as I was about to get on a bus to leave the area, I called the number. A sleepy sounding old man answered the phone...I had no idea what to ask for and he was not particularly forthcoming. "Is something happening at the stones with the moon next week? Is it the full moon?"

"Nothing happens with the full moon. "
long pause.
"But the standstill is tonight."

Okay! Getting more information was like pulling teeth however I was able to learn that
a) all B&Bs in the area were full for the weekend
b) there is no organized expedition from Stornoway to get there
c) the last bus on Saturday leaves around 6 p.m., and there are no more buses until Monday morning.

In that case the obvious solution is to buy a tent and camp out at the stones. I mean really, if I just happen to be in a place where something rare is happening it is my duty to go and check it out, right?

In retrospect this was a somewhat stupid idea though it seemed like a good one at the time.

On the bus on the way out there I had visions of a grand pagan gathering full of entertaining crystal people. What I found was one old gnarly guy in a tent, a couple of caravans, and a handful of people in rainproof clothes hanging about with cameras. Oh well.

I set up my tent and wandered over to the onlookers. It was about 6:45 and the sun was getting low. There were differing opinions on when the moonrise actually was. I started talking to Guy and Les from England who gave me chocolate and we shivered and stared off in a southerly direction. Pointless really as the horizon was completely obscured by clouds - the wind was blowing hard and although when I had arrived the weather had seemed promising it became pretty obvious that nobody was going to be seeing the moon. This was cemented with the arrival of rain, and I retreated to my tent to read a book and eat cake.

I tried to sleep after a while but rain (which sounded like hail) and wind and unbearable coldness of the ground make it all not so fun. I'm talking insane rain. Diluvian rain. This is the last time I go camping without a mat.

Everything became worthwhile however at around 4:30 a.m. when I crept outside to pee in the bushes - the rain had stopped, there was a big clear spot in the sky and every single star that there is was there to be looked at. The brightest sky I have seen in my life, with stars like chips of ice and close enough to touch.

The next night was a little more exciting...not as many people but Les and Guy came back, this time with a largeish bottle of Scotch! Clever boys. We stood around and drank (PURELY MEDICINAL) with a woman who had driven all the way from London the previous day. As the scotch took effect we sat at the base of one of the stones and willed the clouds to part. The weather was slightly better and we could actually see the glow of the moon behind the clouds. A couple of times a silvery edge was revealed and I must tell you, I have never seen people more excited about the moon in my life. It was like the dolphin sighting on the ferry from Ullapool to Stornoway - a cheer goes up, people scramble for cameras, grown men giggle and tear down the decks in order to see the school as it passes.

However those glimpses were brief and as fun as it was to stand around in the pitch dark drizzle staring at clouds, I went to bed.

Currently in Portree on the Isle of Skye, still trying to catch up on sleep (and having the weirdest dreams in the process) but happily I did not get a cold.

Other recent adventures involve falling in a bog, and a long philosophical discussion with a group of complete strangers in a hostel covering everything from serial killers to feminism to archaeology and the nature of the universe. I couldn't believe we weren't stoned.

ooh look! two posts in one day!

how terribly extravagant! the reason for this is that my new hostel in Ullapool (West House - go there) offers ONE HOUR OF INTERNET FOR ONE POUND. This is surely the best damn deal in the UK. I am way too excited.

Ullapool is possibly one of the best smelling places I have ever been to. It smells of fresh air and cut grass and the sea. There's not a whole lot going on here but it's enough just to walk around and smell things. The only place that might be on par is Soller on Mallorca, which smells like orange blossoms.

8 free minutes

i have 8 free internet minutes left on this library computer. what can I write in 15 minutes.

i've been in the highlands for a week or two now, first Fort William where I climbed halfway up the highest mountain (in the UK?) Ben Nevis. Gorgeous, and I was impressed with myself since I really only set out for the base.
The hostel there was cool and I chatted with an amusingly flirtatious Texan. Imagine someone saying this to you in a heavy heavy Texas accent:
"hey...y'all are kinda cross-eyed....hey that's kind of cute..."
Awwww.

Then Loch Ness where I do have to admit I was hoping to yes, see the monster. Maybe I would be lucky! Happy that other people have since admitted the same ambition to me, I feel less stupid. Needless to say I did not see the Loch Ness Monster. There was a promising rise in the water at one point but it was just a wave.

Then up to Carbisdale Castle which is rumoured to be haunted and is now a giant youth hostel. I didn't see any ghosts though something or someone blew on my leg one night as I was trying to go to sleep. That couldn't have been a dream, could it?
The castle environment was strange...on my last night I walked up into the ballroom to see an old man squeezing out Auld Lang Syne on an accordian (which of course makes one think of Raju) and a couple of scottish girls teaching german teenagers how to highland dance. Imagine an enormous blond german boy wearing a kilt and spinning around and you'll get the idea.

3 minutes left.
currently in Inverness, been here for three days and it's nice but I'm headed for Ullapool and then the Outer Hebrides in about 2 hours.

Must go, sorry about the lack of photos (it is really stunning here too) but it is too too expensive to upload.

anybody wanna come to Reykjavik?

I just bought a ticket to fly from London to Reykjavik for £36. That's around 80 or 90 dollars. September 20....come on. You know you want to.

feel your bat boy

I finally fulfilled a lifelong ambition and saw Bat Boy: The Musical which was highly entertaining (hold your bat boy! feel your bat boy!)...props to Bat Boy himself who was really cute in spite of the teeth and ears.
On the way to see the batshow I think I became part of some lame performance art or candid camera show...I was taking photos of a fire spinner when this lardy middle aged guy approached me and started talking about my camera, and then started fiddling with my camera, and then started talking about his admiration for George W., and sorrow that a ceasefire had been called in Lebanon because, after all "they're only Muslims" at which point I muttered "fuck off" involuntarily and left. He was talking like Sean Cullen which is why I think it was fake.

I went to see this Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht opera thing one night...an actor was playing Brecht. I was too cheap to shill out for a programme but as soon as he started talking I was like..."is that Don McKellar? that sounds like Don McKellar...that kind of looks like Don McKellar..." This bothered me throughout the performance until I was able to look over someone's shoulder and determine that yes indeed it was the star of Highway 61. Funny.

Walking through Edinburgh's High Street during the festival is all about pushing through an enormous crowd of tourists and performers, a sea of paper cuts from the endless flyers pushed in your face...a guy who looks like Cillian Murphy's ugly twin wanders along a queue asking, in the most exaggeratedly bored voice "would you like to hear about our play Bitches and Money? No? It's really rawther good...excuse me sir, would you like to hear about our play Bitches and Money? It's Reservoir Dogs set in the Victorian Era...No?".

One afternoon I got half price tickets to see Girl Blog from Iraq: Baghdad Burning which is a dramatization of the writing of Riverbend, a young woman writing from Baghdad. It covers from the early days of the occupation until right now (they update the play as she updates the blog) and it was incredibly affecting. Anyone who thinks the war was and continues to be a great idea should read her blog.

Speaking about the war, I also miraculously managed to get tickets to a forum called "Reporters in the Field" which was to feature Robert Fisk but who had to cancel his appearance because he's still in Lebanon, which is why I suspect I was able to get a ticket at the last minute. The other guests were Asne Seierstad who wrote The Bookseller of Kabul (which I read in french so I didn't quite get everything but regardless it was interesting), and George Packer who wrote The Assassin's Gate about his time in Iraq. He was asked about all this tiptoeing around the use of the phrase "civil war" in Iraq. He said that right now, in Iraq, it IS a civil war and any avoidance of the term is simply politicking and semantics. It was very interesting...in Iraq it seems a great deal of the 'reporting' is actually done by Iraqi stringers because western reporters are too afraid to go into many parts of Baghdad and the rest of the country to talk to people.

And then, because one cannot think about war all of the time, I went to watch other people dance.
One, called Knots is about marriage and ends with a stage covered in booze and fake blood.
The other, The Wild Party which was based on this poem and features a great live three piece jazz band...very very fun. Unfortunately the performance was at 12:30 in the afternoon. That's just wrong. You need time to get a little gin in you before you go see something like that. And irresponsible and frivolous as I may be, 12:30 is still too early for cocktails.

Finally, Jeanette Winterson was absolutely brilliant. I've never heard her read before and was amazed not only by the speed at which the words left her mouth but also the wide range of topics she was able to cover. It was like being inside someone's brain.

not a deep fried mars bar in sight

Sorry Gegtik... I really haven't seen one yet. Believe me I am looking.
Edinburgh is in the middle of festival season, there is an Arts Festival, Fringe Festival, Book Festival, Film Festival...and I'm sure a variety of other things I'm forgetting about.
I plan to cover it from all angles starting tonight with BAT BOY THE MUSICAL which I will be seeing in about an hour. Woo hoo! Then we move the brow up a little with a couple of Weill/Brecht operas and then on Friday I'm going to a Jeanette Winterson reading....very happy I was able to get tickets for that.
Internet access is obscenely expensive here. Send an email so that it's at least worthwhile for me to log on. Ciao!

RED ALERT! RED ALERT! SITUATION CRITICAL! pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft.

be afraid! be very afraid!

so the 'terror threat level' in the UK has been raised to CRITICAL following the discovery of an AIRLINES TERROR PLOT against flights originating in the UK.

this news is BIG BIG, however not apparently big enough to disrupt coverage of the European Women's 100 metre Hurdles Competition. At least on the channel the hostel television was tuned to. This is probably for the best as coverage of the TERROR PLOT (BBC's words, not mine) didn't start until the hurdles were hurdled by which time most of the breakfast crowd had already left the dining room. Unfortunately the news did leave one poor Spanish girl crying into her cell phone trying to figure out how she was going to get home.

don't worry about me though. I ride the bus.

glorious glasgow

the sheer abundance of toilet paper is blowing my mind. for the first few days I had to stop myself from stealing a roll every time I went into a public washroom.

it's green here, and there's rain and tea and streets filled with cute boys who don't catcall. paradise.

goodbye essaouira

so I'm flying tomorrow to London.
yesterday I said goodbye to Essaouira, where I've spent about 6 weeks and met a lot of people that I'm going to miss.

Originally I had planned to leave a couple of days ago, to go to Chefchaouen. Unfortunately I left all the planning to the last minute and then realized that Chefchaouen is at least 13 hours away from Essaouira, and I only had 4 days till my flight. So much for that.

In addition I met Sergio and Frederico, a couple of wicked Portuguese guys on the terrace of the hotel on what I THOUGHT was my second last night...we wound up partying our faces off for four nights in a row - in bars, in carpet shops, in tiny rooms above carpet shops (with Russians and mice), on the terrace - frequently losing the ability to speak properly somewhere along the way. I am going to miss them but my liver and lungs are probably better off.



That's the crappy thing about planning ahead though...here I was all pleased with myself for getting a cheap flight to london and arranging accommodations in Edinburgh during the festivals there. Then an opportunity presents itself to spontaneously ride off into the sunset (well, into Portugal anyway) with some cool people, and I can't take it!

So I had to say goodbye to them, and to the french girls, Lucie and Stephanie, who were always fun and improved my french a million times and made me laugh and showed me places in Essaouira I never knew about, and to Simo who invited me to the wedding and makes great kefta tagine.







And to Adil who works at the riad, my little Moroccan brother who taught me how to cook tagine and m'semmen (crepes) and zalouk, who gave me a surprise birthday present, and who never ever hit on me.


Also his brother Amine, the slightly older voice of reason in the more fucked up moments (such as the night we - Adil and Frederico and Sergio and I - realized we were out of booze but that some other guests had left a bottle of champagne in the fridge to cool...).



And finally to the craziest looking hotel I have ever seen, it was like living in Wonderland. I would show you a picture of the turtle but unfortunately he died. They buried him on the beach.

marriage, moroccan style

so as mentioned I went to a wedding a few weeks ago...it was a fascinating if exhausting experience.
my friends Simo and Mohammed invited Lucie and Stephanie and I down to Agadir for their sister Fatima's wedding. Unfortunately Steph couldn't make it due to unforseen medical problems (i.e. morocco belly) but Lucie was able to come thank god.

Basically it was three solid days of eating, playing with children (who are fascinated by digital cameras), and having absolutely no clue as to what was going on.

My Arabic is limited to "hello, peace", "how are you", "eat", "delicious", "beautiful", "two", "okay", "bon appetit", "a little", "a lot", "thank you", "no", "yes", "what is your name", "bread", "water", "congratulations", "here, take this", and "thank you for the joint". i can also say "donkey" and "cow" in one of the Berber languages, which always gets a laugh.
It's amazing how well one can manage with this limited vocabulary, we spent the weekend in a house filled, no stuffed, with people who didn't speak french or english but who were extremely entertained by our proclamations of "yes! very delicious!" or "much beautiful!" etc etc. Actually the sisters did speak some french which made things much easier.

Friday: i am there with the family (lucie is coming up the next day) for a little party for the female family and friends. We all gather in the living room, someone taps out a rhythm with spoons on a tea tray, someone else plays a hand drum, several others sing and make a sound with their mouth and tongue whose name escapes me (I want to say ululate but maybe that is more of a grieving thing?). Anyway. You know. wah-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la! it's amazing.
The younger girls get up to dance, tying a scarf around their hips to emphasize the movements through their baggy clothes; as they dance some of the older women tuck 100 and 200 dirham bills into their collars or under the scarf. As they finish dancing and move to sit down they give the money back. Eventually the inevitable happens and I am pulled up to dance. Moroccan dancing involves a lot of complicated shoulder, foot, and booty moves in my eyes and I just know I wasn't pulling it off! However I found that as long as I moved my butt around fast enough everyone in the room would be hugely entertained and tell me I was a natural! The shoulder shimmy was a little tougher.
As it gets late and people start to leave I am shown to my sleeping space on the long end of the cushioned benches. It is incredibly hot and the room soon fills up with women and children sleeping on the floor or the cushions. People have a remarkable ability to fall asleep really almost anywhere.

Saturday: Lucie arrives and I am no longer the only person in the room without a clue. It's a great moment. In the afternoon, while Fatima is still at the beauty parlour having her hair and makeup done, the house starts to fill up.
The terrace has been covered for the occasion and will be the main room for all of the marriage festivities. Everyone sits on cushions on the floor and there seems to be a natural separation of men and women, men in the back hanging out and the women up front closer to the action.

Fatima arrives to great fanfare, looking beautiful in her crown and dress covered in gold. She sits in the front of the room, her bare feet are elevated and the henna artist starts to work.


As this goes on (it takes a while) more people arrive. More excitingly, the groom and his family and their gifts arrive. This includes a bunch of musicians and a live sheep that is destined to become tomorrow's feast (the sheep not the musicians). Everyone runs downstairs to greet the cart, to sing and dance and clap as the gifts are passed into the house.


We go back upstairs to drink tea and entertain small children with the digital camera until finally the henna is done.




While we wait for it to dry Lucie and I have our hands hennaed as well...it was several weeks ago but I still have very faint traces of colour on my palms.



Finally, the henna is washed off.
For a while now Lucie and I have been speculating as to the identity and location of the groom. There is a man seated beside Fatima but surely this guy, with his baseball cap and moustaches and dour expression cannot possibly be the groom. We decide he must be the groom's father. It's not until we see Fatima exchanging rings with the 'father' that we realize our mistake. Gaaa! But he looks so old and unhappy! Turns out he is really only a few years older than she is - younger than I am in fact - and seems to be a very nice guy.

After the rings are exchanged that's pretty much it for the day, the bride and groom have a little time together in private to talk, and then everyone goes home. Later that evening all the men come back and they have a big party upstairs for the guys.

Lucie and I hang out with the sheep.


Sunday: I wake up early in the morning to the brief bleat of a doomed sheep. Then I fall asleep again.

When we wake up for good we see the sheep's carcass lying on the stairs, waiting to be cooked.

In most homes here you wear your shoes only as far as the entrance to the first room, and then take them off and enter the room barefoot. There also seems to be a rather communal approach to shoes which meant that whenever I wanted to go anywhere I had to figure out who had taken my flip flops first (the problem with big feet is that everyone can wear your shoes but you can't wear anyone elses).

Once they are recovered, it's Kaftan Time! Adil from the hotel has lent me one of his sister's outfits but it turns out to be too heavy for the heat and the occasion. Loubna, one of the sisters, takes us to her aunt's place to find me a kaftan. This turns out to be quite possibly the loudest article of clothing I have ever worn, or will ever wear, in my life.

After several pots of tea and a hammam we rush back to the house in order to change and take our seats upstairs. The room is stifling and as we wait for things to start everyone is entertained by watching Lucie and I sit in the bride and groom's thrones with various family members.





It was funny because as the only non-Moroccans there we really stood out and were treated a little bit like special guests; sitting on the thrones, hanging out with Fatima while she waited for everyone to show up...earlier in the afternoon we sat in the darkened bedroom with all three sisters and some little cousins, watching as the guys set things up and as the band arrived. We sat in the dark so that we could watch and giggle over the arriving guys without being seen ourselves.

The evening went on as follows:
- the band starts playing, the younger girls start to dance in the middle of the room

- the bride and groom make their first entrance of the night


- we are brought downstairs to feast on roasted chicken and then on mutton tagine. I drop a prune on the kaftan (catastrophe!)

- we go back upstairs and Lucie and I find ourselves pulled up to dance, happily this is in a large group of people so our failings are hopefully disguised. I also find it difficult to dance while wearing a tent.

- the bride and groom make their second appearance, after a costume change



- more dancing. it becomes clear that several male guests have been nipping out for secret drinks. Mohammed is almost busted with a bottle of pastis but manages to hide it, and he and Lucie and I head out for the nearest dark alley to do some shots.

- the bride and groom make their third appearance...this time first one, and then the other, is hoisted into the air on a small decorated platform and moved around the room to cheering and applause. Fatima tosses out party favours and is nearly mobbed when the platform is set down.




- we get in a bunch of cars (and about 15 people pile into the back of a truck) to drive into Agadir and do a tour. As we attempt to leave the neighbourhood the bride and groom's decorated car is accosted by the local drunk and/or madman who blocks the road and shouts "i want to get married too!"

- as we drive around Agadire, Loubna (who is sitting beside me) throws up in her headscarf. another car overheats. The car bearing Mohammed seems to be lost.

- we head for a large parking lot where Fatima and Mohamed (her husband, not her brother) pose for more photos. We wait for Brother Mohammed to show up but he never does.

- we drive back to the groom's house where Fatima and her new husband sit on their bed in their bedroom (which has blue fun-fur wallpaper! I'm not kidding) while everyone comes in to say hello.

It's around this time that Simo explains to us the thing about the bedsheets. It's all in french but my understanding is that in a few hours the couple's bloodstained bedsheets will be displayed to us. I'm not sure how I feel about this...regardless Lucie and I spend the next day or so waiting to see this happen. It never does, and we're not sure whether we're relieved or disappointed.

- finally we drive back to the family home. On the way we pass the missing Mohammed heading off somewhere on a motorcycle. As he sees us pass he turns around and comes back to the house. Lucie and I are inside with about half of the family when all of a sudden all the people outside are screaming and yelling. My first thought is "oh god the very old grandmother has just died". I try to get out of the way as people stream outside to see what's going on. A woman thumps me on the chest with her hand and give me a look - I can't tell if it's saying "get the hell out of my way" or "what is going on?".

Lucie and I are still standing around as people start to come back in, girls and children are crying and looking frightened...then the father of the bride is carried in, unconscious but gasping for breath at the same time. He is laid down on a cushion while people attend to him...Lucie is a nurse so stands by to make sure everything is okay but I am useless and go outside to get out of the way while they bring him around.

We have no idea what is happening, everyone is crying or angry or yelling in Arabic. This is surely one of the more uncomfortable hours of my entire life. Lucie and I move into the empty living room (where one woman and one child have been sleeping on the floor throughout all of the excitement) and wait for what seems like forever for everything to die down so we can retrieve our bags and change into our sleeping clothes. Around 4 a.m. finally people start to go to sleep. Lucie ends up curled up on a piece of sheepskin on the floor. I am wedged into a corner with two pairs of feet in my face. It appears to me that we have worn out our welcome.

Monday: The instant we wake up Lucie and I plan to leave right away. We find out that the problem the night before had been a huge fight between the brothers.
Our escape is hampered by the disappearance, yet again, of my goddamn shoes.
Simo tells us to wait an hour or so for him and he will come with us.

One hour turns into seven as Lucie and I help clean up, then go to a cafe with Simo and one of the guys from the band - where the television is tuned to Al Jazeera's coverage of the Israeli bombings of Lebanon. The volume is high and everyone is watching. I feel very conspicuous and uncomfortable.

I am told, among other things, that September 11th was orchestrated by "The Jews" and the US Government - that there is documentary footage of all the Jews escaping from the World Trade Center shortly before the planes struck (although when pressed for specifics of this footage the topic quickly changes), that infact there were NO PLANES at all, blah blah blah. I try to refute this in french but cannot find the words.

We go back to the house where it is now time to deliver all of the gifts and Fatima's personal belongings over to her new home. Everyone gets dressed up again (except Lucie and I, who think we're going to be leaving town any minute), and the procession starts. Things are getting fun again and I'm glad to still be here.

All of the gifts and things have been arranged on the back of a couple of mule-drawn carts, everyone gets behind the carts with a couple of hand drums and some other percussion and we're off.



After a few minutes however we stop and a group of men build a small fire in the middle of the road. What? Turns out that their drum is not tight enough so they're just quickly using the heat from the fire to tighten it up.

Once the drum is deemed adequate we set off again and walk for about an hour and a half through the town to the house. Once again clapping and singing and chanting we we go. Lucie and I are getting good at clapping...it's a complicated beat that didn't seem natural to me at first.



When we arrive (and the bloodied bedsheets are NOT displayed to my simulateous delight and disappointment) everything is taken inside and we feast once more on chicken and mutton. Everyone is amused by my attempts to eat with my hands (cutlery is not used, everyone sits around a round table with a communal dish and dips into the food with bread held in the right hand). The dessert involves vermicelli noodles and I am having a lot of trouble actually getting it into my mouth.

Finally, FINALLY! Simo is really ready to leave for Essaouira. By the time we get back it's after 1 a.m. and I'm desperate for a bed. I'm so exhausted that for the next three days I barely speak to anyone.

It was a great experience but unbelievably intense. I would do it all over agin. How great for us, practically strangers, to be invited into the home during this crazy time for the family.

edinburgh, here I come

anybody know anybody with couchspace in Edinburgh?
Just in case...I'm flying to London Aug 4, and then probably heading up to Scotland almost right away. I want to check out at least some of the Edinburgh Fringe festival which runs through August although I don't know exactly when I'll get there.

Updates on the crazy wedding I went to a couple of weeks ago will have to wait as I am suffering from the wickedest hangover this side of Spain. That's what you get for drinking Pernod all night with crazy French girls.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

BONJOUR STYLO BONJOUR PHOTO BONJOUR DIRHAM BONJOUR BONBON

I was so happy that Phil wanted to go trekking because I don't think I would have done it otherwise.
We settled on spending a couple of days going out to./coming back from Jebel Toubkal, and then another three days walking between the towns of Imlil and Setti Fatma.

We decided to do it all without a guide which I think turned out to be a wise decision...at this time of the year the weather was great and we generally found that the paths were easy to find and navigate (aided by some maps and instructions in my Lonely Planet Morocco). Except for the thing with the trees on the second day where we accidentally went up into mountain goat territory and eventually found ourselves incapable of further progress and so had to climb down to the real path (amazing how the real path becomes more visible the further you are away from it sometimes). Well, Phil climbed down. I slid on my ass. A local dude came scampering across the loose rubble and supervised the end of this particular ordeal.

We were chased by terrifying children through a number of small villages. Children chanting
BONJOUR STYLO
BONJOUR DIRHAM
BONJOUR PHOTO
BONJOUR BONBON
as they chase at your heels, holding your hands.
In at least two different places we were followed for many many minutes and then even when they stopped following us they continued shouting hopefully yet plaintively, like we might, just might, turn around and deliver the goods
BONJOUR STYLO
BONJOUR DIRHAM
BONJOUR PHOTO
BONJOUR BONBON
for many many minutes more.



Oh how I want to kill the people who taught these kids these words.

In one place we were blockaded by women bearing large loads of prickly looking thistles on their back as they demanded chocolate.

One scary invisible crone shrieked something at us from a window when it looked like we were about to take the wrong path out of town.

One woman was bitterly disappointed when Phil did not give her his hat. I think she wanted his hat. I'm pretty sure we got the Evil Eye for that one.

That said it was always interesting and to be honest I would put up with a lot of shit to be able to walk through this:









Many more photos at Flickr

Finally thanks to Bénédicte and Phil for the Brumisateur, for a much needed dose of Normal (and also to Phil for not complaining about my slow uphill pace). Shukran!

how to baffle a mountain climber

How to baffle and confuse mountain climbers, as well as pudgy American Arabists:
- Spend a day hiking up to about 3200m altitude to a refuge just around the corner from the highest mountain in North Africa (Jebel Toubkal). Take your time. Enjoy the scenery.







- Hang out at the refuge, talk about how you're not really all that interested in climbing to the tops of mountains just for the sake of it.

- While everyone else at the refuge leaves at 5 a.m. to do the ascent, sleep in until 8 a.m. and enjoy a leisurely breakfast outdoors. Watch people hobble back to the refuge after their ascents.

- Turn around and hike back down without climbing the mountain at all.

It is hilarious. Trust me.

Mustaph/fas of the world ain't nothing but trouble.

turns out that Mustapha, after "borrowing" 100 dirhams (about 15 dollars) from me on the day I left - because he "really really needed to go back to the desert right away to work and he couldn't find his brother etc etc" which was such obvious bullshit I originally said "no way" but then felt bad in case, just in case, he was telling the truth...it's only $15 I told myself - stayed in Essaouira for the ramainder of the festival.

I was not amused to run into him on the streets of Marrakech shortly after Phil left. I've decided that he's (Mustapha, not Phil) quite definitely profoundly stupid, but it's a cunning sort of stupid if you know what I mean.

Mustapha seemed to have fogotten the lie he told me and greeted me like my best buddy, followed me around Jemaa el Fna for about an hour while I mostly ignored him, tried to find out where I was staying, promised to return my money...whatever. He did look a little worried when he found out I was going to be going back to Essaouira. I gave him the slip and haven't seen him since.

Back in Essaouira I discovered that Mustapha had told numerous people that I was his girlfriend of 5 years (oh HELL no, that would be like doing it with a retarded monkey and if you have ever seen Mustapha dance then you know what I mean), had tried to rip Adil off, had stayed for the entire festival, blah blah blah. One day when hanging out with Benedicte and Phil and Mohammed, Mohammed had done some shopping for Benedicte to try to get a good price for her, as opposed to the ripoff tourist price. Mohammed told me the other day that Mustapha expressed shock and surprise that Mohammed had been honest with Benedicte about the price he had paid for the items..."why don't you make some profit for yourself?".

I have now had a series of paranoid revelations such as:
- if Hassan stole the money then he and Mustapha probably split it, or it was Mustapha himself who really stole it when we were in the desert
- the thing with the police in Ouarzazate may have been fake
- one time at the Gnawa Festival I was in the crowd with Mustapha, someone grabbed my ass really quickly and immediately Mustapha collared a little kid that had been walking past and started yelling at him in Arabic. The kid looked really really confused...I now think it was Mustapha who grabbed my ass and then blamed it on someone else to create a situation where he was my "protector". Although I did get groped a couple other times that night when Mustapha was nowhere to be found.

One very frustrating thing is that people are often very very willing to pass on negative information about other acquaintances, but only after waiting for a while. Like Mohammed only telling me the thing about the shopping yesterday. Like Adil only telling me about being Mustapha's 'girlfriend' after I returned to Essaouira. They could have told me this weeks ago.

The worst example of this relates to NEWMustafa, yes yet another one, who I met on my first day back in Essaouira (Canada Day in fact) while I was waiting in a cafe, he seemed cool, not creepy, and after spending a week with Phil (where I discovered that travelling in Morocco with a big white guy is infinitely different than travelling here alone or with other women or with Moroccan men) I think I was just more open to trusting people.
So I met up with him and one of his friends the next day and we went to their riad and they made me a really tasty vegetarian tagine and salads and soup...the meal was great and everything was fine even though NewMustafa seemed disappointed that I didn't want to
a) drink beer
b) smoke hash
c) have a massage
d) dance
like a good tourist girl.

A couple of days later I'm talking to Adil (who runs my hotel) and he says "You know that Mustafa you were with the other day. Watch out. He is in trouble with the police for drugging some Chinese girls, they went to the police. I saw his photo at the station."

Okay, barring questions about why Adil was at the police station and why, if NewMustafa is a sex offender, is he also running a hotel...OH MY GOD! WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU TELL ME THIS RIGHT AWAY?

I get paranoid again and notice how NewMustafa had made certain dishes that he wouldn't eat because they were too 'acidic', how he never drank alcohol but kept offering it to me, etc.

At this point in the story I would like to day "Please calm down, Mom and Dad, I'm fine, I have not been drugged and/or ravished by anyone and it's going to stay that way."

So I avoided NewMustafa for a couple days, when I did run into him didn't accept any invitations to dinner, or to smoke, and he got really weird about how I was being uptight, liked to be alone too much, didn't like to party enough, not like the other tourist girls, I should be here to have a good time since I'm on vacation. I think now he has decided I'm not worth it and I don't think I will be receiving any more invitations to dinner thank god.

I don't know if that story about him is true but I do know that he is insecure and pushy and whiny and behaves like a child when he doesn't get what he wants. And that's enough.

mimi and leila

i live in a pink and yellow and green riad (a small hotel in a traditional home) in Essaouira with Adil who runs the place, a variety of his brothers, other staff, various guests, and a small turtle named Mimi.

nobody can pronounce my name so they have christened me Leila.

one of the women who works at the riad has been really cool, she took me to the local hammam the other day where once again I scoured off several tablespoons worth of dead skin and is going to teach me how to make m'smma (this fantastic crepe).

in spite of my previous comments about the dorkiness of henna on tourists I have just been hennaed, for free courtesy of a friend of Adil's, and now have lovely temporary tattoos all over my hands.

i am learning some Arabic and might start taking lessons soon.

watched the World Cup final in an Italian bar filled with supporters for both teams. after the Italian victory I walked to the main square and passed the Essaouira Italian Victory Parade which consisted of about 7 very happy Italian people running around with a flag.

people keep feeding me tagine. delicious homemade tagine.

men keep trying to follow me home.
"just talking! I just want to talk! I'm not like the others!"
"i saw you at the cafe and wanted to talk to you"

there's also the classic "like my sister" line. When a dude tells me I'm like his sister is when the bullshit alarm goes off. Except Adil...I think he's actually all right, maybe a little overprotective but honest.

i can't remember the last time I washed my jeans. it may have been in Spain. that was in May. that was seven weeks ago. they look clean and they don't smell and that's the only thing that matters.

most days I get up, go out for breakfast (fresh orange juice, m'semma [the crepe] with loads of butter and honey, coffee or tea), get a newspaper, read a book. walk around, go to the patisserie to eat pastries and read, hang out at the cafe with Mohammed and Simo or at the riad with Adil and Amin or at the nearby organic vegetarian restaurant, La Triskalla (TOFU! For the first time in MONTHS!). Days go by fast when there's nothing to do but read and eat and speak broken french and smoke and drink tea. I can't believe it's already the 10th.

I am currently, right this very moment in fact, embroiled in an MSN conversation with Driss of Casablanca who I met in Essaouira during the festival through Phil and Mohammed and Benedicte - he has decided he "loves" me, although it's a "friendly love"...I am not sure what this means exactly, maybe he wrote it in french and then Babelfished it, but he really really wants me to come to Casablanca, to go see his cousin in Agadir...maybe if I can't go to Casa he will come to visit me here...sigh.

cops, the palmeraie, the sahara, surfing, gnaoua festival...

oh man where to start.
so the day after the brothel thing we met up with Hassan and Mustapha and took off for the Gorges du Dades, where we did not actually manage to see the gorge because Hassan was tweaked out by all of the OTHER faux guides hanging out but where we did have the best tagine I've had so far at this tiny place on the side of the road. It was some sort of meat with vegetables but it actually had flavour which is sometimes had to come by in a tagine. Yum, and so unbelievably cheap - like 5 or 10 dirhams I think, which is about $1.50. To feed 4 people. This place didn't have a bathroom so when I had to go the proprietors let me into their house to use the bathroom there.
Then to Tinehrir to visit with some of Mustapha's family (tea tea tea) and then to a little village called Ait Aritane in the Palmeraie to stay with Hassan's family (more tea). At first he said we were staying at a gite and made no mention of the fact that this was his family. What, like he didn't think we'd figure it out? What a tool. Anyway the home was very cool, rooms spread out through the old kasbah, and his parents and sister were kind and welcoming.





We walked through the green palmeraie in the evening watching the women working in the fields in their bright clothes, we ate apricots straight off the tree, we ate dinner (couscous) around a big plate with all the men in the house - and both Steph and I were admonished for holding our utensils with our left hands...awkward since we're both left handed. After everyone had eaten their fill the plate was passed to Hassan's mother and sister (who had prepared the meal) and they ate too. Was this the usual routine or was it just because with Steph and I there there was no extra room around the plate?
We watched sattelite television - Jon Cusack movies in english with no subtitles on Saudi channels, Al Jazeera, arabic music videos. And drank yet more tea.
At bedtime we were shown our room which was a nice formal living room with upholstered benches lining all of the walls. You could probably seat 50 people in that room easily.

Next day went to the Gorges du Todra...it started to rain the instant we stepped out of the taxi so we stopped in a restaurant for, you guessed it, more fucking tea.
As we waited the rain came harder and harder...at a break we tried to go outside and cross the little river so we could walk around the gorge a bit. At that moment someone started yelling 'look at the river' and we watched as the normally small clear river was overrun with masses of brown water coming down from the mountains.



This knocked out the little bridge and effectively stranded us in our restaurant.
Finally a system was set up where everyone took off their shoes, rolled up their pants, and waded across the stream...just when I thought it was safe to put my shoes on again the rain started, heavier then before and we had to run through the gorge and through overflowing streams to escape an anticipated flash flood or something. This never happened but everyone was running their asses off to get out of there so it seemed rather dire at the time.

That afternoon we went back to Tinehrir to hang out with Mustapha's family some more (tea) and buy food...in a dodgy part of town (it felt dodgy to Steph and I, like most of Tinehrir, full of leering men "hel-lo? hel-lo?") Hassan stopped to use the internet and Mustapha and Steph and I waited downstairs. Next thing we knew Mustapha was scuffling with some guy who was pulling things out of Mustapha's pockets...we had no idea what was going on and assumed this was yet some more guy who looked at us the wrong way, M didn't ask for any help so when they walked off together across the street we thought that maybe they even knew each other or were going to talk to somebody. We didn't figure out it was a cop until we saw them both in a car with a uniformed traffic cop leaning in the window talking to the other guy. We started yelling up at Hassan to get the hell down here and help his friend but he just stayed in the internet cafe. I'm sure the situation wasn't helped by the fact that H had a large chunk of recently purchased hash in his pocket but come on dude, leave the shit upstairs and come down to help your friend.
No doing so Steph and I walked over just as the car was taking off and refused to stop for us. So, forgetting we were in Morocco and not Canada we walked up to the poor traffic cop;
"what the hell? that was our friend! where is he going?!"
"the police station"
"what? this is so stupid! he's not a faux guide, he's our friend! and now we're alone here with nobody to protect us! you're so stupid! what are you doing! you think you're protecting tourists? what are we supposed to do now!? this is dangerous, look around!"
"you have to go to the station and get him out"
"well how the hell are we supposed to get there? we don't know our way around! this is so stupid!"
"look, I don't know, take a taxi. it's not my problem"

Thanks helpful traffic cop. Though as we walked away we realised which country we were in and that abusing the police is not a good idea even in Canada. I think he was too taken aback by our fury to do anything though.
So we had to get Hassan who reluctantly (what a dick! too bad the real faux guide didn't get busted) walked us to the station, through dark shitty alleys where people yelled "putain" (whore) at us and he didn't even look around. Of Mustapha's situation he said "oh we'll probably have to leave him in there overnight". When we got to the corner of the street the station was on he cowered behing a building and made us go find Mustapha on our own. Luckily he'd already been released (after apparently being hit and forced to pay 100dh in a bullshit 'fine') and was walking our way.
Mustapha later told us he thought that some faux guide had paid the cop to take Mustapha away so that this guy could scoop up Steph and I and our business but it all seems a bit paranoid. Nobody else approached us...however to be honest at this point I don't know. Anything is possible here.

Finally we got back to the house in the palmeraie, it was dark and late but Hassan's mother, Calo, and sister were hanging out with some other women outside the house. Steph and I hung out with them, I saw the donkey and cow and calf and sheep and learned the berber words for these animals...we were completely incapable of communicating with these women but somehow we managed to spend a good 15 or 20 minutes together all holding hands and laughing hysterically over I don't know what. One woman then started pulling me toward her house...huh? Did I just agree to sleep at her place? That's cool but I haven't eaten yet and all my stuff is inside Calo's house...I found myself really really wishing I could understand the language, really really wanting to stay in this place for a long time to get to know these people.
Unfortunately I have to eat and so separated myself from the other woman and headed inside for more couscous and tea. Steph and I watched Hassan's sister (I wish I could remember her name) make the couscous - working with her bare hands to pull the chicken apart to spread the meat out. She encouraged me to try it and I nearly scalded my hands it was so hot.

The next morning we were supposed to go to Merzouga but it turned out there had been even more problems with the rains out there and the village was closed, the police were not letting anyone in. So we decided to go to M'Hamid instead which is west of Merzouga - Mustapha had worked out in that part of the desert before and knew some people. Hassan stayed in Tinehrir since his faux guiding skills were useless in M'Hamid and he realized he wasn't going to get any more money out of us. We reluctantly gave him 300 dirhams for the food and accommodation - reluctantly only because we were pretty sure his family was not going to receive any of the cash from that shifty little weasel. Mustapha was outraged to see us giving Hassan money, especially since his family had also offered to take us in, for free. It was a weird situation. Steph and I were on the bus, M was sitting behind us, then he would have run off the bus to talk to Hassan, then he would come back all pissed off, then he would run off again...we looked out the window once and saw M standing with the traffic cop from the previous night...oh no! I nearly ran off the bus before M waved to indicate that it was all right and the cop was just telling him about our little conversation from the night before. The cop smiled and waved at us and all was well.



When we got to Ouarzazate we were looking for a grands taxi to take us to M'Hamid when M flagged down a passing 4x4 - it was his friend Ismail who he had worked with in the past. Ismail's brother Mohamed has a desert excursions business and they could take us out no problem.
Hopped in Mohamed's four-day-old Range Rover along with his mother and two other women - one of whom was extremely elderly and prone to fits of the giggles - and went to M'Hamid.

We dined on carpets outside the restaurant at Mohamed's empty hotel where he told us stories about asteroid hunting (apparently a good business in the desert if you can find them).

Then, finally, to the Sahara...hopped in the car with Mohamed and Steph and Mustapha and Mohammed the Cook and....drove around M'Hamid searching desperately for freaking ROLLING PAPERS of all things. It seems that some things are universal.

Then, once we had that taken care of we drove out to Mohamed's bivouac (camp) in the desert. He popped in a tape and as we drove over the dunes we listened to a collection of cheesy western pop ballads at full volume. The result? For me, the Sahara will always be indelibly linked with 'I Will Always Love You' and 'Winds of Change'.
What else:
- walking through the dunes at night is incredible, the stars in the desert when the moon goes down are like nothing else. No other light source for miles and miles and miles.
- camels are not really the most comfortable ride



- you can eat spaghettit with your hands and cook bread in the sand in the desert

- it turns out that the 'a-ok' hand sign, you know where you make your thumb and index finger into a circle and then fan your other three fingers out...that's not so good here in Morocco. It DIRTY. Unfortunately I had been doing it a lot to innocent people. In a restaurant if someone asked if the food was good? Obscene hand gesture. If some one asked me how I was doing? Obscene hand gesture.

- Mohamed offered me a job at the bivouac, staying there for free and doing excursions in exchange for translation work on their website and helping out with publicity and incoming tourists. I happily accepted but changed my mind when he made a marginally too aggressive pass at Stephanie and also when I saw how some of the guys at the camp started looking at me when they found out I was going to be staying, alone. At first Mustapha was all like "yeah, this is great, Ismail is like my brother, everything will be cool, I told him to look out for you, nobody will bother you". But this was all when he was really high. When he sobered up the story changed to "if you stay you're going to have trouble, beaucoup de derangement, Ismail isn't cool, I saw him bothering some other girls last night, it's your life but I don't think you should stay." Mutar the Camel Guy agreed with Mustapha and seemed to think I would be safer at his house. Yeah, I don't think so.
So unfortunately I had to turn the job down and return to Marrakech with Steph.

- On the way to Marrakech we stopped in Ouarzazate where I belatedly discovered the theft of 500 dh (about 75 dollars) from my wallet - since I hadn't been counting my money every day I have no clue when it was stolen but I am fairly certain it was Hassan. Of course it could have been someone in the desert or even Mustapha, I'm really not sure. Also in Ourazazate we stopped at Ismail's sister's house to drop something off for him and of course to drink TEA. Ismail suddenly decided that if I wasn't going to stay in the desert he wasn't going to either and if I was going to Essaouira, he was going to Essaouira, and why didn't I come with him?
No really, it's all right, I want to go to Marrakech with Steph first...
"Why you no want to come with me? Come with me to Essaouira."
"No thanks, really it's all right."
"Why. Why. No, you come with me. I am on vacation for one month, I take you with me. You don't pay for nothing. I have the truck, you come with me."
"NO I AM GOING TO MARRAKECH AND I AM NOT GOING ON VACATION WITH YOU."
"Why. Why you no want to come with me. Really is okay, you must come, Mustapha you must convince her to come,..."

And so on and so on...this seriously went on for about half an hour until we got up and left. Did I mention that this guy is absolutely enormous, like 6 foot 5 or something? I was so pissed off and stressed out that by the time we got to the train station and we were beseiged by begging dirty snot nosed six-year olds "dirham? stylo?" (tourists - stop giving these fucking kids pens, okay?) I had really had enough and had a minor breakdown of the "waaaah I want my mommy and I want to go home" variety while children swarmed over me and my backpack. Luckily Steph was there to look after me in my pathetic teary state.
Mustapha seemed completely bewildered...I tried to explain it to him: "all your friends are pigs! I hate all your friends! They are not nice! They bother me all the time! They won't leave me alone! If I ever meet any of your friends ever again tell him that I will never ever have sex with him so he should leave me alone!"
Poor guy, I'm still not sure he understands.

- I came to Essaouira on my own after Steph went back to Montreal and essentially didn't talk to anyone for 5 days.

It was a nice break after not having been alone since the end of April but after a while I got bored so went to:

- Surfland! At this time of year it's essentially a french children's summer surf camp but they do adults lessons and if there's space it's not a problem for adults to stay there as well. So I stayed in a tent for 5 days and tried to learn how to surf (from the most unbearably HOT surf instructor - unfortunately it seems the only man in Morocco who doesn't want to get in my pants). Surfing is really fun but very difficult. I was anticipating not being able to balance myself on the board but it turned out that was the easy part. The problem is paddling - both out to the waves in the first place and then trying to get enough speed on an incoming wave to be able to get up on it. I need to work on my upper body strength but I am determined to try again.
It was weird hanging out with these kids...well I didn't hang out with them all that much but did eat with them...in fact they were mostly teenagers and more than once I saw a girl start to quietly cry in the middle of a meal for really no apparent reason at all.

- Then back to Essaouira where I met up with Mustapha and also Phil! I knew he and Benedicte were here in this part of Morocco but we had been in different towns at different times and I thought they had already left Essaouira. Happily no and it's been nice the past couple of days to hang out at the cafe, talk about Toronto, etc.
The Gnaoua/Gnawa festival starts tonight and the town is filling up. Prices have gone up as well. It should be fun though.

Future plans: trekking with Phil in the High Atlas next week, then returning to Essaouira where I've been given a good deal on a sweet hotel room in a really nice riad for the entire month of July. The french classes I thought I was going to take are as it turns out not what I want, but I think I'll stay anyway and study on my own, speak as much french as I can, maybe try some more surfing down the coast.