// copenhagen
It's beautiful, spacious, safe, sunny, but my god, Copenhagen is expensive! I bought lunch one day which consisted of some blackberries, cheese and almonds and it came to 12 aussie dollars! A beer costs close to what you pay for your meal (sometimes more). Clothes are outrageously priced. The people are happy though so one assumes that the cost of living is in line with wages.
In most annual worldwide happiness polls, the Danes come out on top. Wandering around Copenhagen you can believe it; smiles and laughter are everywhere, nobody is rude or in a hurry, people smile at you in the street and they are so willing to speak (annoyingly perfect) English that you forget you're in a foreign country.
The Danes are pretty low key. I'm told that the queen's favourite hat shop is next to a pizza shop, in a middle class neighbourhood ‑ a guy I met sees her there sometimes. Pubs stay open until 5am but the streets are not lined with drunks, it's safe to walk around and there is little fear of violence. In a country of only 5 million people I suppose that isn't a surprise, but it does make a pleasant change. Best of all, it doesn't smell like dog pee, even in the metro stations!
Rivaling Sweden in the industrial design stakes, Denmark is well organised and clean.Spotless and fragrance‑free, the driverless metro trains run so on time that the 'next train' signs show arrivals down to the nearest thirty seconds. It takes about 15 minutes to get from the airport to the centre and 35 minutes to get to Sweden, where I had lunch today.
The best thing about Copenhagen is how accessible different areas are. There's Dyrhavn (Deerhaven) 20 minutes to the north, a beach just a little fiurther, a pretty star shaped military area that more closely resembles a public garden and opens to the public daily, and the free state of Christiania just a few minutes walk from the centre. You feel that you are being cradled comfortably by a city that is willing to let you enjoy your freedom. After the enveloping magnitude of London, it's like being on top of a sunny windswept hill. Strangely, I really do feel that I'm a long way north here.
Copenhagen is a spacious city with a lovely vibe but I will be glad to get back to the euro and to meals that cost closer to 4 dollars than 15. Next stop, after a 10 hour bus ride, is Amsterdam. See you there.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
anføres af christiania
// quotes from christiania
"Hello! I am Italian. Italians are the best lovers you know. I need a woman. I really need a woman. With beautiful lips. Like yours."
‑ An "Italian" guy who spoke with a Danish accent and didn't understand a word I said to him in Italian. Hmmm.
"The thing I like best about living in Denmark is that we can sit here like this, free to talk to new people without being afraid, free to be who we want to be."
"And what do you like the least?"
"That we have soldiers fighting in the world. Little Denmark! What are we doing out in the world! It's just because our stupid little prime minister wants a top job in the UN so he is kissing ass to the Americans."
‑Lyhne, a court jester
"Be careful of your drinks around here. Most people are good but you never know when there is someone bad."
‑Bo, a magician
"I like our royal family because they are just like normal people. Plus I am a court jester and I couldn't be a court jester with no court!"
‑ Lyhne
"Look, I can make this stone disappear!"
‑ Bo, who did
"Christiania is a wonderful place because it lets me develop my art and share my ideas. I could not do the things I do with my art if this place did not exist."
‑ Anders, an african dancer
"Yes, it's a good place for people like us. In other places people just think we are crazy men, but here our performances are appreciated."
‑ Lyhne
"You know, the world is getting better, not worse. Of course we hear more about the darkness in the world because it's getting less and less, so they have to shout louder to be heard: 'look! we are still here!', but most of the people in the world are like you and me. Good people who just want to meet each other and have conversations and help each other. The world is definitely getting better."
‑ Lyhne
"The best thing about Danes, for a traveller, is that we know our cities. When we were in Amsterdam we asked some local people for help and they took us two busses, and one train then we had to walk a long way. They were very kind to us but when we arrived we could see where we had started, it was only ten minutes by foot! But they didn't know their own city and they took us all that way!"
‑ Bo on Danes versus the rest of the world
If you walk about 20 minutes north of Copenhagen's main square, you leave Denmark and enter Christiania. Christiania is a free state, abandoned by the military and taken over by the hippies 37 years ago today.
As you walk in, past the red Christiania flag with three yellow dots, past the grocery store where you get your change in Christianian 'lom' instead of Danish kroner, past the giant snail that embodies the local motto of "hurry slowly", you finally come to a large picture of a camera with a red cross through it. You are on "Pusher Street" and photos of this street are not taken to kindly by the locals for reasons closely connected to the street's name.
I made the trip to Christiania the day before the big bash and got talking to a shop keeper who told me to come back the next day for the party. He said they were preparing for it in the workshop out the back and peeking through I saw a joint rolling factory line. Ha!
As the day dawned on her 37th year, Christiania's inhabitants and friends were setting up stages, rolling joints, cracking open beers and dressing up for the 24 hour party that was about to begin. I chose to visit in the daytime (I'm daring, but not daring enough to visit a drug haven alone at night in a foreign country) and a girl from the hostel came with me.
After some wandering, Chantelle and I found ourselves a spot at the bar, where we ate our free bread, jam and cheese snack and drank the organic Christianian beer, brewed somewhere in Jutland and emblazoned with the Christianian flag. It tasted like Toohey's New.
At the table we were soon joined by a group of the most interesting looking people in the whole place, who are responsible for the quotes and insights above.
It was great to talk to the locals about such a unique place. We chatted to them for about an hour before Lyhne went off to play on one of the stages, Bo wandered away to make snails out of balloons and hide them in potplants, and the others headed off together discussing their latest ideas. We had to move on, so we left Christiania and her colourful fairy folk to the serious business of partying.
It was a little like being in the Magic Faraway Tree, but maybe that was all the pot smoke in the air!
"Hello! I am Italian. Italians are the best lovers you know. I need a woman. I really need a woman. With beautiful lips. Like yours."
‑ An "Italian" guy who spoke with a Danish accent and didn't understand a word I said to him in Italian. Hmmm.
"The thing I like best about living in Denmark is that we can sit here like this, free to talk to new people without being afraid, free to be who we want to be."
"And what do you like the least?"
"That we have soldiers fighting in the world. Little Denmark! What are we doing out in the world! It's just because our stupid little prime minister wants a top job in the UN so he is kissing ass to the Americans."
‑Lyhne, a court jester
"Be careful of your drinks around here. Most people are good but you never know when there is someone bad."
‑Bo, a magician
"I like our royal family because they are just like normal people. Plus I am a court jester and I couldn't be a court jester with no court!"
‑ Lyhne
"Look, I can make this stone disappear!"
‑ Bo, who did
"Christiania is a wonderful place because it lets me develop my art and share my ideas. I could not do the things I do with my art if this place did not exist."
‑ Anders, an african dancer
"Yes, it's a good place for people like us. In other places people just think we are crazy men, but here our performances are appreciated."
‑ Lyhne
"You know, the world is getting better, not worse. Of course we hear more about the darkness in the world because it's getting less and less, so they have to shout louder to be heard: 'look! we are still here!', but most of the people in the world are like you and me. Good people who just want to meet each other and have conversations and help each other. The world is definitely getting better."
‑ Lyhne
"The best thing about Danes, for a traveller, is that we know our cities. When we were in Amsterdam we asked some local people for help and they took us two busses, and one train then we had to walk a long way. They were very kind to us but when we arrived we could see where we had started, it was only ten minutes by foot! But they didn't know their own city and they took us all that way!"
‑ Bo on Danes versus the rest of the world
If you walk about 20 minutes north of Copenhagen's main square, you leave Denmark and enter Christiania. Christiania is a free state, abandoned by the military and taken over by the hippies 37 years ago today.
As you walk in, past the red Christiania flag with three yellow dots, past the grocery store where you get your change in Christianian 'lom' instead of Danish kroner, past the giant snail that embodies the local motto of "hurry slowly", you finally come to a large picture of a camera with a red cross through it. You are on "Pusher Street" and photos of this street are not taken to kindly by the locals for reasons closely connected to the street's name.
I made the trip to Christiania the day before the big bash and got talking to a shop keeper who told me to come back the next day for the party. He said they were preparing for it in the workshop out the back and peeking through I saw a joint rolling factory line. Ha!
As the day dawned on her 37th year, Christiania's inhabitants and friends were setting up stages, rolling joints, cracking open beers and dressing up for the 24 hour party that was about to begin. I chose to visit in the daytime (I'm daring, but not daring enough to visit a drug haven alone at night in a foreign country) and a girl from the hostel came with me.
After some wandering, Chantelle and I found ourselves a spot at the bar, where we ate our free bread, jam and cheese snack and drank the organic Christianian beer, brewed somewhere in Jutland and emblazoned with the Christianian flag. It tasted like Toohey's New.
At the table we were soon joined by a group of the most interesting looking people in the whole place, who are responsible for the quotes and insights above.
It was great to talk to the locals about such a unique place. We chatted to them for about an hour before Lyhne went off to play on one of the stages, Bo wandered away to make snails out of balloons and hide them in potplants, and the others headed off together discussing their latest ideas. We had to move on, so we left Christiania and her colourful fairy folk to the serious business of partying.
It was a little like being in the Magic Faraway Tree, but maybe that was all the pot smoke in the air!
Saturday, September 13, 2008
bonjourolahellowhereyoufrom?
// the common cry of the moroccan salesman
Morocco is indeed fresh air for the jaded traveller. Even Marrakech, where tourists abound, the magic of being in a vastly different culture washes across you, in the texture of everything you touch and in the timbre of every sound.
This post goes on forever so I'll break it up into sections.
people
Moroccans are cheeky, they smile their toothless smiles a lot and they all say hello, to everyone, all the time.
My first real encounter with Moroccans was on the train. I chose a compartment with two young girls in it. They spoke only French and Arabic so we didn't talk, but they smiled a lot and seemed friendly. Soon we were joined by others, eventually there were three women and five young men in the compartment. One of the guys spoke English and he became the translator, asking me questions on behalf of the others. They were all interested to know where I was from, what I thought of their country and a lot of other very random questions. The girls said that they wished I could speak French so they could talk to me. I was congratulated by one man on my choice of water, apparently I had chosen the best quality brand so I was obviously very intelligent. I was invited by three of them to stay at various uncles' riads or to go on this or that tour.
At the same station they all left and my compartment was immediately filled with a small family of 6. The father was a maths teacher and spoke excellent English, so once again there were questions to be answered. The kids ranged in ages from 2 to 11 and they looked at me and giggled a lot. The little girl was very excited to be the one who sat next to me. They taught me to count in Arabic (I only remember one and two) and then to say various words, all of which I have forgotten except for "Shokran" which means thank you. They shared their meal with me and all tried some vegemite, which was hilarious. The kids screwed up their faces and asked if I was joking about eating that stuff in Australia, and the father politely ate his piece but laughed when I said that no foreigners ever like it. They were happy, interested, kind and amusing. At one point I passed my camera around and the kids were in stitches taking photos of themselves and me. It really was a lot of fun.
Moroccans everywhere seem to be like this, they remind me of the Malaysians and Vietnamese in their mannner, but with perhaps a little less 'cuteness' about them.
The women seem on much more equal footing than we are led to believe. They laugh with their boyfriends, beat up their little brothers and wear what they like in the new town (but wear their hajibs in the old town where it's more traditional). Generally they seem happy enough.
accommodation
I am staying in a beautiful riad, a traditional Moroccan dwelling. My bedroom is large, with high ceilings and white walls decorated with lamps, silks, sumptuous cushions and colourful tiles. The bed is fit for a princess, complete with romantic white netting hanging from the ceiling; I've always wanted to sleep under one. Like all riads, the house is built around a central courtyard which opens to the sky. There are many many different tiles on the floors and walls, the bathrooms are plaster and there are lamps, lamps, lamps everywhere. It's run by a French expat who breaks every stereotype of his countrymen and is incredibly funny, helpful and willing to speak any language you ask for. It's a beautiful, peaceful place in a residential area, close to the main square but far enough away that it feels real. At 25 euro a night it's considerably better than anywhere I stayed in Italy.
ramadan
I am here in Ramadan, the fasting month. High season is over so there aren't many tourists. It's nice but it can also be annoying because I get a lot of attention.
During the day Muslims eat no food and drink no water. Some cafes remain open for tourists so it isn't hard to find food in spite of the fast.
Each evening at sunset, the fast is broken. As sunset approaches the streets are full of people rushing to get home. At 7 o'clock a cry rings out over the city and a siren (which I first thought was a cow) is sounded. The main mosque starts its chanting and then each smaller mosque starts up in five second intervals, giving the impression of a circular echo around the city. The day's fast is over.
Families gather together to share the traditional soup of the Ramadan called harira; it's made of a varying mixture of vegetables and sometimes meat. Even in my riad we share the harira together to follow the tradition and my host tells me stories about his experiences in Morocco.
In the morning at five there is the call to signal the start of the day's fast. Having one's days marked by silence and singing is actually very beautiful; a short time of peace before the chaos begins.
streets
My host tells me that during Ramadan Marrakech is a ghost town, which made me laugh because it's absolutely insanely busy! I'd hate to see high season. There is less traffic than in Vietnam but I feel much more at risk of being run over. The streets are brimming with touts, kids, beggars, shops shops shops, motorbikes, donkeys. Everywhere you go there are young boys telling you that certain (visibly busy) streets are closed but they know somewhere better, you can follow them, this way, this way.
I have been told several times that there is no hotel where my hotel is, that the big square is in the opposite direction (where the small one actually is), that the palace is closed today for Ramadan but there is a bigger one around the corner. "I will take you, I not guide, I not ask money, I just to help you." Hmmm. Their plan is to get you lost and then charge you to bring you to wherever you want to go, which is usually where you were to start with.
Taxi drivers do this too ‑ I met a couple today who were charged 4euro to be taken to the middle of nowhere and then charged 6euro to get back. Yesterday I encountered a very embarrassed and confused young Japanese man who had about six kids leading him around, I showed him my map but I think he was too polite to tell the kids to leave him alone. It really does pay to know your way in Morocco. Thankfully my host gave me an excellent map. Having been to Turkey also helps, the constant hellos can be tiring but there are no furtive bum grabs (ok, well only one so far), the men don't openly proposition you in the street and they don't chase you around...very much. One guy did try to sell me a chameleon and lots of boys have tried to sell me wooden snakes. I told the boys that I am from Australia and I have a real pet snake at home, then I told the chameleon guy that my snake would get jealous and probably eat it.
food
I am too scared to eat salad here, it almost guarantees diarrhoea. My host says that meat is always safe as long as it's hot. The food is excellent. Today I ate a tahini, which is a pot of chicken with potatoes and vegetables. It cost me about 5 Australian dollars and was excellent.
Yesterday's lunch was less satisfying but at around 3 AUD I wasn't too concerned about that. It's a great place for short term eating but trying to buy fruit and vegetables here would be hard, so I feel blessed that I'm not a vegetarian.
the souks
I have spent two days wandering the souks, telling people who want me to look in their shop that my mean nasty husband (Blake) is coming on Sunday and I am too afraid to buy anything without his permission. It's meant that I can get an overview of quality and prices without finding it too hard to escape. Blake doesn't know it yet, but his job is to be constantly annoyed with his silly wife who wants to buy everything at ridiculously expensive prices. My job is to be the naive little princess who will surprisingly drive the hardest bargain the seller has ever seen. (I may be better at the first bit than at the second.)
Unfortunately though, I can tell when something is good quality. I keep falling in love with antique silver Berber jewellery that has a starting price of 17000 dirhams, which is about 1700 euros. Considering you start the bargaining at half the starting price, no amount of pretending to walk away will ever succeeed in getting them at a price I'm willing to pay, even though they look like they're worth what they cost. I am taking photos of things instead.
I've managed to talk myself out of pretty much everything I originally had my eye on, so it's a good thing that I'm taking my time. However, today I made my first purchase...
bargaining
I found four little brass oil burners that I adored, and which were much nicer than any I had seen over the past two days. The bargaining process was actually quite fun. In Turkey it can be quite agressive but here it's treated like a game. The shop keeper was a young guy, whose mother was a Berber. The Berber are from the Atlas mountains and have some truly beautiful jewellery and silverwork. He told me that the lamps I liked were very old Berber oil lamps, hand made from brass. I couldn't tell if this was entirely true but they were pretty and heavy enough to potentially be brass. I'd also seen enough lamps by this point to know that these were the best I was likely to find.
I showed an interest in the workmanship and took an unhurried approach. I told him that I wanted to wait for my husband to arrive on Sunday because I would get in trouble if I bought them without him. He told me that today is Friday, a day of good luck for Muslims, and one dirham today is better than five dirhams on Sunday, so he would give me a good price. He asked for 400 dirham for one. I asked how much if I bought all four; he said 1000. I said no, that's 100 euro and that means 200 dollars in Australian, it was too much. I asked for 500 and he said no, give me a serious price. I said I was afraid my husband would yell at me and maybe I should wait until Sunday. He said he would give me a good price today because I am a nice girl and not rushed like the other tourists (from what I've seen this part is true). He said he feels like a friend of mine and dropped the price to 950. I shook my head sadly and looked longingly at the oil lamps that I couldn't possibly afford. I said maybe I could do 600. He said no, his father would be angry. I said I needed a calculator. He brought me one and told me to relax on a chair and I punched in lots of numbers, frowning and sighing. Finally he gave me his last offer of 750. I shook my head sadly, shoulders slumped in defeat and said I could only afford 650. He said "we make half half, 700." I said "we make half half again, 675." He laughed and said I am a very good bargainer and said 680.
This put the oil lamps at 25 AUD each and I was happy, we shook hands the traditional way (normal handshake, then handshake with thumbs wrapped around each other, then touch your heart with your palm). While he wrapped my lamps he told me that normally when a man does business with a woman, it is sealed with a kiss on the mouth instead of a handshake, Sadly, when it is Ramadan you cannot kiss during the day so we had to shake hands instead. Praise Allah!
no more of the green stone
I'm feeling decidedly less jaded about travel now. When Blake arrives we will head out for a camel ride, see some of the landscape and wander further afield than I am comfortable going on my own.
I was told today by a man that if I love Morocco, Morocco will love me. This is a good sign, because within half an hour of arriving in Morocco, I had already decided that someday I will return.
Morocco is indeed fresh air for the jaded traveller. Even Marrakech, where tourists abound, the magic of being in a vastly different culture washes across you, in the texture of everything you touch and in the timbre of every sound.
This post goes on forever so I'll break it up into sections.
people
Moroccans are cheeky, they smile their toothless smiles a lot and they all say hello, to everyone, all the time.
My first real encounter with Moroccans was on the train. I chose a compartment with two young girls in it. They spoke only French and Arabic so we didn't talk, but they smiled a lot and seemed friendly. Soon we were joined by others, eventually there were three women and five young men in the compartment. One of the guys spoke English and he became the translator, asking me questions on behalf of the others. They were all interested to know where I was from, what I thought of their country and a lot of other very random questions. The girls said that they wished I could speak French so they could talk to me. I was congratulated by one man on my choice of water, apparently I had chosen the best quality brand so I was obviously very intelligent. I was invited by three of them to stay at various uncles' riads or to go on this or that tour.
At the same station they all left and my compartment was immediately filled with a small family of 6. The father was a maths teacher and spoke excellent English, so once again there were questions to be answered. The kids ranged in ages from 2 to 11 and they looked at me and giggled a lot. The little girl was very excited to be the one who sat next to me. They taught me to count in Arabic (I only remember one and two) and then to say various words, all of which I have forgotten except for "Shokran" which means thank you. They shared their meal with me and all tried some vegemite, which was hilarious. The kids screwed up their faces and asked if I was joking about eating that stuff in Australia, and the father politely ate his piece but laughed when I said that no foreigners ever like it. They were happy, interested, kind and amusing. At one point I passed my camera around and the kids were in stitches taking photos of themselves and me. It really was a lot of fun.
Moroccans everywhere seem to be like this, they remind me of the Malaysians and Vietnamese in their mannner, but with perhaps a little less 'cuteness' about them.
The women seem on much more equal footing than we are led to believe. They laugh with their boyfriends, beat up their little brothers and wear what they like in the new town (but wear their hajibs in the old town where it's more traditional). Generally they seem happy enough.
accommodation
I am staying in a beautiful riad, a traditional Moroccan dwelling. My bedroom is large, with high ceilings and white walls decorated with lamps, silks, sumptuous cushions and colourful tiles. The bed is fit for a princess, complete with romantic white netting hanging from the ceiling; I've always wanted to sleep under one. Like all riads, the house is built around a central courtyard which opens to the sky. There are many many different tiles on the floors and walls, the bathrooms are plaster and there are lamps, lamps, lamps everywhere. It's run by a French expat who breaks every stereotype of his countrymen and is incredibly funny, helpful and willing to speak any language you ask for. It's a beautiful, peaceful place in a residential area, close to the main square but far enough away that it feels real. At 25 euro a night it's considerably better than anywhere I stayed in Italy.
ramadan
I am here in Ramadan, the fasting month. High season is over so there aren't many tourists. It's nice but it can also be annoying because I get a lot of attention.
During the day Muslims eat no food and drink no water. Some cafes remain open for tourists so it isn't hard to find food in spite of the fast.
Each evening at sunset, the fast is broken. As sunset approaches the streets are full of people rushing to get home. At 7 o'clock a cry rings out over the city and a siren (which I first thought was a cow) is sounded. The main mosque starts its chanting and then each smaller mosque starts up in five second intervals, giving the impression of a circular echo around the city. The day's fast is over.
Families gather together to share the traditional soup of the Ramadan called harira; it's made of a varying mixture of vegetables and sometimes meat. Even in my riad we share the harira together to follow the tradition and my host tells me stories about his experiences in Morocco.
In the morning at five there is the call to signal the start of the day's fast. Having one's days marked by silence and singing is actually very beautiful; a short time of peace before the chaos begins.
streets
My host tells me that during Ramadan Marrakech is a ghost town, which made me laugh because it's absolutely insanely busy! I'd hate to see high season. There is less traffic than in Vietnam but I feel much more at risk of being run over. The streets are brimming with touts, kids, beggars, shops shops shops, motorbikes, donkeys. Everywhere you go there are young boys telling you that certain (visibly busy) streets are closed but they know somewhere better, you can follow them, this way, this way.
I have been told several times that there is no hotel where my hotel is, that the big square is in the opposite direction (where the small one actually is), that the palace is closed today for Ramadan but there is a bigger one around the corner. "I will take you, I not guide, I not ask money, I just to help you." Hmmm. Their plan is to get you lost and then charge you to bring you to wherever you want to go, which is usually where you were to start with.
Taxi drivers do this too ‑ I met a couple today who were charged 4euro to be taken to the middle of nowhere and then charged 6euro to get back. Yesterday I encountered a very embarrassed and confused young Japanese man who had about six kids leading him around, I showed him my map but I think he was too polite to tell the kids to leave him alone. It really does pay to know your way in Morocco. Thankfully my host gave me an excellent map. Having been to Turkey also helps, the constant hellos can be tiring but there are no furtive bum grabs (ok, well only one so far), the men don't openly proposition you in the street and they don't chase you around...very much. One guy did try to sell me a chameleon and lots of boys have tried to sell me wooden snakes. I told the boys that I am from Australia and I have a real pet snake at home, then I told the chameleon guy that my snake would get jealous and probably eat it.
food
I am too scared to eat salad here, it almost guarantees diarrhoea. My host says that meat is always safe as long as it's hot. The food is excellent. Today I ate a tahini, which is a pot of chicken with potatoes and vegetables. It cost me about 5 Australian dollars and was excellent.
Yesterday's lunch was less satisfying but at around 3 AUD I wasn't too concerned about that. It's a great place for short term eating but trying to buy fruit and vegetables here would be hard, so I feel blessed that I'm not a vegetarian.
the souks
I have spent two days wandering the souks, telling people who want me to look in their shop that my mean nasty husband (Blake) is coming on Sunday and I am too afraid to buy anything without his permission. It's meant that I can get an overview of quality and prices without finding it too hard to escape. Blake doesn't know it yet, but his job is to be constantly annoyed with his silly wife who wants to buy everything at ridiculously expensive prices. My job is to be the naive little princess who will surprisingly drive the hardest bargain the seller has ever seen. (I may be better at the first bit than at the second.)
Unfortunately though, I can tell when something is good quality. I keep falling in love with antique silver Berber jewellery that has a starting price of 17000 dirhams, which is about 1700 euros. Considering you start the bargaining at half the starting price, no amount of pretending to walk away will ever succeeed in getting them at a price I'm willing to pay, even though they look like they're worth what they cost. I am taking photos of things instead.
I've managed to talk myself out of pretty much everything I originally had my eye on, so it's a good thing that I'm taking my time. However, today I made my first purchase...
bargaining
I found four little brass oil burners that I adored, and which were much nicer than any I had seen over the past two days. The bargaining process was actually quite fun. In Turkey it can be quite agressive but here it's treated like a game. The shop keeper was a young guy, whose mother was a Berber. The Berber are from the Atlas mountains and have some truly beautiful jewellery and silverwork. He told me that the lamps I liked were very old Berber oil lamps, hand made from brass. I couldn't tell if this was entirely true but they were pretty and heavy enough to potentially be brass. I'd also seen enough lamps by this point to know that these were the best I was likely to find.
I showed an interest in the workmanship and took an unhurried approach. I told him that I wanted to wait for my husband to arrive on Sunday because I would get in trouble if I bought them without him. He told me that today is Friday, a day of good luck for Muslims, and one dirham today is better than five dirhams on Sunday, so he would give me a good price. He asked for 400 dirham for one. I asked how much if I bought all four; he said 1000. I said no, that's 100 euro and that means 200 dollars in Australian, it was too much. I asked for 500 and he said no, give me a serious price. I said I was afraid my husband would yell at me and maybe I should wait until Sunday. He said he would give me a good price today because I am a nice girl and not rushed like the other tourists (from what I've seen this part is true). He said he feels like a friend of mine and dropped the price to 950. I shook my head sadly and looked longingly at the oil lamps that I couldn't possibly afford. I said maybe I could do 600. He said no, his father would be angry. I said I needed a calculator. He brought me one and told me to relax on a chair and I punched in lots of numbers, frowning and sighing. Finally he gave me his last offer of 750. I shook my head sadly, shoulders slumped in defeat and said I could only afford 650. He said "we make half half, 700." I said "we make half half again, 675." He laughed and said I am a very good bargainer and said 680.
This put the oil lamps at 25 AUD each and I was happy, we shook hands the traditional way (normal handshake, then handshake with thumbs wrapped around each other, then touch your heart with your palm). While he wrapped my lamps he told me that normally when a man does business with a woman, it is sealed with a kiss on the mouth instead of a handshake, Sadly, when it is Ramadan you cannot kiss during the day so we had to shake hands instead. Praise Allah!
no more of the green stone
I'm feeling decidedly less jaded about travel now. When Blake arrives we will head out for a camel ride, see some of the landscape and wander further afield than I am comfortable going on my own.
I was told today by a man that if I love Morocco, Morocco will love me. This is a good sign, because within half an hour of arriving in Morocco, I had already decided that someday I will return.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
la prima imprezione
// the first impression
Immediately after stepping off the ferry in Morocco I thought 'god I hope that terrible smell is just the boat and not the city'. It turned out to be the city but never mind, the weird dead fish smell makes a welcome change from dog pee scented Europe.
I took the ferry from Spain to Tangier, from where the night train to Marrakesh leaves. I was a little stressed about whether I would have enough time to find my way from the Tangier port to the train station but shouldn't have worried; it took me ten minutes to get here and taking into account the new time zone I have three hours to wait.
Morocco is daunting for a lone female traveller. I've met people who had been here and they told me that it's all perfectly safe but I wasn't convinced. However, when I got off the ferry and found a free transit bus waiting for me, which dropped me at the taxi rank, where a kindly taxi driver approached me and offered to take me to the train station for three euro (which I later learned is a rip off, but oh well), I started to relax. I jumped in along with two Czech girls and he chatted away to us in flawless English, telling us how much he loves Morocco, not to bother visiting Casablanca because it's just like Europe, that the people here live together in harmony and that we won't have any problems. It was like being collected at the ferry by a favourite uncle. He pointed out the bank for me, the ticket seller guy spoke perfect English and quoted the price in both dirham and euro and nobody turned their head to look at me.
In spite of having a good first impression I remained wary and kept a close eye on my bag when a man in the train station approached me. He guessed that I was Australian because he meets so many of us. From past experiences in Turkey, Italy and Spain I was suspicious and expected the familiar awkwardness of a 'you are very beautiful girl' type of comment, but he just chatted along, reminded me that it was Ramadan and then wandered off back to his friends. So far, so good.
I've just arrived so there isn't much more to say than that. I'm feeling really excited about being somewhere so different. I'm sure that many adventures await.
Immediately after stepping off the ferry in Morocco I thought 'god I hope that terrible smell is just the boat and not the city'. It turned out to be the city but never mind, the weird dead fish smell makes a welcome change from dog pee scented Europe.
I took the ferry from Spain to Tangier, from where the night train to Marrakesh leaves. I was a little stressed about whether I would have enough time to find my way from the Tangier port to the train station but shouldn't have worried; it took me ten minutes to get here and taking into account the new time zone I have three hours to wait.
Morocco is daunting for a lone female traveller. I've met people who had been here and they told me that it's all perfectly safe but I wasn't convinced. However, when I got off the ferry and found a free transit bus waiting for me, which dropped me at the taxi rank, where a kindly taxi driver approached me and offered to take me to the train station for three euro (which I later learned is a rip off, but oh well), I started to relax. I jumped in along with two Czech girls and he chatted away to us in flawless English, telling us how much he loves Morocco, not to bother visiting Casablanca because it's just like Europe, that the people here live together in harmony and that we won't have any problems. It was like being collected at the ferry by a favourite uncle. He pointed out the bank for me, the ticket seller guy spoke perfect English and quoted the price in both dirham and euro and nobody turned their head to look at me.
In spite of having a good first impression I remained wary and kept a close eye on my bag when a man in the train station approached me. He guessed that I was Australian because he meets so many of us. From past experiences in Turkey, Italy and Spain I was suspicious and expected the familiar awkwardness of a 'you are very beautiful girl' type of comment, but he just chatted along, reminded me that it was Ramadan and then wandered off back to his friends. So far, so good.
I've just arrived so there isn't much more to say than that. I'm feeling really excited about being somewhere so different. I'm sure that many adventures await.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
assino con banjo
//donkey with banjo
There's a donkey wearing an Indian headdress and playing a banjo staring down at me from the ceiling. Nope, I'm not on drugs, I'm in Spain.
Spain was never supposed to be a big tourist thing for me, it was always going to be a chill out recovery phase, to relax from the hard work of constant sightseeing. My last couple of weeks have been a lot of wandering, sitting, pretending I know how to meditate and drinking beers with random people on hostel rooftops.
I've been through Valencia where I had many drunken adventures, Granada where I saw a pretty Arabic and Christian palace, Seville where I saw more of the same, Jerez de la Frontera where I had an Arabic bath, and now I am in Cadiz.
Cadiz is said to be the oldest city in Europe, having been founded by Phonecian sailors in whenever BC. Yep, I'm a history buff. It's a cool city but they're all starting to look a bit that same. I did manage to find a clothing store that was obviously designed to empty my wallet ‑ I spent a week's worth of money there in about fifteen minutes, then ran out with my eyes closed. The shop assistant recommended a restaurant for dinner so I and a guy from the hostel went there, me wearing my funky new outfit. It was on the beach, the food was incredibly good and it cost us ten euros each, with drinks. It was a giant success so I felt a bit better about my enormous cash outlay.
After being in Italy and seeing first hand the extent to which one's impressions of a place can change after a few months, I feel totally unqualified to comment on Spain or any of the cities I've visited here. I'll say some things anyway but take them with a grain of salt.
Ok, like Italy the whole place smells of dog pee. Nothing new there. The vibe is more relaxed than Italy, the people seem happier but the waiters are still rude. The hostels are about half the price of Italy, they all have kitchens and everyone hangs out in hammocks playing guitars. Mostly due to La Tomatina the country is currently overridden by Aussies, we are like a plague.
The bars do tapas in Spain which is similar to Italy's aperitifs, so eating is cheap. There are lots of buildings with pretty blue tiles. The palaces are mostly a mixture of Arabic architecture with Christian influences, proving that once upon a time the two religions got along. The beaches are better than in Italy but not quite up to Aussie standards. The buildings have more character than I've seen in most other parts of the world. Flamenco is alive and kicking and is not just for the tourists. Breakfasts are still a lot of cake and biscuits, but they seem to have also caught onto cereal here. The architecture really is striking and the cities have public gardens! GREENERY! Pretty revolutionary stuff happening in Spain.
I like the place but somehow I feel kind of removed from it. I think it's all the hanging out being cool that people do here ‑ not really my scene. It's probably also a lot to do with the way I've approached it ‑ viewing it as a place to relax, party, go to La Tomatina and make my way down to Morocco. I find that I don't have much to say about it, it's just more of western Europe, more of the same with a slightly different flavour.
Fantastic place and a lot of fun, but it hasn't touched my heart. Italy feels more like home in the way that your dodgy little one‑room flat might feel more like home than the penthouse suite of the Hyatt...
So, I'm sorry there are no lyrical musings on Spain. I had a lot of fun here but going on drunken nights out in Spain is the same as going on drunken nights out in Australia, except more expensive and with better Mojitos.
I'm hoping that Marrakech will dish out a little much needed culture shock.
There's a donkey wearing an Indian headdress and playing a banjo staring down at me from the ceiling. Nope, I'm not on drugs, I'm in Spain.
Spain was never supposed to be a big tourist thing for me, it was always going to be a chill out recovery phase, to relax from the hard work of constant sightseeing. My last couple of weeks have been a lot of wandering, sitting, pretending I know how to meditate and drinking beers with random people on hostel rooftops.
I've been through Valencia where I had many drunken adventures, Granada where I saw a pretty Arabic and Christian palace, Seville where I saw more of the same, Jerez de la Frontera where I had an Arabic bath, and now I am in Cadiz.
Cadiz is said to be the oldest city in Europe, having been founded by Phonecian sailors in whenever BC. Yep, I'm a history buff. It's a cool city but they're all starting to look a bit that same. I did manage to find a clothing store that was obviously designed to empty my wallet ‑ I spent a week's worth of money there in about fifteen minutes, then ran out with my eyes closed. The shop assistant recommended a restaurant for dinner so I and a guy from the hostel went there, me wearing my funky new outfit. It was on the beach, the food was incredibly good and it cost us ten euros each, with drinks. It was a giant success so I felt a bit better about my enormous cash outlay.
After being in Italy and seeing first hand the extent to which one's impressions of a place can change after a few months, I feel totally unqualified to comment on Spain or any of the cities I've visited here. I'll say some things anyway but take them with a grain of salt.
Ok, like Italy the whole place smells of dog pee. Nothing new there. The vibe is more relaxed than Italy, the people seem happier but the waiters are still rude. The hostels are about half the price of Italy, they all have kitchens and everyone hangs out in hammocks playing guitars. Mostly due to La Tomatina the country is currently overridden by Aussies, we are like a plague.
The bars do tapas in Spain which is similar to Italy's aperitifs, so eating is cheap. There are lots of buildings with pretty blue tiles. The palaces are mostly a mixture of Arabic architecture with Christian influences, proving that once upon a time the two religions got along. The beaches are better than in Italy but not quite up to Aussie standards. The buildings have more character than I've seen in most other parts of the world. Flamenco is alive and kicking and is not just for the tourists. Breakfasts are still a lot of cake and biscuits, but they seem to have also caught onto cereal here. The architecture really is striking and the cities have public gardens! GREENERY! Pretty revolutionary stuff happening in Spain.
I like the place but somehow I feel kind of removed from it. I think it's all the hanging out being cool that people do here ‑ not really my scene. It's probably also a lot to do with the way I've approached it ‑ viewing it as a place to relax, party, go to La Tomatina and make my way down to Morocco. I find that I don't have much to say about it, it's just more of western Europe, more of the same with a slightly different flavour.
Fantastic place and a lot of fun, but it hasn't touched my heart. Italy feels more like home in the way that your dodgy little one‑room flat might feel more like home than the penthouse suite of the Hyatt...
So, I'm sorry there are no lyrical musings on Spain. I had a lot of fun here but going on drunken nights out in Spain is the same as going on drunken nights out in Australia, except more expensive and with better Mojitos.
I'm hoping that Marrakech will dish out a little much needed culture shock.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
la tomatina
the tomato fight
After two hours of sleep, we dazedly crawled onto the bus and caught as much sleep as we could on the way to Buñol. When we arrived we staggered off the bus again and headed down the windy road into town with 60 thousand other crazies like ourselves.
Locals had set up little stalls selling goggles, swimming caps, t-shirts, food and cheap beer. As we ambled down the road we came across a lot of costumes, including some drag queens, a guy wearing goggles, snorkel and a giant floatie, and I posed for a photo with a group of poms wearing orange wigs and white cricket gear. The atmosphere was charged with expectation and trepidation. So far, not a tomato to be seen.
The tiny town square where the fight takes place was already packed by 9am and the fight wasn't to start until 11. Sticking with five other girls from my tour group, I picked out a spot in a sidestreet near a wall. So began the warm up to the main event.
Some crazy local guys near us started the annual tradition of t‑shirt ripping early, t‑shirts went sailing through the air and more and more guys ended up bare shouldered, Some girls were also attacked but most of us were wearing at least two shirts and a sports bra, some had even duct‑taped their clothes to their bodies. One girl was completely unscathed except for the skin on her knuckles, which had done battle with many a Spanish nose, and won. Some people were standing calmly while others were singing and dancing and pushing. We were jostled for 2 hours, the crowd getting crazier and crazier, the locals getting scarily over the top.
Before the fight even began we saw a girl faint, several broken noses, someone break into a nearby house and throw bits of the door from the balcony into the crowd (a group of Aussie guys tossed it back and hit the guy on the head, before the police arrived and arrested him). Some forgetful local had left their window open and their white couch glistened in the sunlight, enjoying its last few moments of pristine cleanliness before a world of tomatoes ruined its beauty.
All this time, the competition to capture the ham was in progress. There was a wobbly pole with a ham stuck on top and a lot of very smelly fat all up and down it to make it slippery. Guys and some girls clambered over each other to pull off globs of fat in their hands and render the pole climbable enough to finally reach the ham. Finally it was touched, which signals the start of the fight and the tomato trucks rolled in.
My rib cage was nearly squashed when the trucks rolled past, dumping tonnes of tomatoes into the crowd. The first tomato bounced off someone's head near me and a friend giggled as she squashed it into my hair. We all got a bit dirty and then the tomatoes ran out. We stood around, waiting, grinning at our first taste of the fight. Truck two rolled past, more of the same, until finally truck three dumped its load and suddenly we were in a river of tomato juice halfway up our shins. The white wall behind us was splotched with red, our hair was disgusting, our faces were covered, our goggles saving our eyes from the acid.
I don't know, or want to know, what I ingested that day as torn t‑shirts were thrown through the crowd, landing on faces, heads, shoulders. I kept my mouth closed as tightly as I could and watched the madness of the centre of the square.
Suddenly a friend materialised and said 'come into the middle, it's awesome!'. I grabbed her hand and we slipped through the tomato‑juice lubricated crowd into the middle of the mosh pit.
At this point the madness really began. We were all covered with tomato, it was in our hair, our ears, our nostrils, our mouths, our shoes. I was wading through a lake of tomato juice, slipping against body after body, not even throwing tomatoes because my main mission was just to stay upright. My arms were around the shoulders of the nearest tall guy and my legs were wrapped around whoever was standing nearest to me. My mine‑site issue steel caps were doing their job very well. I laughed when some British guys near me said "man this is insane, I want to get out of here, these people are nuts, I'm scared."
Eventually I squeezed out of the crowd into the street and joined the other tomato‑pasted zombies. People's eyes widened when they saw me so I got the impression that I was fairly tomato‑ed. When I got in line for the first hose (the locals water everyone down after the fight) the girls in front of me said "oh my god, you should go first, you need it more". Sadly my disposable camera was out of film by that point so I couldn't capture the moment forever.
The rest of the day was spent picking tomato seeds out of my hair, washing and re‑washing my underwear (still smells like tomato juice, might have to accept that it's time for it to go)
and sleeping.
La Tomatina was some of the best fun I've ever had. Welcome to Spain.
After two hours of sleep, we dazedly crawled onto the bus and caught as much sleep as we could on the way to Buñol. When we arrived we staggered off the bus again and headed down the windy road into town with 60 thousand other crazies like ourselves.
Locals had set up little stalls selling goggles, swimming caps, t-shirts, food and cheap beer. As we ambled down the road we came across a lot of costumes, including some drag queens, a guy wearing goggles, snorkel and a giant floatie, and I posed for a photo with a group of poms wearing orange wigs and white cricket gear. The atmosphere was charged with expectation and trepidation. So far, not a tomato to be seen.
The tiny town square where the fight takes place was already packed by 9am and the fight wasn't to start until 11. Sticking with five other girls from my tour group, I picked out a spot in a sidestreet near a wall. So began the warm up to the main event.
Some crazy local guys near us started the annual tradition of t‑shirt ripping early, t‑shirts went sailing through the air and more and more guys ended up bare shouldered, Some girls were also attacked but most of us were wearing at least two shirts and a sports bra, some had even duct‑taped their clothes to their bodies. One girl was completely unscathed except for the skin on her knuckles, which had done battle with many a Spanish nose, and won. Some people were standing calmly while others were singing and dancing and pushing. We were jostled for 2 hours, the crowd getting crazier and crazier, the locals getting scarily over the top.
Before the fight even began we saw a girl faint, several broken noses, someone break into a nearby house and throw bits of the door from the balcony into the crowd (a group of Aussie guys tossed it back and hit the guy on the head, before the police arrived and arrested him). Some forgetful local had left their window open and their white couch glistened in the sunlight, enjoying its last few moments of pristine cleanliness before a world of tomatoes ruined its beauty.
All this time, the competition to capture the ham was in progress. There was a wobbly pole with a ham stuck on top and a lot of very smelly fat all up and down it to make it slippery. Guys and some girls clambered over each other to pull off globs of fat in their hands and render the pole climbable enough to finally reach the ham. Finally it was touched, which signals the start of the fight and the tomato trucks rolled in.
My rib cage was nearly squashed when the trucks rolled past, dumping tonnes of tomatoes into the crowd. The first tomato bounced off someone's head near me and a friend giggled as she squashed it into my hair. We all got a bit dirty and then the tomatoes ran out. We stood around, waiting, grinning at our first taste of the fight. Truck two rolled past, more of the same, until finally truck three dumped its load and suddenly we were in a river of tomato juice halfway up our shins. The white wall behind us was splotched with red, our hair was disgusting, our faces were covered, our goggles saving our eyes from the acid.
I don't know, or want to know, what I ingested that day as torn t‑shirts were thrown through the crowd, landing on faces, heads, shoulders. I kept my mouth closed as tightly as I could and watched the madness of the centre of the square.
Suddenly a friend materialised and said 'come into the middle, it's awesome!'. I grabbed her hand and we slipped through the tomato‑juice lubricated crowd into the middle of the mosh pit.
At this point the madness really began. We were all covered with tomato, it was in our hair, our ears, our nostrils, our mouths, our shoes. I was wading through a lake of tomato juice, slipping against body after body, not even throwing tomatoes because my main mission was just to stay upright. My arms were around the shoulders of the nearest tall guy and my legs were wrapped around whoever was standing nearest to me. My mine‑site issue steel caps were doing their job very well. I laughed when some British guys near me said "man this is insane, I want to get out of here, these people are nuts, I'm scared."
Eventually I squeezed out of the crowd into the street and joined the other tomato‑pasted zombies. People's eyes widened when they saw me so I got the impression that I was fairly tomato‑ed. When I got in line for the first hose (the locals water everyone down after the fight) the girls in front of me said "oh my god, you should go first, you need it more". Sadly my disposable camera was out of film by that point so I couldn't capture the moment forever.
The rest of the day was spent picking tomato seeds out of my hair, washing and re‑washing my underwear (still smells like tomato juice, might have to accept that it's time for it to go)
and sleeping.
La Tomatina was some of the best fun I've ever had. Welcome to Spain.
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