the city of vowels and marrakech.

From Rabat we had a very long bus ride down to Morocco's "windy city", Essaouira. The city of vowels. Unfortunately it was the week of the sheep slaughter and subsequent feast, which meant several sheep were also on the bus, in the luggage hold, which meant when we arrived in Essaouira our bags smelt like sheep wee. Which is exactly what you don't want the really heavy thing you have to strap to your back to smell like...roses or vanilla or something is far more preferable. Bit of backpacking trivia for you there.

Anyway, the point is, we arrived in Essaouira. The same deal as all the other cities, a medina and a ville nouvelle, but a wander out of the medina walls here brought you to a very long, sandy beach, perfect for swimming and windsurfing, kite surfing and regular surfing...the windy city. This was also the town where the tout at the bus station begged us to let him lead us to a hotel then demanded a tip, which is how we ended up with our wicked penthouse suite. Complete with a balcony perfect for yahtzee games and airing out our urine soaked backpacks.

The first two days we were here everyone was gearing up for the sheep slaughter feast (it is obvious now that I have no idea what the actual holiday is called), so the main shopping street in the medina was packed, constantly. Trying to merge onto it from a side alley- keep in mind it is a pedestrian, and occasional bike, thoroughfare only- was a matter of inserting yourself into whatever tiny space you could and waiting for the crowd to slowly project you forward. It took about 1/2 an hour to get from one end of the street to the other (when the festival was in full swing and everyone was home, we managed it in under 10 minutes). It was full on. Luckily there were only 2 days of this and then it magically changed into a christmas morning town...silent, empty streets bar a few families on their way to parties, laden with food, or boys running to and fro with little trailers filled with sheep skins. A happy, festive air without anyhting really going on. Still and quiet, in a good way. Just hordes of tourists wandering around, disconcerted because no shops were open and they didn't know where to get breakfast from.

When we weren't battling the crowds and refusing touts who offered us drugs, merchandise or restaurants, we spent a bit of time wandering along the old city walls, around the harbour and up along the beach. Will practised his backflips on the sand and instantly became a camel enthusiast when we spotted some further up the beach. (Plans are in motion...if anyone knows how big a camel exercise yard should be, get in touch).

We also spent a few hours one morning surfing. My very first time ever, so I was looking very cool stumbling down  the beach with my enormous foam longboard...Will is getting better now, he had the grown-up's neat little fibreglass number. (And he also now has the bragging rights of having surfed on 4 different continents). But once we were in the water the conditions were perfect for learning. I was right near a group who were having a lesson, so I didn't have to worry about looking spastic in front of them, and it was so bizarrely foggy that I was invisible to all of the real surfers further out in the big terrifying waves. And so, I managed to stand up! Several times! And made it nearly to shore without falling off! It was a big moment for me. After our morning of exertion, we spent the rest of the day resting and drinking coffee.

We left the lovely little town of Essaouira rather reluctantly, but short of more surfing we had done all we could think of doing there. So onward and upward, to Marrakech.

Marrakech, where we had planned to couchsurf, found a host and had even talked to him over the phone. Marrakech, where we ended up staying in probably the fanciest hotel we have yet stayed in, on this trip (not that I was complaining). The couchsurfing fell through and by this time it was about 10pm, we had no map and this hotel was open and had a room free (a scarcity in Marrakech, the most popular city in Morroco), so we collapsed on the king-sized bed with relief.

Marrakech is like the other places we went, amped up. The medina is huge, the souk is an insane maze of piles of shiny things just begging to be bought...filigree and glass lamps shimmering from floor to ceiling, racks and racks of sparkly bags and shoes, little counters piled high with sticky, colourful apples, oranges and all made out of marzipan, and clothes and souvenirs and leather-work and wood-work...and touts just begging you to buy them. A very interesting little square was home to the herbists, who had discovered that putting cages with turtles, chameleons and salamanders in front of their stores was the perfect tourist lure. It makes for very innocuous opening conversation. We met one fellow who had a very curious chameleon, it only changed colour when it was in his shop, surrounded by things we could buy...but ignoring all this, it was interesting to find out what all the mountains of spices and colours were for. Did you know khol comes from a really heavy, silver rock? And that when you rub nigella seeds together they smell like eucalypt? And musk comes in small chunks, like soap, that you rub on your wrists to impress the ladies? All very interesting. And the shops that sold jars upon jars of coloured powders...I have no idea what it was but looking at the shelves filled with jars brought to mind a very colourful apothecary.

The other big focal point in this medina was the massive square in the middle. During the day it is home to dozens of fresh orange juice men and dried fruite vendors and snake charmers who grab unsuspecting tourists, coerce them into taking pictures, then charge (we heard) $80AU for the pleasure! But at night (when it cools down) the sqaure becomes a huge open air restaurant, performance area and meeting place. It fills up with hundreds of people, buskers, "side-show" games and rows of little stalls selling fried meat, stew, soup...lots. We spread dinner between three stalls, with soup and some kind of deep-fried sugar snack (every culture has a version of deep-fried sugar, it would seem) first, a delicious, melty lamb stew and bread second and some kind of cinnamon flavoured something with strong ginger tea for dessert. Then a coffee and some people watching.

We did a few tourist things here. Visited a museum in an old riad with beautiful tile work and orange trees, visited a palace with similar attributes, only grander, visited the tombs of Saadian princes. The thing I remember most though is when we were sitting in horse and carriage square, having a bit of a rest, and a man clutching a plastic bottle of moonshine and a frame made out of old tyres, swayed over to us, told us he had several shops ad tried to sell us carpets, spices and tyre frames. A successful business man, for one who appeared to be a very drunk homeless man.

And with that memory, we left Marrakech, and Morocco, and after several days of travel flund ourselves in Tavira, southern Portugal.

mo-roccan beats.

Which are..."hey, my friend, what you need? hey, my friend, you can trust me! hey my friend, tip?" With only slight variations, these are the beats of Morocco. Though, I am sure our cynical, weary, tetchy judgement of  country we were in for only two and a half weeks- and only in the 'big hitters'- is entirely subjective and not an accurate representation of the people at all. In fact, our few encounters with "real" Moroccans- those who are not at all involved in the tourist tricking racket and don't live in any of the massively touristy areas- were very positive.

The very first hour we were in the country, we encountered some very helpful lifesavers (unlike those pesky 'unhelpful' lifesavers...). Having caught the "8.30pm" ferry from Spain (it left at about 10pm), we arrived at midnight, at the new port 50kms out of Tangier. Having no idea of the existence of this port until we arrived (we thought we were at the other port, 5 minutes from the centre of Tangier), we had no idea how to get to the city without being completely ripped off by an over eager taxi driver who'd spotted us. Luckily there were some other men who lived in Tangier and needed some people to share a taxi- save money, you see- so in we jumped. All six of us, and the driver. Off at about 120km, into the night, down roads that would be comfortably navigated at about 80km, with a driver who had no qualms about tail-gating every single car he came upon.

We made it alive, obviously, though as Will and I were sharing the front seat I was white-knuckled on the door handle every time we rounded a corner. With a huge sigh of relief we arrived and our new friends helped us get to the medina to find a hotel and bid us farewell. We thought everyone would be like this- especially after a kindly old taxi driver gave us a discount on the fare because he didn't understand where we wanted to go, 'only' speaking French and Arabic. We soon realised that almost everyone else who offered us help was doing so with the expectation of a great big tip for their troubles. One man at one bus station literally begged us to go and look at this hotel- we did, only because it was night time and he wouldn't take no for an answer- and then once we arrived and discovered it was actually lovely and decided to stay, demanded a tip! Oh, the audacity.

But I will move on from our dubious relations with the Moroccan people to the towns we saw which, overall, we had better relations with (just don't talk to us about Fez).

We started our jaunt off in celebrity style...drinking incredibly sweet tea in the very square that William S. Burroughs (friend and collaborator of Jack Kerouac) used to admire the local 'talent' in. In the evening we moved on to the very posh (as in, when the waiter came over to ask if we were here for dinner or drinks I had a fleeting fear he was discreetly going to ask us to leave) hotel which has served the likes of Yves St. Laurent, John Malkovich and William Hurt. And a bunch of others. We drank fairly expensive wine, ate all the free snacks provided and pretended to be fancy for a couple of hours. This was in Tangier, a surprisingly nice port town, full of European style cafes and French accents.

The next stop on our hastily and rather unresearched route was Chefchaouen, a little village  surrounded by mountains and notable for all the blue paintwork in the medina. (Quickly, a medina is like the old part of town...in every city we went to there was the medina- usually the touristy part- with all the little alleys and picturesqueness you can imagine, and then the ville nouvelle (new town) with all the administrative and important city buildings.) We spent a lovely few days exploring the medina, rocking the kasbah (old king's quarters, walled off from the rest of the medina), climbing a very steep, very rocky mountain and admiring all the lovely shades of blue upon the houses. This was especially exciting once we discovered the colour select function on our new camera...we now have far too many pictures that are black, white and blue. Once we had been charmed out by the adorable little village,  we left Chefchaouen bound for our one mistake of the trip, Fez.

I'll say this first. We were both a little ill in Fez, we got very lost upon arrival and ended up choosing a hotel on a very loud and busy road just because it was getting dark and we had no idea where we were really. A map is a purchase that will never be regretted. So the next day, after a sleepless night in a hotel on an incredibly busy road (Will slept a little and all his dreams were driving related), we decided to look for greener pastures and set off to the medina. Where we were immediately accosted by somebody who had rooms- without toilet or shower- for 150DH (about $19). To put this into perspective, in another far nicer town, we stayed in a "pent-house suite" (but seriously, for us it was) with a balcony, bathroom and even a couch for 150DH.

I digress. Fez. Wouldn't recommend it. Insanely, inanely touristy, unjustifiably expensive, hot...and just not worth it really. My fondest memories are of sitting in a cafe in the ville nouvelle writing my last blog post and of sleeping.

Next! Rabat, the capital of Morocco. I'd say come here over Fez. There is a medina, it is smaller, less crowded and still sells all the same things. It was really quite nice to wander through (apart from one very, very, very crowded street)...there was the main street with all the hotels and the smells wafting around from the delicious sandwich stalls and the clothes shops and carts piled high with pomegranates, grapes, herbs and figs and dried apricots and garlic; there was the "market" lane...think fruit and veg stalls, little shop fronts piled high with glistening olives, every second tiny shop selling bread, boys lounging in shelters with boom boxes selling coal, a big room full of sheep and kids running all over the place and the smells of mint, cumin, olives and preserved lemon mingling in the air. Chaotic and my favourite part of the medina. Then there was the ubiquitous tourist alley...alluring shops calling to those with fat wallets with their lovely leather bags, colourful textiles and other shinies. Nice to wander through, but don't get too close.

This lane opened out onto the kasbah, which opened on to the ocean. Right across the road from the kasbah was probably the biggest cemetery I have ever seen...I'm thinking a couple of acres...complete with tomb-stone guarding cats. There was a little carnival near the beach where we spent a good 10 minutes deliberating which ride to spend our pocket money on. (We went with the spinny-around-in-the-air-in-little-cages option). There was a beach, but not so good for swimming, better for people watching at dusk when all the strollers came out. And then sunset watching.

We visited some Roman ruins, with a lovely little garden green with fruit trees and pretty flowers and a lot of storks who had made their homes on the tallest towers. We visited the sweets stall in the medina and went a bit overboard, walking away with at least 15 different treats (they were very small though...). We drank fresh orange juice in the street, coffee and mint tea on the cafe strewn footpaths and avocado milkshakes in the milk bar.

Then we left Rabat. And there I will leave this post. We still had two more towns to visit before we returned to the stress-free shores of Spain, but I will return to those in another post...this is quite long enough I think.

a misadventure and a slaughtered sheep.

It is a very tired and weary couple of Will and Jordans that greet you from blog world today. Turns out, after two months in genteel Europe we've gone soft and are having trouble re-adjusting to the crafty "sales techniques" of those who live in the not so lucky world. But. Take it back about a fortnight.

We ended up staying on at the finca in Spain for an extra week, not really for any particular reason, just because we liked it and both decided it would be stupid to cut our time there short. And it is a good thing we did. We gained two anecdotes to add to our repetoire from that week.

After finishing work one afternoon- and after our afternoon nap- we decided to walk out to an old monastery, set in the hills behind the finca. We set off at about 5, and it was quite a pleasant walk, through the valley, up along the ridge, down through olive and carob groves...then we realised we had been walking for more than an hour and the monstery was still a mirage in the distance. Being sensible, we thought, 'we should go back, don't want to get stuck out here in the dark'. Hahahaha...oh how we laugh. Now. It was most definitely not funny when we were running around like panicky idiots on the top of a mountain at dusk, staring at a wall of impenetrable, prickly shrub that stood between us and a delicious pizza dinner. (Actually, it would have looked quite funny...we were in no mood for frivolity though, you understand.) Anyway, we were on the ridge because we knew we could walk down a slip in between two of the hills. We just didn't know that by the time we found the slip it would be dark. So there we were, panicking our way down a rocky, prickly, slippery, ankle-breaky "path", in the dark, with only the thought of the wild boars that would surely snuggle up to us if we didn't make it home to keep us going. We made it home. Scratched up legs, huge appetites and a story and we were home.

Then the week went on. We went for a couple more walks- strolls really, safely along flat ground. Visited another old English couple who fed us a huge roast dinner with banana split chasers. Saw more charming villages. Hung out with the dogs. Painted a bit. Then it was our last day- for real this time- and we were ending it with a memory that will last forever. Our first sheep slaughter. That's right, we are well on our way to becoming real country people, who can kill and chop up a sheep for many a future dinners (I say well on our way...that may be an exaggeration. We were in fact giggling hysterically through most of the "operation", and I may, at one point, have had my photo taken holding a knife and fork next to a dangling sheep carcass...). But it's a start. I know what bit loin is know. And I know I will never be a vegatarian- seeing all the neatly cut up joints on the table set my stomach a-rumbling, even as the dog was licking up sheep's blood off the floor.

So, we knew we stayed for a reason. But then we really did have to leave (it was getting to the point that we probably would have adopted the finca as our second home and Cathy and James would have found themselves with two new grown-up children). We took our cue from the ducks and headed to Granada.

A wonderful city is Granada. And not only- though this is probably a large part of it- because of the 'free tapas with every drink' thing they have going on. Seriously, 2 or 3 euro (that's $3 or $4) and you can have a beer or wine or sangria and you will also get a little dish of stew or a piece of pizza or some meatballs. These Spaniards, they know a thing or two about the good life (you know, except in regard to the economy and running the country smoothly; food, drink and sleep though- they have it down!) But Granada is also a very wanderable city. The Arabic area climbs up a hill in all its whitewashed, tiled charm to several fantastic panoramic city views (edit out all the ipad-wielding tourists). The main city centre is walkable and dotted with little plazas of fountains and trees. There is the majesty of the Sierra Neveda mountain range in the background. There is a river and watching, steadily and serenely over the city, the Alhambra. An Islamic complex comprising palaces, unimaginably beautiful gardens, and everything else needed in a royal complex back in the day. It is a relic from the days of the Moors and (I'm sure) a world heritage sight. It would be a huge mistake to come to Granada and miss it (and we nearly did). But we lined up from 7am, in the rain, to get a ticket and it was truly worth it.

And for now, that is the end of our European adventure. I do, however, get the feeling we will be back on its welcoming soil before too long. Morocco is a little more difficult than we'd like at the moment and it is, after all, just a short hop across the water. Those Portuguese tarts are calling to us...

(Also P.S. no photos again, back to the imaginations I'm afraid, at least for now).