The place of plenty -- a night in Marrakesh

Marrakesh, 30 March 2011

Walking onto the Place Djemaa el Fna for the first time is probably one of the most exciting moments possible. A thousand people are milling about, moving from one spot to another, looking at the sights and sounds and drinking in the atmosphere. Smoke is billowing from various food stalls where food is cooked over open fires; any kind of food imaginable – tagines kept warm under their peaked caps and over glowing embers, pastillas, crisp puffed up pastry cases filled with pigeon or chicken and, for some weird reason, sprinkled with icing sugar, bassara – the nutritious and delicious chickpea thick soup that you scoop up with big chunks of fresh flat bread, snails – ornate and colourful in their curly black and yellow shells and served in beautiful small pottery bowls, complete with a pin stuck in a cork with which to dig out the meat. There are row upon row of sheeps' heads, their white eyes

casting a quizzical look over the diners, their yellowed teeth grinning at you from the netherworld, cooked to perfection, the meat falling off the bone, the aromas straight from your mother's kitchen where she is preparing the Sunday leg of lamb roast.

There are brochettes to choose from – long sticks filled with chicken or beef or prawns, chicken or fish, green peppers and red onions, apricots and figs, or you can sit down at an egg stall where huge pyramids of boiled eggs await your custom – peel the egg and stuff it into a flat bread, add a few grilled onions or spicy gravy and you have dinner for the night. Behind the fires men in white coats are moving back and forth between the customers, the food, the fires – a constant movement for the preparations and enjoyment of delicious food.

In the background is the sound of drums beating the pulse of the night on the square. Every here and there is a group of musicians with their traditional and modern guitars, their flat bodrum drums, their African skin drums, their fiddles and their Moroccan horns and flutes. Gnaoua or Sufi, Reggae or Rock – probably a jamming session that has been going on long before even Jimmi Hendrix or The Rolling Stones made this their favourite hangout when they came to look for drugs and rock'nroll in Marrakesh. The sound of the music and on particular the drums has a powerful effect. I remember reading about how certain rhythms and pace of music were never allowed in China during certain dynasties as these could incite and excite people. You can almost physically feel how your heart starts pumping faster to match the rhythm, how your blood starts flowing stronger through your veins and your breath shortens. It is exhilarating, hypnotising.

You move over to a group of people watching a snake charmer get his beautifully sleek black cobras to stay

upright in a defensive position, their little fork tongues licking the air to get a feel of what is around them. Suddenly, as you stand there mesmerised by the cobras, the snake man lifts a drum off the floor and a big fat puff-adder slithers out, only to be captured under the drum again. A gasp goes up from the audience – a glimpse of the adder just enough to remind them these are lethal creatures. As if wanting to benefit from the location of the snake charmer, the next entertainer is a smartly dressed man in suit and tie who has marked his territory with a glowing red Bedouin rug on which he has arranged books and magazines, all strategically opened at graphic illustrations of the human body and arranged around a plastic skeleton. I don't understand his emotional and spit-flying lecture on some aspect of the human physiology, but judging by the rapt expressions on the faces of the audience – all men of every age standing in the circle of light of the lecturer, the subject has to be important and informative.

Over there sits a very old man, cross-legged on a small carpet on the floor, dressed in colourful robes and flowing djellaba, with a microphone and speakers, reading from an old frayed book what sounds like poetry. Or perhaps he is a story teller. Whichever, his voice is captivating and the rhythm of his reading echoes that of the drums. I walk past a row of chairs where men are sitting having their shoes polished. A Berber woman in full veil calls out to me to
come over so she can paint my hands with henna and a few times I have to clutch my hands together around my bag and forcefully pull away to prevent one of these women to start painting regardless of protests and then demand money. Emy, with her gentle nature, was not so successful and now has henna on both hands – orange on the one and black on the other – not necessarily the best drawings or what she would have chosen had she been given a choice, but looking beautiful on her hands nevertheless and giving lovely Emy a certain allure that has everyone smiling and admiring... There are children shooting fluorescent whirlybirds into the black sky and tempting everyone to buy one of these off them to go try yourself, flamboyantly colourfully dressed men with their copper bowls and pom-pom hats and copper castanets

(I could not trace their origin)hoping to catch you take a photograph of them for which you then have to pay. There are old wrinkled toothless hags sitting in small bundles waiting for someone who wants their fortune told and you have to be careful not to stumble over them, as they seem to be there one moment and gone the next. There are carts laden high with oranges where you can stop for a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, so sweet it makes your gills contract.

And then, of course, there are the frequent nudges from behind and the whisper in the ear with offers aplenty of kif and hash and any drug you can name, or of sex – 'you can choose the man' or 'perhaps you want a group?' 'A threesome?' You cannot take offence, as none was intended, but you cannot help but wonder about the people who have come before you – at least over the last fifty years or so since Marrakesh became the centre of all that is decadent and out of bounds and daring and dangerous. There would be no supply if there were no demand. Anything goes here. Anything is available here. Everything is available here. And the price is cheap.

And in the background to this vast bustling scene on Place Djemaa el Fna the pulsing drums continue to beat the rhythm and set the pace, long into the velvety night, long after the last call to prayer somewhere in the distance.

Gorges and mountains, hairpin bends and mind-blowing scenery

Marrakesh, 29 March 2011

Wow! Spectacular! That is the word that sums up the past few days.

I had no idea just how spectacularly diverse and beautiful this country is. It is without a doubt worth a vist to Morocco just to do the trip we have done over the past couple of days:

Starting with a visit to Toudgha (Todra) Gorge – magnificently grand and overwhelmingly beautiful, the red rock formations soaring a hundred metres above the deep shadowy gorge where we all slept on the rooftop of a backpackers' refuge, with the stars of the northern hemishphere forming a sparkling canopy over our heads. Suffice to mention that a red button found a resting spot in this stunning scenery.

Then on to Dades Gorge – again breathtakingly beautiful. I am afraid I am gushing here, but the scenery is simply incredibly impressive and even my store of hyperbolic adjectives cannot begin to do justice to this countryside.

From there we went to spend an afternoon wandering in the 13th century casbah at Ait Benhaddou – like everything around here, built in red mud and straw and stones – which has been used as a set for over 30 films, the most notable probably The Gladiator. (The gladiator arena has been demolished though – a disappointment, but apparently the major set buildings for individual films are demolished after the filming is done, and only the original casbah remains behind. ) Lawrence of Arabia (yes, so now the youngsters in my group at least know the name!), The Jewel of the Nile and The Prince of Persia were all filmed here. It is very impressive, and thankfully UNESCO stepped in recently and gave money for the construction of stairs and soon the installation of running water and electricity so that the 100 original families that inhabited the casbah will come back to live there permanently. At the moment only ten families live there – the rest run their little shops in the casbah but live on the other side of the river where modern conveniences are available.

We then camped out for the night at the foot of the first foothills of the High Atlas, and yesterday morning we crossed the High Atlas Mountains to come to Marrakesh – over the Col Tichka – at 2260 metres, a hairraising experience manoeuvering around the tight hairpin bends, climbing, climbing, climbing up the one side, then descending down the other into a deep gorge where a river provides greenery and blossom trees, then again up another steep steep climb, ancient cedar trees bonazai'ed into distorted and wrangled forms where they grow on seemingly sheer rock against the stark mountain face. Three times we climbed up and three times we came down and each time the scenery completely changed – the colours, the plant growth, the atmosphere – like three completely different mountain passes – and the one more beautiful than the next. Every one of us sat transfixed, gazing out and taking photographs, silent in our stunned admiration of this magnificent nature.

As I said so eloquently – Wow! Spectacular!

An afternoon at the hammam

The shrill voice of the woman pierced the heavy hot air, ricochetting off the hard tiled walls, looking for escape but finding it turning upon itself high up in the domed ceiling of the room. I did not know what she was shouting, but only that there was not enough space around us for the shrieking sounds to catch a foothold and come to rest and the echoes seem to grow and increase at a pace, joining the new and continuing cacaphony. This was not the normal stillness and serenity normall associated with water and steam rituals of the hammam... (Fes, the old medina)

Water is my element.

It is therefore probably not surprising that wherever I go, I seek out the rituals that involve water – or if the water is turned to steam, as in a sauna or steam room, then that too to me is sheer bliss.

In Japan I could easily spend a few hours each day indulging in the cleansing and soaking process of the Japanese baths – and one of my favourite memories is of the hours Ann and I sat in the natural warm water of the baths carved out of the rock under the ryokan against the mountain side outside Hakone.

In Iceland Inge introduced me to the singular pleasure of floating on my back in the hot thermal spring water of the Blue Lagoon, steam rising from the surface and clouding the presence of everyone else, only my icy nose and my toes sticking out of the water and reminding me that the temperature is minus 14'C. In Taupo Hilary and Pat allowed me to sit in their thermal pool for hours on end, gazing out at the snow covered peaks of the mountains across the lake, and even as we crossed the pirate infested waters of the Arabian gulf of the coast of Somalia, I lay in the super hot sauna and enjoyed the pleasures of the heat and steam.

So needless to explain that I am in my element here in Morocco – for here the hot water and steam ritual form part of the daily lives of the Moroccans – in the form of the hammam.

In every city and town and village there is a building dedicated to this pleasurable – and necessary ritual of cleansing. Just like the mosque in every community often seems to be the only building that is not made of simple mud and straw, the only buuilkding that does not look like it dates back to the 12^th century – which they in fact often do, and the only building that is decorated and painted and adorned with the beautiful green roof tiles, just so the hammam is something quite special – not on the outside, but inside where the ritual takes place.

Depending on the size of the community and number of people, the hammam is used by men and women -- the men in the morning until 12 noon and then again in the evening after eight, and the women from noon to 8pm

Usually even the simplest hammam has at least two rooms – more often there are four or five or even more rooms. The rooms are heated – through the walls and floors – I believe through and intricate system of hot water pipes and even in the poorest village's hammam there might not be as much heat as in the bigger cities' hammams, but the water is warm. The further you go into the hammam, the hotter it becomes – the inner most room where the well with running hot water is, being the hottest – sometimes like a very hot sauna, with steam clouding around the bodies of everyone there and everything slightly blurred, lines softened, rendering the figures almost insubstantial – a gossamer scene that could only be described in the softest water colours. The steam rises up into the domed ceiling, swirling around and then swept away through the round holes at the top that open up to the blue sky above.

Every person finds a spot on the tiled floor where she sits either on a plastic mat or a small plastic stool, demarkating her territory around her with two or three large buckets of hot water that she has collected from the well. She first rubs her entire body with a dark brown gooy soap made from olives, henna, sugar, lemon – the recipe often a family secret, the consistency and effectiveness depending on the quality of the soap. When her entire body is covered with this brown substance, it is time to look around and start chatting with her neighbours. There are women who look ancient, their bodies a mass of wrinkles and folds and scars, backs bent into permanent hunched-over shapes, legs bowed from years' of carrying heavy loads, hands gnarled and wizened faces. There are young nubile girls, their bodies still waiting to find their own true form, long thick tresses flowing down the curve of their backs. Young mothers, already thickening around the hips and waist, sit against the warm wall and breast feed their smaal babies, toddlers having soap brushed through their hair and screaming as the knots refuse to release, others mimicking the movements of their elders in making sure that the brown olive soap covers every inch of their small dimply bodies. Little girls smile coyly across the nude bodies of their mothers and grandmothers at each other, wondering if they have just made a new best friend, and the odd small boy gets shouted at very quickly when his boisterousness points him out as the unwanted opposite sex in the midst of this all-feminine coven.

After the brown goo has been allowed to soften and become smooth on your skin in the heat and steam of the atmosphere, you take your washing mitten – a mitten made of very rough and abrasive fabric – and start defoliating your entire body. Every centrimetre of your body is rubbed and rubbed and rubbed some more, until there is not one possible bit of dead or old skin left and your entire body glows and tingles. When you have a moment you turn to your neighbour and offer to do her back for her and she would lie down on the tiles so that you can rub her back and legs down for her. She will then do the same for you. Or, if you wish, for a few dirham, one of the women who work in the hammam will come rub you down – but be sure to ask someone who hasn't had a bad hair day – the experience can be quite tortuous – they don't take a chance on leaving anything behind once they are done with you. This rubbing down – or 'gommage' – can go on for an hour or longer. Every few minutes you scoop some hot water out of your buckets and pour it over the area already done – and then start again. Every now and then, when there is only some water left in the bucket, you will treat yourself to having your neighbour pour its entire contents over your head – the hot water washing away the last remnants of dirt and dead skin. You then go to the well and fill up your buckets again with fresh hot water – at the sdame time checking if any of the other women's buckets need refilling – everyone there helping each other – al the time chatting and laughing and telling stories and gossip; this is the time of the women – when their veils and burkas, their clothes and their facades, their restrictions and worries and prejudices are removed, when they are stripped down to who they truly are. This is where they come at least once a weak to shed that which weighs them down and where they can be themselves. And it is beautiful. The curves and rounds and hills and valleys, from the palest alabaster to the darkest ebony, completerly clean-shaven and glistening, weatered and wrinkled or smooth and plump, long black hair dripping and clinging in coils, here and there the filigree of henna'ed hands chasing the steam in a whirl and laughter bouncing off the tiled walls. It is truly beautiful.

The hammam in Chefchaouan was my first one on this trip to Morocco and I was so excited to get there, looking forward to the heat and steam and hot water after the days of rain and cold and sleeping in the open. Like everything else in Chefchaouan, the hammam was blue and entering it was really like stepping underwater, a strange ethereal feeling of floating. But the water was not quite hot enough, meaning there was no steam, the soap was sticky and hard and stayed clumpy on my skin and the hammam attendant kept on asking me to pay her – a little strange considering as I was sitting there on the floor, no clothes on, my purse locked away in a locker in the entrance to the hammam. If I knew a Darija swear word, I would have used it there. (are there swear words in Darija?)

Rabat was a cmpletely different experience. The hammam was ancient – the damp marks of centuries of steam and heat creating beautifully green and blue and saffron designs on the white washed domed ceilings, the sun shining through the round air vents in the dome splashing down on the wet zellij tiled floor below in prism patterns. My two 'neighbours' sitting in the next-door circle of hot water buckets turned out to be Zuhor, the retired Moroccan Minister of Cultural Affairs and Haouria, a political television reporter on French television. Zuhor had a cornucopia of home made soaps and lotions, pre-wash and after-wash, conditioners and shampoos, mittens of different abrasive levels and a font of information how best to make the hammam experience an unforgettable one. In between scrubbing and rubbing and lathering and massaging, we talked about France and Morocco and culture and music and traditions and food and sugar and spice and all things nice. Haouria has been around the world reporting on political events and it was so refreshing to hear first hand what is happening in the 'real' world out there. Zuhor was fascinated to hear about life on the truck and wanted to make sure we will not miss a thing while in 'her' beautiful Morocco. She wanted our whole group to come for dinner at her house, but when I told her there were fourteen of us, she suggested that perhaps only I came, but, as we were camping out in the forest ourside Rabat, this was not feasible. We settled for lunch – where, glowing and clean and rejuvenated, we continued our interesting discussions. What a magic hammam day that was!

Today I go off to the medina of Marrakesh to seek out the pleasures of this vibrant city's hammams. I am sure to tell you all about it on another occasion...

A contribution from Ben: The Battle for a Bargain: Morocco.

Before I left home and told people that I would be spending a month in Morocco there was one theme that came up in almost every conversation: the fear of being ripped off by a viciously aggressive trader. I heard many horror stories of people being lead into carpet shops by seemingly friendly Moroccans, fed pints of tea, and or hash, then not being allowed to leave until they had parted with vast amounts of money for something, often a carpet, that they did not want. I was sceptical of theses stories as they ranged from paying over the odds to outright blackmail and extortion. I decided that the best way to learn the truth was to jump in at the deep end and start bartering.

For the first week or so there was nothing that I wanted enough to engage in a war of words with a possible professional extortionist. In Chefchaoun a few of the guys bough Jalabas (traditional Moroccan hoodies) and , of course, hash. They were not sure if they had paid a good price or had been ripped off; Joel didn't even barter for his Jalaba! Our next major stopover was in Rabat where the selection of goods on offer was far too mush for me to resist.

During our first day camped out in the Marjane carpark Kyle took me into the Medina to show me one of the shops where he had bought a guitar on the previous trip. Within seconds I had seen the most beautiful instrument and decided that I would buy it; the price tag read 600DH. I thought that I would play it cool and return the next day to get the price down.

When we returned the guitar was still there and the shopkeeper took it from its hook and handed it to me: I don't play so I just held the instrument, turning it in my hands admiring the work that had gone into every inch of it. The shopkeeper could tell that I was interested and I could do little to hide my enthusiasm. “Would you take 400 for it” I asked he shook his head so I decided to rely on a tactic from my time dealing with suppliers at the pub. “What's the best price?” I asked he replied “500DH”, I was happy so I nodded, handed over the money and left. My first experience of making a purchase in Morocco had been totally the opposite of what I had been expecting. I was not led into a dark room and forced to buy something I didn't want. I had got a price I was happy with for something I really wanted to buy.

On the way back to the Marjane we walked passed countless stalls selling everything from live chickens to computer games. Kyle decided that he wanted a Jalaba; knowing they had cost 650DH in Chefchaoun I was interested to hear the prices here. Once again the shopkeeper was friendly and helpful; not simply eyeing up our wallets. As we left the shop, Kyle happy with his bargain, a lady held up a Jalaba and said “170” to me; knowing what Joel had paid for his I decided this opportunity was too good to be missed! I got the price down to 150DH for mine and the game had begun! I should point out that although I had decided to turn souvenir collecting into a competitive sport most of the goods on offer are handmade to varying standards and there for most are unique and so have no 'going rate'. In the end, if you have bought something you like at a price you are happy with then you have made a good deal.

The next opportunity for bartering one-upmanship came in Fes at the notorious tanneries. Apart for carpet shops these were the most common settings for daylight robbery in the horror stories from home. We toured one of these dens of corruption; what ever money making scheme they had in mind, it stunk. Of course this could also be down to the use of pigeon shit to soften the leather; no man-made substance works as well apparently. Luckily for me Joel and Emy were with me in the tannery and they decided that leather wallets would be the next round in our bartering World Cup; remember so far its Australia 0 England 1. Despite my desire for another win the wallets were good quality; the leather was the softest I have ever felt. In the end two were bought very close to original price as we were told “this is not like the markets”. After lunch we found out how unlike the markets the tannery had been.

We were all drawn to a small stall just inside the Medina walls by its owners unique calls; “scallywag” and “hooligan” were his two most memorable; thinking of what we must have looked like these did not seem offensive or even inappropriate. He turned to me and said “would you like a leather wallet?”. Remembering Joel's earlier purchase I decided that I did want a leather wallet, despite already having two with me for various currencies. “Good price, cheap as chips” he promised. I showed him the wallet Joel had bought and said that I would like one the same or similar. He showed me an identical wallet and told me it would set me back a handsome 13DH or I could have two for 25. The look on Joel's face alone was worth that price, he had paid 200DH for his, and so I pretty much bit the guy's hand off and bought two wallets to add to the two I already had. Australia 0 England 2. This was the first proper example of the horror stories from back home being true. Buying from the source you may expect to pay a cheaper price but in reality the price at the tannery had been majorly inflated due to the captive market of naive tourists. Despite this the experience was nowhere near as horrific as people had described back home.

In Ressini the ground was picked for the final of the Bartering World Cup; a traditional Berber carpet shop: the haunted house in the majority of the horror stories. As I entered I didn't know what to expect; were we to be herded into a small room, suspended by our ankles and tortured until we were parted with every last dirham we had? No, of course we weren't. The 'Blue Men' who owned the shop showed us countless carpets in various beautiful colours and explained which each was made from and what it would be used for. He assured us that we could take pictures and smoke whilst sipping on Berber whiskey (mint tea). We were asked to say if there were any carpets that we liked with no obligation to buy. I chose a beautiful carpet of camel's wool that depicted sand dunes in a vast plethora of vivid colours. I was lead into a side room and shown the different sizes and styles of the carpet I had chosen; on the other side of the wall Joel was beginning the same ordeal.

The opening price of the carpet was our starting whistle and the Final was under way. Once I had picked the size I wanted and sat down on it with the salesman he told me the asking price was 9600DH; a huge amount of money both here in Morocco and at home. I almost left there and then but decided that I would give it a go, as with the guitar I had already decided that I would buy the carpet. The salesman's technique was not aggressive or intimidating; failing to live up to my suspicions. He simply asked me to write a counter offer on a piece of paper. I warned him that he may be offended at what I was prepared to pay; I had heard that mock offence was just one of many weapons in the arsenal of these cunning extortionists. He insisted that he would not be offended and so I wrote down 1500DH; despite his promise he looked very offended and left the room. 'That's the end of that' I thought before he returned with another of the 'Blue men' who told me that the carpet I had chosen had taken six months to make and the least they would except was 8000DH; this was still too much for me; I still have 41 weeks of travelling to pay for! He asked once again for a counter offer and I wrote 2000DH he lowered his to 6000DH and insisted that he would go no further. After a few minutes of conversation; he was interested about the trip and wanted to know who I was buying the carpet for, he asked for my 'last, last' offer. I wrote down 2500DH and thought that would be the end of it; he looked down at the paper then back up to me and said 3000DH and its yours. We shock hands and the deal was done. I was happy with the price I paid for the beautiful carpet but I was slightly disappointed that the whole experience had been pleasant and strangely enjoyable.

The only downside was that Joel had secured an equally good deal and so the Bartering World Cup final ended a draw. The best aspect about these experiences is that they dispel most of the misconceptions held by people back home. Not everyone is out to take your money and rip you off. Of course, there will be some people whose main goal is to make a quick buck from foreign visitors but the majority of traders and shopkeepers seemed friendly, genuine and simply happy that you had taken the time to visit them and inspect their wares. I don't claim to be an expert by any means but if I could offer one piece of advice it would be to keep smiling and make sure you leave happy with what you have bought and the price you have paid; that or turn the whole experience into a competitive sport!

Who? Ben from the UK, always there with a helping hand, always on standby when someone needs assistance.

What? Definitely the Master Chef of the truck! A dubious past at Manchester Uni studying History, a pub landlord in Essex, a man looking for a bargain...

Where? Where someone can be ragged, where a trick can be played, where humour is as dry as the desert and as refreshing as the Ziz Oasis.

Tattoos? Yet to be acquired, yet to be revealed...

Writing from Todra Gorge : The magic continues

I can see that keeping this blog is going to be a much more difficult task than I envisaged.

When did I think I was going to be writing on my new little notebook? During the drive? Impossible! Every moment the scenery changes, every kilometre is a new world opening up, the countryside and villages and towns and donkeys and people and all that is Morocco unfurling in front of us as road continues to the distant horizon.

And writing in the evenings when we make our camp alongside the truck or, on the odd occasion, in a camp-site? No way is that the time to write either! We stop, get out, stretch our legs, open the side lockers on the truck, get out the tents, pitch them, set up the table, set out the wash basins for hand washing and later washing dishes (– two bowls for hands washing and rinsing and three big bowls for dishes – the first with disinfectant, the second with soap and the last for rinsing), pull out the crates with our crockery and cutlery and utensils, dry ingredients and condiments, collect fire wood, get the fire going, fill the kettle with water to boil and whichever two people are the cooks for the evening, start preparing the meal. Then it is having dinner around the fire, clearing up and washing dishes, flapping them dry and packing away everything back into the truck, chewing the fat for a couple of hours, then off to bed. The daily routine therefore does not allow much time for writing.

But here I am tonight – we are in Todra Gorge -- local spelling is Toudgha -- and tonight we are all sleeping on the top of the roof of a building – under a canopy of black sky glittering with a million stars, with the massive rocks of the gorge looming large and strong around us, and while everyone is busy sharing a shisha pipe with a few locals and talking football (there is strong competition amongst the group – especially between Elisa from Finland and David from Sweden), I have slipped away to write a new entry for the blog.

So – where to begin? The last couple of days have been pure magic. First we drove over the Middle Atlas through fields of snow, majestic mountains, cedar forests and the flat moonscape of the desert, then the long climb into and over the High Atlas, through the Legionnaire Tunnel and down the imposing Gorges de Ziz – kilometre upon kilometre of bright lush green fields amongst date palms in this fertile valley which is completely surrounded by rocky mountains and arid, brown desert. The mountains in this area look like they have just recently been dug up – large messy mounds of stone and soil, and I would love to know what the geology of these – so completely different from, for instance, the solid rock mountains that make up the Todra Gorges where we are staying tonight and tomorrow. Way down the valley we stopped to visit a very old casbah – a large building with one entrance which is closed from the end of the last call to prayer at nine pm until the first call to prayer in the morning at five am. (There are adhans or five calls to prayer during the day – 5am, 7am, 12:30pm, 3:30pm, 5:30pm, 7pm and 9pm – when the muezzins chant the dronimng, haunting praises of Allah from their tall minarets in every little village, town and city quarter.

God is great.

I witness that there is no god but God.

I witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God.

Rise up for prayer.

Rise up for salvation.

God is great.

There is no god but God,

he calls, and everywhere, all over the Muslim world, as here in Morocco, people leave what they are doing, kneel down towards the east and pray for about five minutes.

These days most of these adhans are recordings, but I cannot help but look up at the minaret every time I hear this soulful singing over the microphone to see if I can catch a glimpse of the muezzin who has such a lovely and moving voice..)

Back to the casbah. Walking through the casbah with a guide is a truly fascinating experience. In this particular on we visited, there are 300 families living and when we arrived, the children had just come out of the medrassa -- the koranic school, and were following us, laughing and shouting, disappearing down this little alley and reappearing over there from another alley. The place is a maze of narrow alleys with openings in the roof every ten metres or so to let in light and air. The 'houses' inside the casbah are windowless, but they do have stairs up onto the roof where they can sit outside to enjoy the sunshine, dry their clothes or chat to the neighbours. At the back of the casbah was an area where each inhabitant has a plot of land to grow vegetables or lusern for animals as well as a number of date palms, all from which they can earn money or use for their own consumption.

After our visit to the casbah, we then stopped at the palace of the very first Moroccan king, now an excellent museum. Just as fascinating – most notably the courtyard around which are the four living quarters for the king's four wives and the hammam with its beautiful domed ceilings. In the entrance to the palace there were the portraits of all the kings – up to the present King Mohammed VI-- him and his father, Hassan II the only two who do not resemble Omar Sharif in is heyday!

And there was more to come: Next we stopped at a building where pre-historic fossils are cleaned and polished and sold. A dashing Berber gave us an excellent talk on the origin and history of the fossils, this part of Morocco having been under the ocean until about 43 million years ago and absolutely abundant with the most wonderful fossils of Trilobytes and fish fossils of every kind. My best were the large jelly fish, their tentacles looking like beautiful flowers floating in the stone.

And no educational tour would be complete without a last visit to the home of 'the last remaining' Touareg family in Morocco – in Ressini, the gateway to the Sahara – where we had a fabulous few hours learning about carpets and fabric and jewellery – and a few of the group even made a purchase or two, after some serious and impressive bargaining sessions! We were then treated to delicious Touareg pizza – flat bread filled with spicy beef mince and grilled and the best mint tea – all served in the shade of camel wool tents, whilst lounging on couches – feeling for all the world like the last of the Sultans of Araby!

And then, for many of us, the highlight of our visit to Morocco so far: We drove deep into the desert, over gut-wrenching – and shock absorber-wrecking corrugated iron dirt roads, until we finally reached our destination – a beautiful adobe building deep in the desert where we parked our truck, each got on to a camel and we set off into the desert – the only sounds the afternoon desert breeze blowing past your head and the soft plod-shluff-plod-shluff-plod of the camels' footsteps, their huge soft feet splaying open as they step gently onto the fine red sand, then dragging over the sand into the next footprint, the rhythm as old as time as your body sways with the camel's movement, up the side of the dune, over the top, down the other side...It brought back such memories of scenes from Lawrence of Arabia but this was one of those moments when you keep quiet because these kids just give quizzical looks when you mention something that dates from so way before their time.

We reached the Bedouin camp well before sunset and with plenty of time for everyone to climb to the top of the highest dune above the camp, called Erg Chebbi – in the Merzouga region. Then, after sunset over the dunes, back to the camp again where we all gathered in a camel wool tent for a feast of chicken tagine, followed by the sweetest of sugary sweet oranges and again the ubiquitous mint tea. The evening was rounded off with a drum session by four of the camel drivers – and whether it was them being so stoned on the hash that they smoke like Stuyvesant Lights, or us being so stoned on the smoke from their smoking, I am not sure, but it was a magical evening and we all slept like logs rolled in our camel blankets and on the plush layers of carpets and rugs thrown over the sand floor in the tents. Waking up early with the sun peeping over the dunes, the air so fresh and clean (most noticeable after the sweet and intoxicating smoky air of the previous night!), a delicious breakfast waiting for us – freshly squeezed orange juice, fresh bread and desert honey, and we were all ready for the two hour camel ride back to base.

I could write about the pain the poor lads suffered on the camels' backs and the contortions they had to perform to try to get comfortable, some of them sitting in weird positions not quite Lawrence of Arabia-esque at all, trying hard not to complain too much about damage done to the prospects of future progeny, but I shall leave one of the boys to write that story.

Personally I loved the experience so much – from the moment we arrived on the edge of the sand dunes, the camel ride, the stay over in the Bedouin camp, the starry night skies, the drums and the kif-by-proxy, the tagine and the oranges, the blue men serving us hand and foot – that I dropped a red button in the sand. With the many different little tracks we saw in the smooth sand the following morning (how I wished I had listened more closely to Sir Richard Attenborough telling me in a whisper what all those wonderful little desert creatures were called...) I somehow think that this button will find a home in a little desert lizard or scarab or perhaps even a sand snake's home, rather than a person finding it and picking it up and taking it home. Somehow I know this special button will be claimed by the beautiful Sahara desert – my first meeting with which has already given me so very much pleasure and joy and wonder.

Flying on a dream : A contribution from Elisa

My lungs are burning, my legs are totally numb. Don't look back. No matter how far you've come – still you are not there, where you want to be – on top of that massive dune.

You keep on going because you think that is worth it.

You keep on going because you've decided to do it.

Once I'm on the top, it's too windy, even if I could open my eyes without getting blinded by the sand, the heavy clouds cover the assumed beautiful sunset anyway.

At least I have my beer.

I find a little shelter and share the beer with Suzanne and Jesco. Two strangers, just like my other travel companions, who everyday feel more and more like my family. Even with an extensive amount of sand in my mouth, it's one of the best beers I've ever had.

We start to get back down. A step after a step I go faster and faster and before I fully understand it, I'm running, no, flying down the dune and screaming my heart out.

Your mind goes blank, you leave everything behind.

You forget everything, you let go. I let go.

I'm here. I'm alive. I'm free.

My feet slip, I fall down into the soft sand and start to roll down. I feel amazing, nothing's holding me back. I keep on rolling.

I couldn't stop smiling. Wilna made a comment of me smiling like I knew something. I knew that there was no other place where I'd rather be.

I'm right here.. and I can't stop smiling.

Who? Elisa is our indomitably joyous spirit from Finland.

A few tidbits about Elisa: Elisa teaches us one interesting fact about Finland every day and once a day also asks a question about Finland. The first person to answer correctly is awarded a Finnish flag sticker. This sticker has surely become the most coveted item on the truck!

Elisa has a degree in sign language interpretation and is currently studying for a second degree, in Political Science, International relations and Human Rights at Padua University, Italy.

Tattoos: None revealed to date

What gets up her nose? Swedish David reminding her when Sweden has been better at something than Finland.

_______________________________________________________________

The big dune above the Bedouin camp where we overnighted.

Quick note from Midelt, Morocco

Here we are in the Midelt -- sort of easy name to remember as it is about in the middle of the desert between the Middle Atlas mountains and the High Atlas mountains -- breathtaking scenery as we drive through the arid desert with snow covered mountains behind us and this awesome snow covered range in front of us.

We left Fes yesterday and immediately started the climb int the higher regions, feeling the temperatures drop as we go higher and higher into the mountains. We stopped in Ifran for lunch and it was a fabulous moment as Orm, a young Australian lad -- a miner in Roxbury Downs; South Australia, saw snow for the first time! I little after Ifran, Suzanne from Canada wanted to stop for a snow ball fight alongside the road, but as it got colder and colder - and colder, that idea faded away with whatever sunlight was left in the sky. Everyone agreed that the freezing wind last night made it the coldest night yet and Ben and Kyle passed around rocks that had been warmed in the fire to keep our laps and other parts warm as we sat huddled around the fire with our backs to the howling wind. The wind even cooled down the fire -- believe me! -- it was Emy and my cooking turn last night and the custard we wanted to make for Emy,s delicious bread and butter pudding took over an hour to come to the boil and thicken! The end result was absolutely delicious -- whether it was because of the long wait or the welcome warm food long after the dinner dishes had been washed in the freezing cold greasy water, is immaterial; Mark licked out the pot and missed his mother;s baking days, Jescoe passed around his aqua vit and proclaimed the virtues of the water of life, Suzanne and Elissa cuddled under their Finland blue blanket and warmed the circle with their stories and laughter, and Ben;s warm rocks did wonders with frozen body parts. It was a magical evening.

And this morning we woke up to the most beautiful view of the High Atlas mountains in the distance. This must be the most stunning scenery (let;s count how many times I get to say that!...)

Quick note on Ifran: Here, in the middle of the Middle Atlas, is this town -- almost Disneyworld-esque in its pristine, immaculate layout and design -- a clone of any poshe expensive ski resort anywhere in Europe -- or in particular, Switzerland. The chalet like buildings, the grey stone; the cobble stone streets; the parks and trees and sculptures -- even the storks click-clicking in their nests on the roof tops. We could have been anywhere in Switzerland - or anywhere other than Morocco! The cafe;s are all called Cafe de la Paix, Cafe le Chamonix, the pastries are eclairs and Napoleons, the drinks are chocolat chaud and Perrier -- and no people!! Where are all the people? I know it is a ski resort, but surely the town does have some permanent residents? ---- sooooooooo not Morocco! At the entrance of Ifran was a complex which turned out the be the Al Akhawayn university -- all chalet buildings plus a large concrete and stone building that could have been a Le Corbusier -- it is amazing! Apparently it is a semi-private university which is very expensive to attend as well as very hard to get in to. There are four faculties: Science, Information Technology, Commerce and Finance and some time soon there will also be a Medical faculty. This entire town of Ifran was such an incongruity...

The end of the first week already -- On the road in Morocco

The beautiful blue of Chefchouan -- a natural mineral colour found in the local stone

Day 8 18 March 2011

On our way into Rabat – again.. A bit of deja vu here – but that's the way of an expedition like this..

We drive in from one idyllic spot or another to the carpark at the Marjane – the big supermarket chain in Morocco. There we make our base for the dfay – do our washing (yes – our washing gets done in a car park with the line being tied from the truck to whatever is nearby and there, for all the world to see , our washing dried in the very welcome sun.

It rained from when wee arrived in Gibraltar, across the crossing and all the way to yesterday – wet, wet wet wet cold cold cold – today about half of us have the sniffles and coughs and splutters and feeling a little sorry for ourselves – but hey! Then the sun started shining yesterday and last night we slept on a beach west of Rabat – waking up this morning with mussel pickers down there om the rocks, two exquisite white herons wading in the water that remains on the rock ledge that juts out into the sea, the white foam from the waves crasjhi9ng onto the rocks floating off in the bree3ze, the reflection of the mussel pickers and white herons a perfect reflection of the themselves. Magic.

Kyle and Graham were responsible for .last night's dinner and this morning's breakfast and we started our day with a beautiful fresh fruit salad topped with fresh yoghurt, cinnamon and Moroccan honey.

The reason for our lengthy stay in Rabat is that we needed to get the visas we need here for nthe next few countries – Mauritania, Mali and Ghana. Burkina Faso we can get gt the border. The Ghanaian embassy had decided they are not issuing visas at the moment so we will have to get those in Bamako a few weeks down the line. The Mali visas were easy – the very tall, very big, very black very friendly Mali embassy officials busy having their buttery warm croissants over the morning's newspaper while flicking through the group's passports and asking about our intended trip through the continent, our first taste of black Africa. Then off to the Mauri5tanian embassy where the entire street is lined with cars with people sleeping there in the hopes of getting into the embassy the following day for their visas. Reminded me of my days sleeping on the cold grey wet dirty pavements of Brompton Road London at 4 am along with the dregs of humanity, waiting in hope to get into the French Embassy to get a visum for a trip to France across the Channel. We take turns to do the Embassy run, so it was Elissa and Suzanne who went to pick up the visas yesterday, only to return with all the passports except for Randy's – seems nondescript, non-est, non-anything Mauritania had decided they do not particularly want to welcome the only American in our group. My heart went out to him – he had a bad day all round – feeling flu-ish, stubbing his big toe and cracking off the entire nail – leaving a trail of blood behind him in Sale, and then to return to the truck to find he had been singled out as a dodgy applicant... However, we are now on our way back in to Rabat to go remedy the situation – and hopefully we will not have to leave randy behind to wait around until Mauritanians relent and issuer him a visa for their patch of sand on the African continent – while the truck continues south on our journey.

The cemetary in Sale -- across the wadi from Rabat. The graves all point south as the dead are lain down on their right sides in order that their hearts may point in the direction of Mekka.

It is Friday evening. We are parked in a huge quarry up against the foothills of the Atlas mountains and down below is a panoramic vista that stretches to forever. The sunset brought out a few cameras and put on a spectacular show for us. There is quite a bit of mud underfoot and no doubt the loose stones will add to an interesting night's sleep. It is David and Elissa's turn to cook tonight and the sizzling pots on the two charcoal braziers are emitting a delicious aroma. What awaits us for dinner tonight, I do not know yet, but one thing is for sure – we are eating like kings. I wonder how often it happens that everyone in an overland group is a good --- and innovative chef. Thjis group most certainly has a full complement of budding Raymond Blanc's and we are enjoying beautiful meals prepared on either the charcoal burners, the three-point gas burner or a wood fire.

Over the last four days since Chefchouan we camped twice in the spectacular Samaara forest of cork trees outside Rabat. Looking more like a parkland, ir offerend a tranquil and serene setting with masses of birds singing us awake in the morning. The second night that we were there the local police decided to pay us a visit. The man in charge obviously had had a bad hair day or had shoes on that were too small: he was just plain unpleasant,.

“You can't stay here. Go. Go Go Go.” Pulling our axe from a stump of wood and throwing it through the air to slide to a stop in front of our feet where we were sitting around the fire.

“No” said our intrepid captain, Mark. “We are not going. We are camping here for the night.”

“It is too dangerous, you cannot stay here. Go Go Go”

“Where do you want us to go? “ asked Mark Berber women on their way home after a day of foraging in the maarmara forest.

“To town. There are lots of hotels there.”

“We don't have money for hotels,” said Mark “and there is nowhere in town we can park our big truck.”

In between this dialogue which was not going anywhere, the police officer was constantly on his mobile phone. A second car arrived. More police. This time all dressed as if on their way to a royal military parade, medals and shiny brass buttons.

“It is dangerous here. There are lots of bandits. In this forest”

“We can look after ourselves thank you”

One moment we realised we had no choice and some of us started to dismantle our tents. The next moment Captain Mark had dug in his heels and stood his ground and not even the tow truck and a third car full of officers could budge him. Custer's last stand. And this time Custer won.

Two of the smartly unformed and medalled officers stayed behind in one car for the duration of the night, spending a very uncomfortable and very very cold night sleeping in their car. (We did make them strong coffee with lots of sugar...)

A little kitten ran away with our hearts in the beautifully restored medrassa (Koranic school) in Meknes

21 March 2011 Old Medina, Fes

Already the 21^st! I cannot believe how time flies!

We arrived in Fes three days ago – staying at a lovely camp site outside the city, called Diamand Verte. Great to have hot water showers, but for some reason the nights are extra cold cold here – if that could at all be possible! I am now looking like the Michelin Man when I crawl into my tent at night – with every piece of clothing that I own on and a few bits and pieces more that I have been collecting along the way in the hopes of getting some warmth from them. But at least the rain has stopped and the days are glorious with the bluest of skies and almos t hot sunshine weather. Almost everyone in the group now has had or still have colds and there continues to be a lot of spluttering and sniffing and snortling going on.

But not even that can dampen the spirits of the group. Elissa continues to regale us with facts about Finland – with a quiz the following day to test our knowledge and a Finnish flag sticker to the person who gets the answers right the first. Slowly but surely we are getting to know each other better as little bits of information slips out or funny little habits and quirky little idiosyncracies starts manifesting themselves. (Still bet on this being a good group a ll the way – I know I tend to be a bit of a Polyanna in these matters, but let's see how long before I have to eat my words. I hope not before we reach Istanbul in January 2012...)

The road from Rabat to Meknes and then Volubilis was just so incredibly beautiful – breathtakingly so – with the majestic Atlas Mountains in the background, the green rolling wheatfields, Olive trees, Argan trees – and of course the decorative citrus trees, laden with rich orange fruit, enough to make your mouth water, and dotted along the countryside against the hills the mu d houses, women in the brightly coloured robes working the fields, and men riding their donkeys to who knows where. In fact, the road was so amazing that I threw a red button out the window! –

(Nici gave me a bag of red buttons – different sizes and shapes – with the instruction to leave a red button wherever there is a very special moment/memory/experience. My first red button was left behind at our fire pit in the Maarmara Forest where we spent two incredibly beautiful nights under the cork trees -- and in the rain...
I shall be leaving a trail of red buttons right through Africa – and who knows, whoever finds these buttons may then gain a whole lot of joy and pleasure from it as well!)

Question: If you lived in Fes and an old friend who is busy travelling through Africa and sleeps in a tent and has almost forgotten what it feels like to stand under a hot shower, knocks on your door to say Hi, wouldn't you offer that friend a warm bed for one night and use of their beautiful bathroom? I know I would. Perhaps that's just me.

A few glimpses of the colour and smells and sounds of Fes, the Medina and it beautiful architecture, its people -- and our own amazing photographer, Kyle who, with his South African smile, charmed his way right into the heart of the tanneries

And a last comment for today: This is quite a strange experience. Every day we are either
driving through the most amazingly Moroccan/African countryside, looking at the people who are so completely different to anyone we have ever encountered before, the houses which are so different from what we know, eating the food that have different tastes and aromas and textures, walking through medinas and experiencing a culture and traditions and hearing a language which is so foreign to where we come from, and then, every night, our little group gathers around the fire next to our truck – and we could really be anywhere in the whole world. When we sit around the fire after a good meal, the pots and pans washed, flapped dry and packed away, the rubbish cleared, everything neat and tidy, and we huddle close together around the wood fire somewhere in a campground or in a forest or in a quarry up against a hill, watching the flames and chatting about places and people that are far away, that in itself is another little world that only we live in, and that world could be anywhere, peopled with only us. Mmmmmmmm I shall try to word that thought a little more clearly at another time.

Time to catch up on a bit of letter-writing home, flapping dishes dry, waiting for the laundry to dry (at last -- sunshine and able to get some laundry done!) and sewing on a few buttons. (Randy, Orm, Graham and David)