A few beautiful images of Mali

A night out on the town!

We happen to be in a part of the world where music is BIG -- and not far from where we are staying (in luxury! with running water and shade and a dinkum kitchen and BEDS!), we found a fabulous spot to spend the evening a few days ago. Great music, good ambiance, (air conditioning!) doormen (aka bouncers) that looked like they stepped straight off the remake of a Tarzan or a Rambo movie (or is that giving my age away again? Should I rather say a remake of The Pacifier?) -- BIG, burley and built to last! Everyone on the A-list of this beautiful capital city seemed to be there -- glitter and glamour and glitz, shisha pipes bubbling away, hostesses teetering on 8-inch stilettos, Absolut Vodka by the bottle, laser beams flicking over the crowd and occasionally highlighting in green the faces of the dancers on the floor.
I can literally say we danced the night away -- stumbled into the pool and then into bed around 4am -- those of us that did make it home, after having had a thoroughly fun African night club experience!

Truck Cleaning Day!

A few of the many spectacular birds in the vast open sky above us

(With apologies to Nici -- and a promise that I WILL NOT turn into a bird person! -- But in my defense I have to say: we are all noticing the amazing birds around us. How these birds survive without water is a mystery - especially in the areas where there are only sand dunes and dust and no water -- not even wells, for vast distances -- but we are seeing trees with leaves now and some green grass -- and I also have to keep on reminding myself that during the rainy season this world does undergo a metamorphosis. I spoke to Esther -- a young Dutch woman who is working on her PhD here in Mali -- she is researching the artisanal gold mining in Mali and spending a year here in Bamako and staying with host families in the areas where the gold mines are. I commented on how difficult it must be to survive where there is no water and she reminded me that there is a rainy season -- albeit maximum two months and when often no more than 500mm of rain falls per annum, but how, during that time, everything turns green and becomes unrecognisable. I have seen the Namaqualand in the North-Western Cape (South Africa) desert turn into a garden of flowers - literally overnight, but having driven through this arid scenery for two weeks, it really is very hard to picture it all covered in green!

Anyway -- I am digressing -- (probably in fear of being labelled a freaky birder or dipsy twitcher or some such) -- we have been delightfully surprised by some very exquisite and colourful birds on the way. One particular companion has been the flashes of bright indigo blue of the Purple Glossy-Starling and the Bronze- Long-tailed Glossy-Starling. The blue colour seems to be quite common -- there are also the beautiful Camaroon Indigobirds -- their blu outlined on the wings and tail with black, the Long-tailed Paradise-Whydah -- a blue brother of the usual black whydah, and then the many Woodland kingfishers we have seen as well as this region's particular brand of Roller. One has to wonder whether perhaps the spirits of the Blue Men become the birds of the Sahel skies. It definitely does appear to be the case.

And then -- whenever you look high up in the blue, blue sky, you will also see the many raptors of the Sahel -- Bateleurs, Tawny Eagles, the quite common Brown Snake Eagle, and then the smaller beautiful falcons and kestrels. There seems to be a lot of crows and ravens around and I felt right at home when I saw my first hornbills -- both red and brown! These all have given us a most regal and generous welcome to their territory!

A definition of the word of Mauritania

tr.v. eked, ek·ing, ekes
1. To supplement with great effort. Used with out: eked out an income by working two jobs.
2. To get with great effort or strain. Used with out: eke a bare existence from farming in an arid area.
3. To make (a supply) last by practicing strict economy. Used with out.

Mauritania - a retrospective of not a particularly 'Moorish' experience (- if you will excuse the weak pun!)

When I started writing 'A retrospective of Mauritania', I first considered leaving a blank space.

Then I thought to rather just write one sentence -- short and not so sweet:

Mauritania sucks

And then I looked at my notebook and saw what I had written and thought I had better try to put down some thoughts and impressions -- and let you make up your own mind.
So, here you are -- The land of the Moors gets a blog entry after all:


On the 9th of April, I woke up in the morning, unzipped my tent, stepped out, watched the sun rise over the sand dunes and wrote in my journal: What an incredibly beautiful morning!

We set off after breakfast and for the first couple of hours drove all along the coast -- the yellow and white and pink sand formations dropping down dramatically into the bluest of oceans, the horizon of the ocean barely discernible from the start of the azure blue sky. Almost the entire way was in the Parc National du Banc d’Arguin, considered to be one of the best bird sanctuaries in the world for bird watching --mas it is one of the main resting points for north/south/north migrating birds. We stopped mid-morning and looked down on the spectacular crashing waves below forming a dramatic backdrop for large flocks of terns, cormorants, gannets, petrels, guillemots, - and even a few albatrosses came across. I stood there and so wondered whether any of the Chateau Lalinde swans had ever come this way...

But -- then we hit Nouakchott. Overwhelmingly hot -- one of the hottest days ever, a vast sprawling mass of makeshift buildings, rags, rubbish, paper, plastic, lean-to's, derelict and pockmarked squat buildings, holes dug in the middle of the road, dust whirlwinds swirling about like children looking for mischief, mangy dogs scratching in the rubble, goats nibbling at everything, the wind blowing the hot air from around one corner and down the next alley, coming back on itself to grow into a hotter, stronger wind, flies, flies, flies, flies everywhere... Everyone seems hot and bothered. Emy and I had our cooking turn that night and ventured into the market for provisions. We walked past the dirt road where a riot of colour greeted us -- the area where the farbics and cloth and textiles are sold -- piles and piles and piles of every colour and design under the sun, as well as the piles of blue and white embroidered robes that the men wear. Emy had to drag me away for we only had an hour to go find food. We found a few stalls with a meagre selection of onions and tomatoes and mangoes and oranges and one single stall that had a handful of small cabbages, about six carrots, two capsicums and three beetroot. We bought everything she had. Then to find some meat. Through an area where we saw what happens to all the old clothing you donate to charity or give to your church or your local do-gooders with the idea that it will be sent to the poor and homeless and destitute somewhere in the world. Well -- I have news for you! It comes to the markets like this one in Nouakchott -- neatly arranged on trestle tables and sold at a price -- to the poor and homeless and destitute -- and there are many poor and homeless and destitute here in this big jumble of a city, as the upheaval and expulsion of thousands of 'non-arab' African Mauritanians in recent years have left the false 'vacancies' for many more thousands of rural Mauritanians to stream into the city -- where, as is the case so often with urbanisation, there is no housing, no jobs and no opportunities waiting for them.

Anyway -- the quest for meat. Dodging the rubbish tips, jumping over water puddles with rubbish lying in them, finding detours around the holes dug in the road/pavement/ filled with rubble, steering clear of the rusty cars and the swarms of flies, we discovered that we needed to follow the goats -- one of those might become our evening meal. Eventually we found the butcher -- on a makeshift trestle table, under a grass canopy, sticking out from under a goat's grimacing head and his innards and an inch-thick layer of flies, we noticed two skinned legs: Eureka! Leg of lamb for dinner tonight! (let's not be pedantic about the name of the meat, OK?) A little bit of a fracas between me and the butcher as to exactly which part of the animal I wanted, worrying about Emy who looked close to having a fainting spell, trying to keep an eye on the friend who was keeping one finger slipping onto the edge of the scale, insisting that the one kilo and two kilo and 500 gram weights were NOT all one kilo weights, but in fact different weights -- finally we walked off very proudly with an entire leg of lamb. And yes -- the end result proved it was indeed lamb -- the evening's dinner -- roast leg of lamb done over the open fire, stir-fry vegetables with a sweet and sour sauce -- it was a feast and well worth the nightmare shopping experience.

And nightmarish it was, let me assure you. A nightmare that continued when we left Nouakchott. As far as we drove, the result of the expulsion programme that started in 1989 painted a terribly miserable and bleak picture around us. Seldom have I been so affected by the misery of poverty and destitution as these miles and miles of desert dunes and dust and hopelessness unfolded in front of us. Mile after mile of little shacks and stuck together hovels in the red sand. Mile after mile of arid, unforgiving desert where no creature can possibly survive. No water. No power. No structure. No roads. Nothing other than heat and sand. I have seen poverty and have seen misery and I have seen circumstances where you wonder at the sustainability, but never have I seen anything as bleak and heartbreaking as this. I had promised Nici I would not despair when I realise - daily - that I cannot save all the children of Africa and I would not get depressed when I realise - daily - that I cannot save every animal from torture and maiming and cruelty and abuse -- but I apologise Nici, I have already not kept my promise -- you see, Mauritania was the place where I heard a small dog scream such a bloodcurdling scream of agony and where I saw a man hit a leg of his cart-pulling donkey so hard with his stick that he snapped and broke the donkey's leg right out from under him.

Of course there were good moments too. I even found such a good moment that I left a red button -- albeit a very small red button -- when, on the last night in Mauritania, Mark managed to find the first baobab tree for us to nestle up against for the night. -- How good was that to see our first baobab tree. If this ancient old creature could survive in this bleak and unforgiving dry cruel land, then so can I make the effort -- and to remember that there is always some good to be found...

Johnny Walks into 'dry' Mauritania - and gets his feet wet at Orm's 30th birthday party

I think everyone was a little sad to leave Morocco. After all – it was the first of the 29 countries that we will be getting to know over the next ten months, we did spend four weeks and covered 4000 kilometres there and the country served well as a gentle introduction to the vast dark continent which is Africa. For many in the group it was a first in many things – a first taste of the medinas, a first look into the Arabic souks, the first call to prayer – five times a day, seven days a week, the first lesson in bargaining and haggling and finding a good deal which makes the seller as well as buyer a happy man, the first time sleeping under African skies, cooking over open fires, finding the ingredients for a meal for thirteen people in the open air markets alongside the road, eating goat, eating camel - riding a camel, touching a camel, falling in love with a camel!, the first lessons in Fun Finnish Facts, the first time playing Arse-hole and Shit-head, the first time having to dig your own toilet every morning, the first time swimming/surfing in the Atlantic ocean, the first time baking a birthday cake over an open fire in a hole dug in the sand in the desert, the first time seeing a cobra snake hypnotised by a flute player, the first time pitching a tent, the first time being transported 3 metres across the desert floor by the wind whilst sleeping, the first time seeing shooting stars in the desert, the first time seeing snow and throwing a snowball!, the first time shopping in Marjane!, first time sleeping on the flat rooftop of a travellers' inn, --- no doubt there will be many many more firsts!

The last of firsts go on – and with all firsts – they are good, they are memorable, they make for great stories.

But now Morocco is behind us. Yesterday, after drivi9ng through the Western Sahara for three days and seeing the gradual change in the dress, the architecture, the very appearance of the people as we go along – Layounne, Boudjour, Dakhla – exotic names for exotic places, where the men are so much taller and bigger and darker and mostly dressed in flowing, richly embroidered Bedouin robes, the women in brightly coloured tie-dyed robes, looking like exotic flowers in the otherwise monochrome hues of the desert – and being stopped every 20 kilometres or so at a road block where the Royal Moroccan Gendarmerie inspect the truck, get a list of our names and details, inspect the truck papers and interrogate Mark and in various levels of thoroughness, and then finally ask for whiskey. Mark’s self-taught French is good we finally reached the border post. Getting out of a country can be more time consuming and tricky than getting in. Each one of us, one by one, had to go
underneath the police, the gendarmerie, immigration and customs' magnifying glass – and then, for good measure., in the fifty metres between the last check of passports and papers, the truck gets stopped another two times to allow more police to get onto the truck and go through each passport and have a good look around. And while we were all being scrutinised, the entire truck had to be driven into a large building where it was x-rayed., Amazing!
And then finally – we are through the impressive gateway – in No Man's Land! We pulled over almost immediately and like vultures, the blue and white robed men were all around us, their robes billowing in the wind, their weathered bedouin faces beautifully framed by their head scarves, their hands deep in their chest pockets ready to provide us with Mauritanian ouguiya in exchange for our Moroccan dirhams. Roughly 33 ouguiya for one dirham – the exchange taking place quickly and efficiently, bony ebony fingers fluttering over the cheap little pocket calculators, the dirhams disappearing deep in the djelleba pocket and thick wads of Mauritania ouguiya appearing from the same place – already counted out in neatly folded packets of nine thousand wrapped in a tenth note. The money is beautiful with pictures of all things Mauritanian, giving us a glimpse of what we will see over the next few days. Little square huts with cone shaped canvas roofs, camels – and more camels, fortress type casbahs, a beautiful mosque, the longest train in the world (a 2.5 kilometres-long trains that transports iron ore from the Mauritanian mines to Agadir port – we actually saw the train – quite an incredible sight! – Is it longer than the Richards Bay anthracite and coal train?), an iron ore mine, an oil rig (Idid not know they had oil -- but now see it everywhere - Star Oil) – somewhere out there are all these things – for now we only see flat white and pink and green that stretches all the way to infinity.
No man's land. How very strange. There is no road to speak of – so for probably about five kilometres, we drive bumpy across sand dunes, rocks, holes, surrounded by burntout cars, wrecks, random tyres, the odd tent of a money changer. We speculate about being in No Man's Land – what happens if you decide to stay there? Do you live Nowhere? If you died there, are you really dead, since you have died nowhere? What is the situation if you should be born in No Man's Land (and rest assured, if you were pregnant you would probably give birth – it was that bumpy!) – I would love to know the answer to these International Political questions please!)
And then we arrive at the entrance to Mauritania. A much much smaller set-up than at the Moroccan side, a small building or two and a boom over the road – yes, suddenly a proper tarred road again!

There are soldiers everywhere. So different from the Moroccan Royal Gendarmerie. These are tall men, almost black with Arabic features – long aquiline noses, moist black eyes, regal bearing, so totally in charge. They take turns to get onto the truck and ask for our passports, they scan every nook and cranny of the truck for the slightest sign of alcohol, they ask the question everyone asks at every check point: Is this a humanitarian mission? What is your mission? Who are you? Why are you travelling through Africa? Tourists? No! Not possible! What is your mission? Are you going to teach? Are you scientists? Is it humanitarian? No one will believe that we are mere adventurous explorers of an exciting continent.
Mauritania is a 'dry' country, meaning not only that almost the entire country is one big stretch of desert, but also that absolutely no alcohol is allowed in this country. I have often come across this ruling and have traditionally found that those are the areas where you are most likely to see several drunk people lurching across your way. Not here, it seems. It really, really is dry. So the last remnants of the Stork Beers, the Flag beers, the red Moroccan Sahara wine – everything containing any alcohol was finished and polished off the night before. Because we knew the truck would go through the x-ray machine, no one was going to take a chance on trying to get even one drop of alcohol through that b order. “Where is the alcohol?' the soldier barks. “We have none” we reply – and I even taught Mark the little phrase – especially for all those policemen at every checkpoint in Morocco who wanted whiskey before letting us go – how to say – we respect the Muslim faith so we don't drink in Muslim countries and carry no alcohol. There were a few embarrassed faces at the checkpoints – but only a few...
But then of course we had Johnny with us – black labelled and all. You see, it was Arm’s 30th birthday on the 8th and Graham's 25th birthday on the 9th, and everyone had pooled in to buy a special bottle to celebrate. Where Johnny was hiding when we crossed the border I have no idea, but better so – I am not sure how long I would have stood up to the interrogation were I put under the spotlight.

But – as mentioned, we had to empty the truck of ALL alcohol the night before we crossed the border, and thus the night before the birthdays, so the birthdays were preceded though by a HAT Party! The night before the first birthday party, everyone had to make a hat with whatever was to hand. The idea was not to buy a hat, but to make your own. What a truly mad hatter party that turned into! There was a shisha pipe contraption made from a cut-in-half round-bellied water bottle, complete with the Vache qui rit logo on the front on Graham's head. On Orm's head was a (water-bottle-) tagine with Je ne sais quoi Morocco randomness inside – a bicycle peddle, a lucky stone, a crystal from way back, other odds and ends collected along the way in Morocco and rounded off with the obligatory slice of preserved lemon – looking a little worse for wear. Elissa looked splendid in her disco ball hat – a round aliminium foil cap covered in the bottoms of plastic cups that she had painted – each another fluorescent colour. Emy was superb in her Moroccon “Looking is free” shop. She had a camel – with a superb hump, a pair of Moroccan babouche slippers, silver earrings, a Fatima's hand, and several key rings – Moroccan'Roll, Mint tea pot , and of course. A drink or two of your own preferred tipple could buy you any of the items. There was quite a bit of bartering going on – usually in the opposite direction of what we were by now used to doing! Kyle wore a miniature red fes which got a little lost in his dreaded dreads, Mark started off as a koala, but then had a metamorphosis halfway through the evening and became a sad donkey. Ben was a happy donkey – again half a water bottle forming the base for two magnificently happy donkey ears, perking up even more as the evening progressed. I used five Moroccan bread loaves – the plate sized round flat loaves – all on top of each other as the base for Terry – our pterodactyl dinosaur mascot, with a few more smaller dinosaurs around, a crown from a palm leaf and some desert flowers for decoration – since I am the dinosaur on the trip, after all and the bread loaves – well, the thinking was they might just come in handy. And they did – breakfast the following morning was some delicious flower flavoured toast. Andrew had a hat of toilet rolls – treated like the crown jewels that those are out here!, John was the prince of the desert with his karate headband covered in clothes pegs and David looked jolly with his hat made from a swimming cap (yes, David- the man with no hair!)in which he had threaded about twenty blown up balloons in all colours, with a champagne glass nestling on the top of his head amongst the balloons. This glass was constantly filled with beer and so he shared his big stash of beer with the group. But the winner of the evening was Suzanne who had spent hours making miniature drawings of everything that had impressed her since arriving in Morocco. There were surfers, waves, Mark in his Moroccan Ewok coat, a face of each one in the group – quite remarkable likenesses! And all of this was on the burka head covering and veil that she had made out of the Marjane logo cut from about forty Marjane plastic bags. It was superb! The very worthy winner got a medal (made from – guess! The top of a water bottle!) as well as a bag of small Mars Bars – which was shared with everyone. And the slightly blurry star of the evening was Elissa who, in true Finnish style, taped all her empties on top of each other and needed a couple of guys by the end of the evening to stand at the top of the truck stairs and hold this one long beer can for her to drink from. (don't ask how many empty cans were in the end result ! ) But in case you do, it was 18!)

And so the journey continues – Orm successfully turned 30 and lives to tell the tale – balloons, crowns, lots and lots – and lots of singing and of course, a dashing Johnny later, and so did Graham enjoy his 25th. If their families are reading this – I am afraid you have a lot to live up to from now on – they will want every birthday to be this good in the future! They both got silly little presents from everyone, beautiful cards, T-shirts with everyone's (rude) messages written on, and everyone will agree that is it good to celebrate a birthday on a trip like this (where the any-excuse-for-a-party-policy applies)


Short note: Layounne was interesting – big sprawling quite modern city on top of a hill in the desert. Lots of building going, seems flourishing, I had my last hammam there and spent a glorious two hours enjoying the last of this fabulous luxury. Next shower or wash is fourteen days away. Don't ask!...)
Nouakchott is the first mad, crazy, busy, colourful, noisy noisy noisy, bustling, very very dirty, dusty, disorganised African city. And so hot we are dying! We slept on the roof of a camp-site building last night on the beach – after visiting g the fishing port where the huge 20+metre wooden brightly painted fishing boats are pulled in from the ocean – our boys helping the 30-a-side teams to drag these boats in with their haul on drums and sand mats – quite an amazing sight to see! The brightly clothed women sit on the beach and wait for the first choice from their husbands' catch, before the fish is unloaded and everyone e can come to buy. Huge trucks drive down to load fish and drive it away to the factories, people shouting, donkeys braying standing waiting to take their loads over the soft beach sand, over there a half-faced dog heartbreakingly drinking sea water, here a mother breast feeding her new-born baby, and there, in the shade of the boat, a few men kneeling towards the east and praying. Wonderful!
We also all swam in the ocean – very salty! Very strong currents. Very wild waves – and a cup or two of precious water had to suffice to at least wash the crusted salt off my face afterwards. The rest of me will have to wait until we get to Bamako and water. The beach was crowded on the Saturday afternoon – families, groups of friends, men in flowing robes, women either veiled and covered or almost naked, everyone swimming and enjoying g the slight relief from the heat once in the water. Mark and Orm impressed everyone with their excellent body surfing, and we reckon Mauritania has learned a new sport from them yesterday.

Oh yes – Elissa and David and John left us yesterday to travel 13 hours by bush taxi down to Senegal. We will meet them again in Bamako – we hope! As we will Randy – who never got his visa for Mauritania so went back to Rabat to collect his passport and flew from there to Senegal (we think!) So – we now head off into the hinterland and will be in touch again next Sunday – if all goes well!

As we leave Morocco.. A retrospective

Tomorrow it will be four weeks since we stepped onto that EasyJet flight at Gatwick and headed to Gibraltar, the truck and the start of our journey. Four weeks and four thousand kilometres behind us. We drive through the endless desert of the Western Sahara, hour after hour of stark stunning desert, the sky so blue it makes you check that you have indeed taken off your polarised glasses, the horizon so far that it bleeds into the sky and you are not sure where the earth stops and the sky starts, the only sound the wind in the tarpaulin of the truck, everyone sitting gazing ou mesmerised, lost in their own thoughts. Time to look back on where have come from, as we continue on our journey across the bulge of Africa.

Mixed feelings. Conflicting emotions. Call it what you may, but you cannot be untouched by some of the ambiguity in this land of contrasts, Morocco.

When I arrived here, I already knew I was going to love it. – have only visited a few places in Morocco and only stayed in one place, Fes, for any length of time, but my sentiments were clear: I love the country with all its diverse beauty, I love the seemingly unchanged medieval character of the medina, the artisans working at their crafts that have been passed down through centuries, the coppersmith banging away at his copper vessel, the weaver creating beauty with silks and cottons and glorious colours at his ancient loom, the knife sharpener turning his flintstone wheel so fast, the tailor keeping track of the twelve threads feeding in from the bicycle-chain-contraption in order to embroider the intricate work on the seams of the djelleba, the men toiling in the vats of the tanneries, their legs stained bright in red or purple or green or blue or yellow or whatever is the colour of the day. I love the sound of the muezzin calling everyone to prayer five times a day, the way people, wherever they are – in the street, in the desert, on the edge of the beach – where they are surfing or playing football or enjoying a day out with friends, or out in the fields where they are herding the goats or picking argan fruit, take off their shoes, turn to the East and kneel down to pray. I love the hammam (as you may have noticed!). I love the way the different ethnic groups are so proud of their individual cultures, traditions, music, language, customs, food, - how they each keep their own heritage alive – be it Berber, Touareg, Arabic ***** and yet, are Moroccans nbdcal to their king first and foremost. I love their warmth, their hospitality, their eagerness to share, their keenness for you to enjoy their country. And juxtaposed to all that, I love how this country is so advanced technologically with its street lighting that is powered by solar panels on each lamppost, its excellent roads, water resevoirs, internet access, mobile access, and more.

When I arrived, I knew already why I love this country and what I love about it and I was prepared to simply have all that reinforced by my spending more time here and discovering so much more. And it was reinforced. It was as I expected it to be. I still love the place with a passion.

But, sadly, this time round, I did not come as a guest of locals and did not see Morocco through the eyes of people who would go to any length to ensure that you only see the best of their country. This time I also found another side of the country that I probably realised existed before but never wanted to admit that it was there. Seeing the country through the eyes of a guest and seeing the country through the eyes of a tourist – in other words as someone who comes to see, experience, take a few pictures,, learn a few things, buy a few souvenirs of a wonderful time – that is a completely different kettle of fish. No doubt this other side was there all along and I just chose not to notice it or I was screened from it by my hosts, or, and this is probably what I have to admit, I was just too naive to come to grips with the harsher realities of life. I did not see what I did not want to see. I have to put it down to naivete – how else did I not notice the creepy, hand wringing greed of the souk vendors, the glint in their eye when the foreigners step into their beautiful rug emporium and are stunned by the colours and textures and vibrancy of their Berber and Touareg, Hambel and Handira and Kilim rugs? When did I stop smiling indulgently when they gave me the history of the ancient carpet and wonder at the magic of the weave and dyes and start getting impatient with the lies and deceit and felt the urge to say to them I saw these same carpets being washed and dried and weathered and 'antiquified' in the hot sun against the sand dune not 100 kilometres from here.

Where were these men before who insist on showing you the way through the medina when all you want to do is wander on your own and marvel at the wonders of the souk, discovering for yourself the little gems, the unique little treasures it has to offer; When did I stop smiling and thanking them for their hospitality and generous offer of time and realise that all they want from you is their business – why was I surprised then every time I finally got through to them that I really did not want to go down that particular alley or into that particular shop, that they turned like a viper and started calling me names for using their guiding services and refusing to pay for it? How was I different every other time when I came to Morocco and walked through the medina alone that I never had these ceaseless offers of sex? Was my red hair off putting? Do they think a white haired woman is on the prowl for men? As I said before – where there is a supply – and a supply in such abundance, there has to be a demand – but was I really that naive that I did not realise there was such a demand out there in the world of foreign white women visiting African countries?

Whatever the situation or whoever you have to be to experience a foreign country, there is always an ugly side just as there is an ugly side to man – that is the nature of life. This time I saw the less-than-idyllic, less-than-beautiful side to this wonderful country. – but you know what? It still is everything I love and a country where I will always come back to.

we are on our way into the desert and the connection is sooo slow...

I shouldn't post this entry as it is not finished, or edited, needs some information confirmed and checked, I have exactly ten minutes left before we head off into the desert and won't be at an internet probably again until in ten days time ~ so ~ no time for some of the best photographs I have taken yet, but here a few thoughts I jotted down this afternoon~

Taghazout 2 April 2011

Surfers' paradise.

The village is bustling with dreadlocked lean tanned bodies, bare feet, boardies that have seen better days, little stalls selling board wax and second hand fins, camping gear and leather bangles. Down by the beach the fishermen are sitting over their morning catch, hoping to get a buyer for their few dozen sardines, the odd crab and a pretty shell or two, so that they can go have a nap and then head down to the beach where the surfers are sitting in huddled groups, gazing out the at the waves, trying to read what they are going to do. Will the breeze change from north easter to a good onshore westerly this afternoon? It is not the right time of the year for big swells, but surely we will be lucky and get at least a few good swells soon?

I threw a red button out of the truck window this morning. I just had to to. This Moroccan coastline from Wadi Tamri, where we slept last night on the beach, down to Taghzout is breathtakingly beautiful.

Rugged sandstone formations, pockmarked by the weather and allowing perfect homes for cliff face nesting birds like kestrels and falcons and sea eagles line the wide soft sand beaches that go on forever.

Every here and there a small cove protected from human invasion by high cliffs and crashing waves, or a spot where the rocks go all the way down into the sea and where fishermen with their long long rods sit sleepily, waiting for their first bite of the morning. The water is blue, blue and crystal clear, and form the most beautiful backdrop for the fields of white and purple and orange and yellow flowers on the cliff edges. All along the road we saw women with their donkeys come down into these fields to pick the orange flowers, carrying large bunches of flowers and loading the donkeys' backs with these splashes of colour. Every so often a man on a camel meanders down the road on his way to somewhere – only he knows where – and once in while you see a haphazard tent pitched under the argan trees where a goatherd spends his lazy days. Last night Mark drove us to our bush camp for the night, not able to contain his excitement, his smile hooked behind his ears, so sure that we would all agree that this was the most superb bushcamping spot ever. And it was! High up on the sand stone cliffs with a view of indescribable beauty. This sixth red button has found a worthy home...

Sixth button? Yes, the fifth was bequeathed to the warmth and welcoming charm of the fishing port of Essaioura.

After the constant irritating bluebottlefly-hustling of the Marrakeshites where I finally let their incessant insistence to 'only to look, you don't have to pay', 'this way, this way, no this way,' 'good price, very good price, what do you want to pay?' get to me and almost crack my cool, smiling demeanor that had lasted so well through several medinas and souks – when just one too many young man stepped in my way and insisted on showing me a good time when all I wanted to do was walk at my own pace and explore and discover the fascinating medina on my own, it was a relief to leave Marrakesh behind and head out back into the dry, open countryside with the High Atlas mountains in their glorious snowcapped splendour on the horizon.

We reached Essaouira early afternoon and set up camp in probably the most unattractive bushcamp to date – a parking lot on the wrong side of an overgrown dune at the far end of the corniche. (A 'bushcamp' is where we camp in any old spot alongside the road, i.e. no running water, power, toilet or washing facilities, but often incredible views and beauty - as opposed to a 'campsite' where those amenities are available in a larger or lesser degree.) Most of us pitched our tents and then wandered off to the beach – a colourful picture of turbaned men on camels, offering rides or simply just standing around or taking their camels for a bit of a walk through the waves. I had a lovely long swim – but the water was icy cold and the tide was so far out that it felt as if you were a kilometre out to sea before the water came up to your chin. All the same quite beautiful though with the town of the Essaouira in the distance like a picture out of an Arabian fairytale. Orm and John cooked the evening meal – delicious sardines grilled over the fire served with a fresh salad and topped with bananas stuffed with Mars Bars and cooked in foil on the fire – Yum!

Early in the morning we were up, had breakfast and then we set off to go visit the town. A wonderful walk along the beach of the Corniche – young girls in veils walking and chatting, the odd camel and rider out for an early morning wash, a man and his dog playing with a stick, two sea gulls fighting over a fish. I headed straight for the fishing port as I had noticed that all the little boats were chugging into the harbour while we were walking, and my decision was rewarded with the most amazing two hours amongst the fisherman, weary from their night at sea, the boats – old and weathered and repainted many times in different colours, bundles of net marker flags flying, plastic floating balls bunched and tied to the masts, the fish glistening liquid silver in the sunlight, the ice carts emptying their crushed ice in mounds, ready for the fish, the old sun-dried men sitting sewing the torn nets, the gulls teasing and taunting and trying to steal a fish, squawking their disppleasure at each other, the sellers shouting the merits of their specific catch and the buyers haggling over the prices. Like an oil painting the colours of the boats and all their paraphernalia, the fishermen themselves, the crates in which the fish are loaded, the robes and veils of the women coming to buy – if I had my easel and paints with me, I would have set it up there and then and tried to capture that vibrant scene. And all this in the ancient port where I left a bright red button on the harbour wall – the gulls soon coming to inspect if it was something to eat and one gull in particular, standing over the button and making a heck of raucousness as if telling the world that this bright red jewel was his and his alone.

Perhaps it is not surprising that Essaouira has such special charm and is so different from the other Moroccan walled and ancient towns that we have visited. This is not only a port town which means it is open to the sea – and to the world, wide horizons and fresh ocean breezes, but it is also the town that seems to bridge the divide between Morocco of North Africa and the rest of the vast African continent. This is where one of the biggest music festivals happen every year – spilling over in the general scenery and vibe of the place. People are more outgoing, more diverse, more 'cosmopolitan', I dare to say. The little tea room has pastries that could be from any big European city and has young women with small children sitting there enjoying a morning tea – not only men sipping their strong coffee and looking stern and disapproving when a woman on her own wants to sit down for refreshment. The stalls contain a lot of products other than Moroccan – Moroccan woven fabric mixed with Ghanaian cloth and Senegalese fabrics, woodcarvings and silver more African than local, the rugs hanging on the white painted walls of designs not seen before in Morocco. Many little hole-in-wall stalls with every kind of musical instrument you can think of. I follow the sound of hauntingly beautiful guitar music and an African voice that makes my heart strings pull taut and go into the shop, saying to the keeper – What is that CD? I want it! He pulls down a CD from the shelf and hands it to me, pointing out that it is not guitar I hear, but **** – the strange two-bellied mandolin type of callabash and wood instrument. I pull out the dirhams from my purse to pay and another woman walks into the shop, saying : 'What is that lovely music? I want it!!'. The shopkeeper smiles and pulls down another CD for her. As if on cue, a third operson walks in – the shop keeper looks up and asks; Would you like a copy of this CD?' 'Yeah! How'd you know?' the man replies. My notebook does not have a cd player in – so I will have go wait to listen to my special CD!

I also indulged in my last Moroccan hammam – a tiny doorway down the end of a long narrow dark alley – but filled with warmth and steam and laughter and the Friday morning crowd of beautiful Moroccan women and knowing we are bushcamping for the next two weeks, it felt good to be squeaky clean!

Quick note> We first stopped at a most beautiful site last night where there was a man with a telescope and a notepad. He was guarding the bird nesting on the other side of a very high sandstone cliff~ Bald Ibis nests ! 47 of them, each nest with two or three babies in! They are extremely rare, are only found in Morocco and there they were so very beautiful and special to see! I promise some great shots when next I get to internet! We left to go camp elsewhere and so as not to disturb the birds even though we were a long way away as this is their territory and they are nesting and edgy. Quite a privilege and so lucky to see this!

Chat next when in Bamako *I think!..

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!