A Largo in Lisbon

On first glance Lisbon reminds me of Miss Havisham's mansion from Great Expectations - primmed up in a by gone era waiting for the party that never came. But still exubes the glamour and charm of a promise and the mystic flavour of something secretive that's been tucked away for so long.

I am on an assignment researching the orginal, and hopefully the best Portuguese Egg Tart in the world.

...To be updated

Anger and Dissent In Madrid

With Condi Rice also in town, I finished my last evening in Madrid off by participating in an anti-war protest. These guys are mad, still hurt from the bombings from few years ago, and the growing indifference between Spain and US - apparently they want to sell bombs to Venezuela... This is only my second overseas protest, so dont call me a protest- tourist just yet!! Believe me it was really hard to follow a chant that is a Spanish toungue twister, but all in all this is one of the most exciting protests Iºve been to in years. Come on Down Undah!!

Grand Tourismo Toledo

Toledo is a pretty little town an hour outside of Madrid and plays a big part in Spanish history. Its great to finally get out of the big city again and chill in a laid back environment surrounded by farms, red bricks and small lane ways. I am finally feeling like I´m in Spain. For more history & facts on Toledo: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toledo_Spain

The old town has a moat which just adds to the effect. The locals would like to call it the home of Don Quixote and there is a trail route you can take to follow in his footsteps - well, if you really want to... Tourist shops here sell lots of swards and knight armour gear if that´s what you´re into.

On the bus over I met a person who is scaringly like me: she is a Taiwanese girl who grew up in LA, our English and Mandarin and Min are exactly at the same competency level, juggles biculturalism equally uncomfortably, same age, her mum is Haka, she dresses in outrageous colours, is also considered plus size in our shared home land hence never finding anything to wear in Taipei, is enthused by the smallest things or events, pet of 16 years died late last year, has a tendency to be ripped off, and share my love for sushi, paella, gelato, and offle. And drinks like a fish. Our minds boggled as we talked about our lives and realising the parallels we share. She is still quintessentially american though - when asked where she is from she says "Caliafornia" instead of "USA", had McDonalds for lunch and complained that it tastes different to the American version. Not sure what she thinks that is quintessentially kiwi about me, I´m sure there are a few. Like how I joke about Terrorism and Heather Mills in the most irreverent way. Anyhow, we got really pissed together later in the evening and managed to score four free drinks between us. Heyy!!

Madrid Is

If Barcelona is like The Pavement Magazine, then Madrid is like Harper's Bazzare : not quite quirky enough to be interesting but classically beautiful, bold, spacious and slick that you love it for the variety. To me Madrid is much more Spanish than Barcelona, which was to me much more international in its appeal and make-up.

What's Hot
Big grand plazas and gardens for chilling out
More pretty buildings
Calzone and Callos
Going to the deli
More fabulous fashion
Reina Sofic museum of modern art (houses the Picassos and the Dalis = but they have a Bill Hansen too!!)
Free hugs at Parque Retiro (see below)What's Not
Bull fighting
The service, as usual
Weather

What the Locals Do

#A number of young men seems to have taken up wooden pipe smoking
#24 hour live music _ like in Barcelona, they busk everywhere including inside train carriages and can take any form and shape, such as reciting a poem written by some one else or dressed up as Simply Red in a Devil Outfit draped in rose petals
#Go to stand up tapas bars reminiscent of the soba noodle stations in Japan
#drink beer for breakfast

Barcelona With A Lisp

Hi all. J´rrive in Barcelona in one piece, have just filled up on black rice paella, mojito gelati and Goudi, feeling pretty chilled and hanging out with Helen. She,s great cos I never get lost with her and ensures that my caffein and endorphin levels are kept up.

Getting off the plane was a bit scary though > flushing toilets, giant squeeky clean glass panes and smoking chambers. Its not back to civilisation but a transplantation. Geeziz this gelato is nice.

To be updated. For a better grab of the weekend you can visit Helen's blog.

M'salama Maroc!

Its Friday again and my last day in this beautiful place. Men in jilibas pour out of the mosque after the midday prayer and I was lucky to miss the que at the "fish n chip" shop.

I am by myself again and I am reflecting on the last three weeks. Every day has delivered me with new and stimulating experiences, every day the culture shock has made me confront my fears and use my ingenuity, every day Ive had the pleasure of feeling the warmth of the hosts and appreciate the possibility of reaching out to a different world.

The people here are so gentle and spiritual. They eat well, whether they are rich or poor there seem to be plenty from the land and sea whereever they are. They eat in style and they celebrate the growing and preparation of food, and the utensils and platters they serve food in are always so lushly decorated. They respect the animals they sacrifice. They make eating a big deal. They live well. In colours, in comfort, in cleanliness. Their surroundings are always asthetically pleasing no matter how simple the material. A Moroccan doorway or window is always dressed and decorated. They always peer out of ecelectic boxes that beautify their vision of the world.

By no means am I try to preach my politics here, but I really see the political reforms here being fantastic for women. Although it is the elite women who are doing well, the traditionally strong female roles in families continue to be the backbone of this society. I see them demanding the respect they deserve and men give it to them. Feminity comes in so many forms and ways and so does feminism.

I find myself fascinated by Islam, at least the way they do it here in Morocco. Dont worry not converting. I am just questioning. Spirituality is something I want to understand but could never quite reach. I envy those that can be so devout, if it is what they chose and they truly knoz it. I just know I could never relate to spirituality that is presented to me in a condensed structure or in a book. I could only understand it as a way of life that flows naturally and easily. never forced, imposed, misused or preached. I know I am making a huge generalisation but it seems like so many Moroccans really practice their religion in the way that I can relate to and respect, and their culture and politics let religious life develop and flourish along with progress, ideas and openess.

Looks like I'm going to have to come back.

Easy Essouira

This laid back and chilled little beach town is THE best place to end the trip in Morocco. Essouira was founded as a Portugues port, and would you believe that its over 500 years old!!

Jimmy Hendrix used to hang out here back in the 60s and the ruins on the beach inspired the song Castle in The Sand. Megan and I went to check out the castle and it is quite a haunting thing, with the water rolling slowly on it and gulls treating it like a real castle. Other punters included Cat Stevens and Jefferson Airoplane. ok no more name dropping.

Man people are really chilled here, no one comes up to you to sell stuff and shop owners are seldomly pushy. The marriage offers don't stop though however. Then again why shouldnt i be tempted. Just watching the clouds and birds floating across the sand with african drums beating in the background seduces you into a full day of siesta. The medina is very easily navigated and the tourists are definitely less annoying here.

Fish Auction
Fish auctions happen daily in the fish markets next to the dock from 3 to 5pm. Its like a hall with several concrete platforms. Auctioneers move from platform to platform to conduct the auctions. It is kept immaculately clean and each platform is hosed down religiously. But smoking inside is allowed...

Firstly the fishermen would bring in the day's catch and say 6 -7 lots from different fishermen would be displayed on the platform and each lot would have a tag. Buyers bid auite passionately and the successful person is given a ticket and the auctioneer moves onto the next lot. At the end of the round successful buys collect the fish in their own bqskets and pay the ticket to the office. Then he would generally hire men outside the market by the rockpools to clean the fish. Fish is then dispersed to the intended destination whether it be a restaurant; an open shop or sent to other parts of Morocco.

I use "HE" because this is strictly a male business of buying and selling. Women dont even do the cleaning. The usual laid back middle aged men zould flare up in colourful expressions when it co,es to business and would yell at each other with aggressive hand gestures and eyeball each other. Back in the docks younger men maintain the boats and many sits in a circle mending fishing nets. Even without the women doing the hard work they are still relatively laid back and chilled as they worked. The contrast is quite amusing.

Best Fish'n Chips In The World.
I can confidently say that I have found the world's best fishn chips. Theres three little holes in the wall on Rue Mohammad el Qory in the medina. They are pretty much the same but I eat at the third one along. Theres all kinds of fish being fried up but my fav is the giant eel. didnt know what it was till i saw it being auctioned off at the dock. The batter is crsip and salted and appears in a dark brown, the its quite a fatty fish and so half of it is its white tender but substantial flesh, and the other is a layer of jellyfied fat coating the flesh. It comes with the skin and the bones but very manageeable and make the eating twice the fun. I like turning up to the shop to find a piece or two just being finised off in the wok and I point at the one I want. The supple fat melt on my fingers and slides and disappears in my mouth. Even then theres enough to share with my cat friends.

Tough Fist Tangier

Tangier is the main Northern port in Morocco on the Atlantic coast and is only a quick 35 min ferry ride to Spain and the British colony of Gibraltar.

I sit at the esplanade facing the beach and its a very text book esplanade. I could be in Petone, Terrigal, Gold Coast, Manly, Mission Beach, St Kilda. The ferries blow in and out all the time with tha whale like cry and ensures Tangier a real internationl feel about it. Like most sea side cities, Tangiers is rather hilly. Many buildings are Mediterranean inspired and does remind me more of Casablanca the movie than Casablanca itself. Women at the medina scrub the pavements intensely first thing in the morning, except on a hill the dirty soap water just rolls down the hill onto the next neighbour and the next neightbours's turf. Lots of French ppl with boxer dogs. Got my first tummy bug of the trip and continuing to be mistaken as Japanese.

Tangier was an interantional zone until the 1950s and therefore pretty much inherit its dodgy rullessness past...MUM DONT READ THIS BIT someone got stabbed with a broken bottle outside our hostel last night the puch up lasted about half an hour but i was in a sleepy haze and thought it was all a figment of my imagination till I had to sidestep the bloodtains on the footpath. Its true that i dont feel particularly comfortable here, the locals (young males usually) are generally more pushy here and accost you quite rudely and openly swear if you ignore them.

To make matters worse the SouthAfricans took a day trip to Gibraltar via Algerciras (Spanish territory) on the ferry and was denied entry on the way in as the multiple entry visa they had turned out to be single entry...SHIT-o. They only took day packs so we have lug their stuff around till we can find a DHL to South Africa. Poor lads what a drama and its a shame not able to say bye properly. Once again, admin sucks.

The night life sucks here also. Despite what the guidebooks say, on a Saturday night you DO NOT walk into an empty bar at 12am and there,s a live band of 7 players playing to a crowd of four and call this "lively". I did however spot the first Bum Floss Surprise (tourquoise and yellow, to go with the petite taxis) of the trip which was liberating in one sense but dfisturbing in another. The beers cost me 50dh and the coke is 10 dirhams more at 60dh.. In any other country whne the beer costs less than the coke you;d say you got a good deal but not here eh. I would imagine its is the costly liquor liscence and genreal discouragement to drink which results in this kind of outrage. I think most ppl are sedated by the lack of alcohol here, which is good really. Could you imagine half the population here and the majority being under 35 completely off their faces on a night like this? Nope. I prefer to go to an empty night club than to stumble into a crowd of drunken under sexed young men.

OK enough bagging Tangiers out. I do recommend coming here for the interesting history. The American Legation museul which was the first ever US Consulate acquired overseas by the US was iits consulate till the 1920s and now a cute little museum housing a great collection of impressive fine art, dioramas, antiques, plus tributes to James McBey and Paul Bowels. The Kasbah Museum is a little gem also, one of the better curated places I've been to so far. It used to be the Sultan's palace which housed his 400 concubines and then various Portuguese and BRitish governments took over before being reclaimed by the locals. It has fab Moroccan art and some pretty interesting dig ups and ship wreck salvages from over the centuries, REALLY worth the look. AND Its next to Vidal Sassoon's house.

Two Postcards

Postcard from Chefchaouen 19/5/07

Hi gang. I am soaking up the cool air in the Rif Mountains in the sweet little town of Chefchaouen. Its streets qnd houses are all white and blue and the locals are very good at cooperating with the colour scheme. Feels like Im cruising around in an igloo. apparenlty the blue keeps the flies away, maybe should give it a go in Aust?? Its the northernest place in Maroc ive been to so far and lots of ppl here speak spanish. Bumped into some interesting but mean look'n spanish gypsies travelling in a truck painted with skulls. Everthing from hashish and mint tea are all organic and picked striaght from the twin peaks behind the town. Yummy food as usual, tried giant anchovies for the first time twas orgasmic. Watched henna painting and soccer game being played on a flat washing turf. Mint tea keeps on steaming on the terrace full of funny cacti varieties. Even squeezing in some "private" arabic lessons. can now count to five. maybe i might just not leave. well hpe you,re behaving yourselves at home. Love, FB.

Postcard from Fes 15/5/07

Dear Mum, Sorry I forgot mother's day but hope this will do for now. I am safe and very well. It was hard to peel me away from the desert but the ancient Capital of Fes is pretty fascinating. The Media (old town and markets where ppl still live) has 10,000 streets and has every thing from tanneries (see below), silver crafts, traditional healing, cactus fiber scarf makers, magic carpet warehouse and not to mention the racket of fine food stalls. Here's a picture of Mr Snail Man. Highlight has to be the tomato onion pancakes which will give the Taiwanese version a bang for the buck. The streets are too narrow for vehicles so donkeys often carry goods up and down the medina and they have right of way through the crowd. Ppl also hire out giant pots which can cook three sheep at once for stuff like weddings and big parties. According to our guide, Fes also has the first university (Kairaounine University) in the world founded by a woman called Fatma bin MOhammed ben Feheri in 862. Ok don't work too hard and say Hi to Dad and the fam and the goats for me. xx WaWa. ps. I'm not sunburnt so don't worry.

Tea In The Sahara

Abdul my Berber friend from Casablanca told me before I left: "when you go to the desert, you will forget your name".

My camel is called Tinkerbelle and it doesn:t like to be given instructions. She thinks I,m Japanese also so I'm not gonna bother arguing with her. Despite how fascinating it is to ride on such a majestic animal, I really wish it was over as soon as possible. Its extremely unstable to be on the top of a camel hump and every time she is led up or down a sand dune i am sent wobbling around having to use my overtired bum to balance myself. Thank goodness for the carpet tented camp in a grassy patch of ground we arrived at soon after, with a Bedoiun family and their goats, chickens and cat that keeps out the scorpios. How anything could survive out here amazes me.

At sunset I sit on a 50meter high sand dune sipping tea in the Sahara listeing to Tea In The Sahara by The Police; the joke seems to have just gone a little far. My time in Moroocco seem to be one "priceless" Mastercard ad after another and I have stopped counting. I feel wacked out, amused, overwhelmed by the emptiness and isolation of this place. The sand dunes over shadow you, but once you get to the top of it you look over thousands of other never ending sand dunes and they look like a silky carpet you can swim on. The colours of the setting sun creates a mysterious aura, you hear nothing but the wind, which picks up layers of sand and it feels like the ground you stand on will almost dissappear. I proceed to dance like a child and the camels, now resting in the sand, nods at me as if to tell me to stop.

Perhpaps I am forgetting my name. In the desert you are also nothing, like the desert you are completely blank, like the desert you have infinity. I think about what its like to have your memory erased at age 27 and then finding yourself in the middle of the Sahara. I could start everything over again, and maybe I could be a better person than I am now. Maybe I could decide to be Icelandish cos I'd hate sand. Maybe I could be more likable, smarter, less obnoxious, honest, self disciplined, musical, artistic, committed, attractive... Maybe I could become the zoologist that I should have become, or that lawyer. Maybe I could have gone ahead with that arranged marriage my dad organised after losing a card game in 1984. Maybe I would decide quite independantly that I should never leave the desert and spend the rest of my life gazing across the sand dunes and up at the stars. or I could just go to the nearest town of Ourzazate and still stuck there in a concrete building.

In the evening the sand feels cold to touch. But if you slide your palms further underneath the sand down there is warm. I lie on the carpet with my companions and watch the sky turn dark from the middle to the edges. The stars appeared one by one. First it was Venus (ops correction by the French - ees not a STAAAR, ees a planét ohkay?) then the sauce pan. Its like watching cake rise, slowly at first, then they would all burst out all of a sudden. The stars in the Northern hemisphere feels foreign some times, it was odd not seeing the Southern Cross, and the Orion just tipping over the edge of the milky way instead of being in the middle. Shooting stars and satellites move across my vision, my vision is of the neverending giant abyss engulfing the other giant abyss I am lying on. Like the sky, the desert was here before anything else was and it will still be here when everything else is gone. I see eternity but I will never know it. I don't know how to describe how I feel - its overwhelming but simple at the same time, excited but relaxed, a slow kind of drift that is so comfortable, so easy, so chilled. I can't remember what its like to be in a city, or driving on a road, or typing on a computer. Or the fact that any of the above exists. My head might as well turn into sand it feels this good.

I don't want to fall asleep but I do. At night the desert is cold. Everything sinks in on the sand and it must have been about 3am when I screwed open my drink bottle for a mouth full of water. It tastes like ice and exactly what I need with a throat full of sand. I am natrually a light sleeper and often wake several times a night subconciously. When that happens and the first thing you see is a starry sky it knocks you back into subconsiousness.

5 am and the South Africans bounce up for Sunrise. I wish I didn't have to sleep and lament that the night is over so quickly. Crawling_stumbling_scrambling my way up the highest sand dune was like a fight for life itself, I didn't want to miss the sunrise but honestly i've just woken up and the legs are still sleep. When I finally made it on top it was like finishing an exam. I said something along the lines of "better than an orgasm" so go figure.

Sunrise. Your heart melts with the sun. The last time I saw that big yolk pop out of the pinkness was on The Rainbow Warrior II August 05 over the Tasman Sea. Same ball of burning flame, different horizon. Same woman, different life.

Trekking Todora Gorge

Five of us hired a local guide to take us up to this world famous gorge. Our guide Uzat is a bit of a jack of all trades, or so says his 'CV'. He's born and bred here in the gorge and worked on the set of Mission Impossible II (that rock climbing scene is right here and they just air brushed in the ocean); he takes kids from BBC's Blue Rabbit on a fifteen day trek from here to the high Atlas where we were 8 hour drive away earlier this week, then onto the Cascades, and in his spare time he drums at the guest house and organises everything from transport to the reception and steamed goat meat banquets. And still manages to take daily treks up to the gorge and knows everything about geology and ancient Berber cures for bleeding noses, stiches and headaches.

The landscape reminds me very much of Simpson's Gap near Alice Springs, the colour of the rocks, the steepness of the climb and the panoramic view onto the flatlands surrounding it. This really is my ideal holiday: adrenolin, open air, and seeing the land from above. It clenses my temptuous head and reconfirms my faith that people and the land are one. And that getting out there is what will always make me enriched and happy. Heres some pickies of me and a young friend born last week...

Priceless *3

Ticket to Todra Gorge = 40 dh
Breakfast from supermarket = 6 dh
Motion sickness tablet = 1 AUD a pop
Plastic bag for the local lady next to you just in case she pukes = free
all you can eat Berber paella = 50 dh
Sunscreen = 8 AUD
Sun glasses = 20 NZD
Scarf to keep the sand from flying into your eyes = 5 GBP
Riding on another roofless paddy wagon with equally sandy and sweaty people = absolutely priceless

8th May 2007: An Epilogue from Marrakesch

Once upon a time there was a pink glossed oasis city in Morocco which lied in the middle of the desert. The market place buzzed with food vendors, snake charmers, vailed henna artists, donkey carts, stray cats, tooth pullers, entertainers and fortune tellers. The only time it stood still was the eery call to prayer tha rang the dusty air.

A beautiful glass terrace overlooked the market place and there lived a young princess. She spent her day in her lush rooftop garden filled with reclining vines and blooming birght flowers, watching the chaos and order unfold beneath her.

One day, an incredibly beautiful bird arrived on a branch top in her garden. It was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. His feathers were purple and dusted with gold, and his crown was an emerald green. He sang like a chime in the summer breeze.

Quite taken by this beautiful creature, the Princess had her servants place him in an equally beautiful cage, which was engraved with curles and shapes fit for the most royal, and encased with jewels Berber tradesmen would bring back from afar.

Captured, the bird struggled inside the cage trying to spread his wings. But soon he sank into a sadness and silence so dark and mournful that a grown man would weep. He would not eat the preciously collected food that the Princess prepared for him.

Disenchanted without the birds glorious music, the Princess also became silent and sank deep into sorrow.

A fortune teller came by the terrace and was asked in to help the royal household.

"An anchored ship will not sail; a captured bird will not sing." She said simply, shaking her head and went away.

The next day the young princess took the bird in the cage on a camel's back and set off for the high mountains. At the foot of the rolling hills next to a bursting streatm, she unlocked the door of the bird cage. The beautiful bird emerged from the shackles of his confinement to find nature at his sight.

He flew away lightly without hesitation, singing his favourite song, and disappeared behind the snowy hills. The princess watched him go. She smiled and waved.

The bird took her heart with him that day, but she realised that it too shall now always be free.

Mountainous Imlil

After I met up with my friends in Marrekech we set off for Imlil, a village at the foot of Mt Toubkal, North Africa,s highest peak.

Imlil is 1700 meters above sea level itself, and is surrounded by grand mountains covered with snow all year round. I am lucky to be in Morocco in the Spring. Everything is green and sprouting and the melting snow meant the local streams ran with crisp water, and the locals are always out collecting for the new season and doing up their buildings.

The locals are all Berber villagers largely subsistence farmers that grew small plots of wheat, apples, cherries and walnuts on layered terraced gardens that lined the bottom of the hill. Mules (rather than donkeys, as they are stronger for moutainous work), goats, cows and chicken are the main livestock and they are kept in almost every house. The occasional cat but no dogs or pigs for obvious reasons.

I am rooming with an aussie girl called Megan from the Gold Coast who reminds me so much of Michaela. The rest of my group consisted of a grandparents team also from Oz, another kiwi bloke whos done the Inca Trail and two mischievous South Africans. Our group leader is a small feisty French chick that sports a mohawk and keeps a charmellion as a pet.

One too many Indiana Jones Moments

Trekking in this area is pretty amazing because of the scenery and the cultural encounters on the way. you are essentially barging through other people's back yards _ our routes are pretty much the routes the locals take to get from one village to the next, and to collect food and water.

Being spring with the melting snow, the locals are always changing the river routes for different irrigation purposes and to manage the increasing water flow. Often the previous paths thats tramped through has just been flooded and we are forced to change routes, and the unstable rocks and the occasional donkey running down the narrow path has been a bit of an issue. But the perfect Indiana Jones moment had to be muddy water gushing down the only path we managed to find through thorns and apple gardens. Then there's the bridge thats made out of a thin branch...

On day two a short stroll turned into a five hour trek of being lost and found by a young Berber boy who invited us into his house for morning tea. We were sat down in their lounge room on their traditional carpets and served herbal tea (I am thinking St Johns Wort, but who would admit to 1998...), peanut sweets not disimilar to the ones we have in Taiwan for new years, and then a small meal of freshly baked full grain bread, VERY OLD oil, and boiled eggs. Apart from the oil everything else tasted fantastic mainly because it is all completely organic and unprocessed great fresh stuff.

The entire family came to look at us, including a little baby who cried as soon as she saw CampMama"s mohawk, and the family matriarch who"s feet was tinted with henna. A bizzare kind of scene ensued when the young mother aged 20 switched on satellite TV and a channel from Dubai played Sister Act. After trying to marry me off to his older brother (who was only 12 anyway) he even hunted out Grandpa who was weaving carpet in another room for an photo op.

At the end of the evening I sip tea at the guest house on their high terrace sitting on beautifully woven cushions with a glass of sweet mint tea, a tagine is bubbling away on the wall next to me. I am brainstorming my first novel - about an apple thief who likes to run through the orchard naked at night under the moonlight on outrageous sexual escapades.

Back in Marrakech

It was almost a little bit overwhelming having just been in such an isolated place to be dropped off by a shared taxi into the middle of hectic and touristy Marrakech. Yet i think the city girl in me is pleased to have the buzz and excitement of crowds of diverse people and the interesting food that is offerend in the square. I also managed to find a bar which serves alcohol to women which is much needed but rather expensive.

I am beginning to get quite sick of being harrassed with "konichiwa" every 5 meters and am charging Megan with 1 dirham each time a Japanese reference is made of me. But apart from the "over friendly" young men here, I am finding the locals extrememy pleasant in Morocco. Like Lao, there seems to be a lot of social capital here, despite the diversity of ethnicity and level of religious devotion. People are alsways on the look out for each other, particularly for the elderly and young children, like on public transport and at restaurants. The level of respect they have for elders is something other cultures could relearn.

I went to the hammam again on my last afternoon here to let off some steam and the only women there were two elderly hotel housemaids. It was perhaps one of the most comfortable environments Iùve been in since arriving. I could only communicate with them through body language but it still felt like you;re being looked after and fussed over by your own grandma.

Some of the rich and famous also have a playground here so it was interesting, after being lost in the souq, walking into a palace like restaunt_bar type place that resembled King Solomon,s mansion charging 8 euros for a small Heinie. Ex pats do very well here and have been living here for a long time, one of which created the Jardin Margorelle a fantastic garden and art gallery now looked after by Yves Saint Lawrence (can someone correct my spelling?)

Casablanca - more than just a movie

Pipers on the Roof
I arrived in the evening in Casablanca, an ecelectic city of old french buildings, interesting sexy people, and gloing palm trees. (am typing on a french keyboard s;cuse the typos°0 ) My first night was spent drinking left over french wine from the plane qnd s,oking Shisha, tobacco from a trqditionql bong on the terrace (well, more like q concret roof top) of Hotel Rialto with the hospitqble Berber hotel qssistqnt Abdul qnd tzo Swisses, Korin qnd Kristian: Its so aromatic and easy on the lungs. Till the next dqy I suppose... The city is no where near the glitz and glam of the 60s movie, but I recon gazing at the colourful rooftops and watching the people in both traditional robes and designer western gear buzzing in and out of restaunts still barbequing away at 10pm is quite a good warm up for this fantastically exotic country.

Moroccan Cats
I did some cat spotting early on the second day. The central fresh food market close by serves beautiful sweet coffee and cheese roll for just 3 dh (50c AUD) a pop, amongst other things like legs of goats, tourtles, flowers, spices, fruit... Cats here aren;t owned by any one but are certainly well looked after with all the left overs. Like in most developing countries they are much smaller than Aussie/kiwi cats, but are not shy because they are relatively well treated and respected here, and perhaps helped with the absence of dogs (seen one so far but the streets are FULL of cats). Every body loves cats here so I have developed a bit of photographic collection of them just lounging around the street, waltzing into eateries for a pat and a feed.. oh puuuurrrrrr.
Touristy Stuff
I absolutely love roaming the streets here checking out the people, zhqt they sell, food, Arab buildings, the Medinq. But being a tourist here is like being a tourist - men chat me up all the time and every one points and gawk and yells out "japaan japaan nippon nippon" so i just need to learn to chill and smile politely and walk fast. But the Fench is improving particularly the numerics.

I highly recommend the maze like Medina (traditional old town inside a wall) and the Hassan II mosque - 3rd biggest mosque in the world after Mecca and Medina Saudi Arabia. It happened to be a Friday when I was there and I got there just as the midday prayers crowd left. It was almost like the calm after a storm, even though the believers are all very reserved and quiet as they leave. I bumped into Abdul at the entrance, the night before he said that he wasn;t going to the prayers but still hope to go to paradise. He was there anyway and he said being at the prayer and in the bosom of the mosque (my interpretation) and hearing the voice of the Imam was asolutely amazing and many of his fellows cried. I really could understqnd when I went in - first sittin g in the court yard chilling out and waiting for the guided tour to start then later inside this magnificent place. It was right away from the chaos of the big city next to the rolling sea, the breeze blows in through the large pillars and delicately crafted mozaics, you do indeed feel completely spiritual and calm, your mind reach somewhere outside your body when you are embraced by this eerie and lifting place. I can,t explain it and perhaps why this place is so enchanting to muslims and non muslims alike.

Hammam
Later in the arvo I took the liberty of trying out the Hammam, the traditional bath house. From the research i did before hand i expected it to be some shabby dark little bath room, but the Hammam Ziani in Casablanca was out of this world. It was extremely bright and clean and maticulously decorated with traditionally crafted bathing basins and tile out of beautiful bluegrey marble. There were several big plump ladies right there helping you out scrubbing and massaging you depinding on what you ordered. Insence and steam fill the air. It was just like arriving at Cleopatra;s private chambers, my mind just kept boggling.

There,s no wonder why Moroccan women are all just so amazingly gorgeous - they spend hours in the hamman just exfoliating and shampooing and rubbing seaweed potion into themselves. There were four or five different chambers for different stages of the washing/pampering process, and at the end there;s a lounge for resting and waiting for husbands to pick them up at the door.

Moroccan women are generally quite voluptuous and unshy about taking the kit off once they are in an all female domain. The etiquette is to just wear a g string and they all have colourful lacy lingerie. I paid 20dh for the lady there to scrub (exfoliate) me on the big marble benches. You may as well call it a butchers table cos she was super strong and just stripped me literally in pieces with the scrubbing glove. I had no idea I had this much dead skin till I looked down on the marble floor qnd there were hundreds of grey bits of dough like lumps of my skin. They call that "speghetti".

So still with steam in my head I drifted off to sleep. The evening prayers continued and the beeping of the petite taxis and ushers yelling in customers fadsing into the night. Rose city Marrakech tomorrow at the break of dawn.

The Game Is Aloof!!

THURS 26/4 - WEDS 3/5

London here I come

London probably always greets a first time visitor with soggy rain and I am not spared. It poured down the minute I peeked outside the tube station at Heathrow and I just chuckled. Something will probably always go wrong on your first day of traveling and I am not spared there either. I did not just leave my finger prints and soul with United States Homeland Security in the land of the free. American Airways has left my luggage, my entire possessions for the next six months, in sodding LA. So I have (fingers crossed that they’ll own up) NZ$1500 to burn on shampoo and conditioner. Or a Burberry trench coat.

Riding around the tube I feel incredibly comfortable here. My experience of being in a country/city for a first time is that people just stare at you and look you up and down as if to just make sure that you know you’re fresh off the boat. People just leave you alone here and get on with their lives – which is quite refreshing for me. Every time I turn around there is a different language being spoken (except for ‘Straalian) ; there’s no one dominant group or whatever. No one’s too weird or too normal, no one’s really more important or less important than anyone else. I am already questioning two well known notions: 1) Britain is a classed society 2) London is full of Kiwis and Aussies

I love watching the industrial-era brick buildings go by in the window. The worned and weathered look of these petite and clustered dwellings always brings me to think of Sherlock Holmes’s late night outings to investigate scenes of crime and mystery amongst the alley ways and dark corners of this opportunist city.

Wendy greets me at Moorgate – she looked so happy and glowing, with that head full of red locks. I think it’s the beer. There’s literally a pub every ten meters here, but they seem to be able to get lots done despite. Must resist. Mmm a Burberry trench coat….

Hackney and the Likes

Wendy and Deno lives in an apartment in Hackney. It’s an extremely multicultural suburb – mostly Turkish and Carribean, but really it is a town of the world. There’s a big mosque just 20 meters from here, the restaurant actually have REAL Turkish food in bainmaries and not roast duck kebabs, and a daily fresh market that’s pretty much like the ones in South East Asia. It is slightly rough and the shops are slightly dodgy. Its almost like living in 6 developing countries at one time, I absolutely love it.

Wendy and Deno are doing really well for themselves. Wendy is a librarian at a law firm, and she is my new mum. . Feeds me, clothes me (re lost luggage), and works me hard on the tourist trail and introduces me to really interesting Londoners where possible. Deno summarises media articles by night and writes his novel by day. He’s still working on the Harriet novel that he was just starting when I met him seven years ago, but it is finishing, I can see it!!

A Ponder

Could it be that I am lost in the Bastion of the Anglo-Saxon Civilisation? I already know so much about Britain through pop culture and literature, but when one actually gets telegraphically transmitted straight in the middle of it, it can be an incredibly strange experience. It is almost surreal to be able to read the HARDCOPY version of the Guardian (now in Berliner size, for ease on the Tube) and the Observer on the breakfast table. Before this I get a “Cut Out” or “quote” in the SMH. And hearing British rock and pop being blasted out of the radio, and thinking, yeah, its made right here, here in London on the ground I stand on, and that it was immortalized before I even heard it on the other side of the world. I look at the map of central London and I see the Monopoly board game I first saw when I was five or six. Piccadilly Circuit, Pall Mall, Waterloo Station, Mayfair Street (where I did-in Christian and Lunako in last June and Aunty Gina in 1989, Mum in 1988), Trafalgar Square, Oxford Street. And so the realisation that Sydney’s is in fact a complete rip-off of London.

Touristy Stuff


- Wendy took me on the Jack the Ripper Tour with a historian/author on the subjects that has a corse sense of black humour. I highly recommend it.
- The Monument (big spiral tower to commemorate the Great Fire of London)
- Borough food markets
- Camden Markets
- Sherlock Holmes Museum @ 221b Baker Street - so much fun!!
- Big Ben; Westminster Abby;
- Parl House (some one got run over infront of it the day I was there, utter chaos so can't watch the Lords in full swing... next time...)
- 10 Downing Street - what's a political junky without visiting here. Except I only made it to the gate.

Clubbing in Soho

Wendy does work me hard. After a full on day of sight seeing I was done up and rushed to Soho for her colleague’s birthday. Every body is happy and mellow here in Soho, despite the arrays of public signage all over train stations and buses saying “aggression won’t be tolerated” and “assaults on staff will be dealt with accordingly”. What are they talking about? Two wines, a beer, a pink cum like shot and a mojito later I am half dead with three toes missing, and Wendy and I managed to avoid being followed home by these Algerians, but I wouldn’t have it any other way!!

Beaching in Brighton

We went to Brighton on Sunday but I am not going to be able to write much because I was on a really bad hang over. It is a really pretty beach, despite not having any sand and the water being freezing, people sunbathing in jeans – I think it’s the stripy deck chairs at 1.50 pounds a pop and the ice cream vendors. They did call this the hottest April in 300 years tho. Highlights: Pimms, the gorgeous little lanes and grand Edwardian buildings lining the coast. Lowlights: stale pub meal and the tacky pier.

Turning Englishnese

If I was English I would say that real English food is all you can eat vegetarian curry for 3 quid, then followed by a beer at the pub cheering on Chelsea. (Deno selected my club for me, no choice there.) And then the next day I joined Wendy's social football (NOT SOCCER U EEEJIOT!!) team & score the first goal for my side. Never woulda thought I was a team kinda person.

I think I’m slowly but surely turning English – I say words like “loads” and “roorrrnchy”, genuinely upset about Prince William and Kate Middleton’s tragic breakup, and can spot a Chav in a mile. Yes I really think so.

p.s. There's a pub every ten meters.

pic 1 - me at Big Ben

pic 2 - Me, Deno and Wendy fooling around at the pub - Chelsea vs Liverpool game so Deno was a bit absorbed. Just don't mention the score!!

pic 3 - me and one of the inspectors at Sherlock's place

pic 4 - Hari Krishna parade at Picadilly Circus

pic 5 - My soccer team

Must Pack No.1 KIM-LAN soy sauce

Essential liquid to Taiwanese crazy train obento
Thank you Aunty!!

Things ppl think about by the river

So it’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon and I’m sitting on the jetty on the river at my parents’ place. I just love the escapism of it. I am 10 minutes walk from the house and 10 minutes walk away from various continuing feuds and disenchantment amongst my five young squabbling cousins who can’t agree on the right design to build a chicken house etc. No one will find me here and I am sure that the 47% alcohol content duty free gin is burning a whole in my water bottle. I feel it slowly pulling every vain in my brain into a big fur ball and wedging it at the back of my neck. Happily.

It’s the depth of autumn and the bush across the river is reflecting a mellow rich goldness on the water which whirls and turns to my left, delivering occasionally a few giant carps in the water beneath me (formerly goldfish in a bowl?). An equally sprightly photo of Mount Ruapehu dusted with snow graces the background of my lap top. I took that pic last time I was in NZ driving back form Wanganui to Hamilton with Templeton. I do miss that boy. The jetty seems a bit empty without him here having a beer with me and sighing about why we can’t do this every day. But he distracts me from myself and it should all be about me now.

To think that I have just commenced a six-months-plus period of unemployed free roaming status about to take the European/Moroccan/Bangladeshi/Chinese/etc civilization by storm. Here goes the deposit for my house. MY HOUSE!! It doesn’t feel good to be without a plan, but I somehow I really think its about time I didn’t have one. All the stuff I planned to happen never have, and the stuff I didn’t plan always does. So maybe it pays to just be stupid for a while.

Life is to be LIVENED. That’s why this gin tastes so bloody good.

Windy Wellington

Wellington 11-16 April

The weather was unbearably cold on Friday the 13th. I wore two coats and two scarves and downed a very very long shot of coffee from Fuel just downstairs from Jennifer’s apartment. Listening to Yoshimi Battles The Robots I bounced towards the bleak harbour hoping for another coffee. Kaffe Eis on the lagoon was closed on this unhappy occasion but the harbour looked just nice and quaint and full of memories.

On a day like this I am reminded of a younger me - pondering at the cross roads and trying to get to some place far ahead in the clouds that loom the harbour. Its these grey days that bogged me down. Somehow I feel like I'm almost there again in that dark place. Not really knowing what's ahead but knowing that the future will clear up soon and it is up to me to make the most of life and opportunities.

I thank every day for the friends I still have here those that I know their face and voice and person and soul where ever I am no matter how long its been since I last saw them. They will never let me down and they will do anything for me. I feel very priveledged to have them with me unconditionally, even when I turn up at their house with a suitcase and covered in rain. I think when you become older you understand these connections much better, and you don't need to put any effort into understanding each other - it comes so naturally and transcends time, space and distance.

I look around the street, full of people moving a hundred miles an hour, searching half heartedly for faces I know. There were three or four. They looked at me and looked away - they know me but they chose to not engage - a mutual way to say that the other person is not really in their phone book anymore.

I have lost a few good friends from my youth for various reasons. I used to grieve, perhaps I still do. But you learn that there's a reason for everything and you almost make yourself believe in things like karma or fate. To console yourself? I miss those people in my life, like there's a hole in my heart, but you learn that they have moved on and maybe you have too. Its the people that can move with you and will always be with you spiritually that are worth the effort.

I felt like I was getting swirled into the crowd on Lambton Quay. I am surprised that hardly nothing has changed in the four years I’ve been away. Particularly for a big city. Updated fashion and new coats of paint I suppose. But the expression on people’s faces and the distance and pace of their stride, the way they dodge oncoming pedestrians and protect their latte from spilling. The way they look side ways when they see a person with a beautiful coat on wondering if it was from Kate Sylvester or Gregory’s. The way they glance at their reflection in the shop windows to see if their recent weight-gain had shown.

Looking at myself in the mirror I don’t feel like I’ve come far. But when I close my eyes I do.
It is the land, the weather, the clashing tides on the rocks and the new sprouting fern in the gully, that breeds this quirky clan of people. Darkly dressed, unassuminglt chirpy, laid back but serious, . I felt like I’ve returned to a mystical retreat in the depth of the bush.

I'm at Wellington Airport now bound for Hamilton, place where I grew up, and perhaps fled. Sitting against the bay window in the rare boarding gate at Wellington Airport and a flight to Chatham Islands is about to take off 5 meters in front of me. A white koru speeds past me and I somehow still wonder why I ever leave.

Guess Where I Am?

Woooosh - at Sydney International Airport again. It feels just like the local mall now, I know every corner, every toilet, every e-portal.

Still cutting it fine in Baroness fashion I am completely wasted from 3 nights of not sleeping, taking cold tablets
, drinking rest of the cellar and god knows what else.

The bus was also late in fine Greyhound fashion, but here I am, 10 mins from boarding call. BONZAI!!

I do also have my real trim fur coat (Vintage sale) and my bright red kimono birkies, and that funny vietnam hat. Style does compromise comfort!!

I do wonder when I will be posting from here again - it might not be for a long time...

Love to you Australia!

Maiden (Bon) Voyage

Apparently its one of the top twenty things a person will never forget in their life - the first time they drove solo.

To cut a long story short I haven't been able to get hold of a vehicle my "licence class" could drive till yesterday, that's why I have been putting off my Maiden Voyage. But special thanks to Claire - my almost housemate and definitely friend, I have a little Mitzy till Tuesday night.

Apart from the fact that I left the hand breaks on till about 2 blocks down the road (I have to say its a pretty shit car so it was moving and all I thought was that the wheels felt like they were falling off) it was smooth as into Civic. And apart from failing to parallel park twice it wasn't really a big deal getting the shopping done - something I would have had to do on the bus or the bike before, and taken 3 times as long!!

I sat there in the car not having to ask the person next to me where they'd like to go, thinking, gosh, this is soooo amazing! Me and the world and off we go. Since I was in the area I thought I'd drop into my old neighbourhoods in the inner north for the last time.

So the Maiden Voyage was also a bit of a Bon Voyage. I knew these streets back to front, each tree and the colour they'd turn into each time this year. The same pot plants and deck chairs on people's patios, same cars parked outside, same art works on the same letterboxes.

I drove into MacArthur Place where I had my first flat in Canberra when I started Masters at ANU (interviewed over the phone, they were amused at the accent). Where I learnt the words "chunder" and "booner". Where I chewed Swedish tobacco and had that random-as one night stand. Where I got my kiwi accent beaten out of me and where I learnt how to make soychinococktail. And where I learnt to appreicate Fat Pizza and The Chaser's War on Everything, and CNNNN. And listened to George and The Waifs for the first time. The backyard's been dug up and the crop-circles we made is long gone; but the vege patch at the top of the road is still going strong. Same old lady came out and waved.

It still sends chills down my spine thinkng of those days biking through O'Connor on my $40 bike in the dry bleak cold with my lips bleeding and those giant parrots scooping down at me. Those really lost times where I wish I wasn't here alone in this ghostly flat and brown town. Biking around and around to houses in the dead heat of February begging for a room to rent, and Sunday mornings wishing I hadn't had that last mojito at Trinity. Pollies striding pass down the corridor all with the same expression when they see an Asian constituent, and dropping off releases at the Press Gallery on Budget night; running up Mt Ainsley out of breath around giant Kangaroos and the jet planes overhead at the War Memorial. Or the kid who fell into the Pool of Reflection at the War Memorial!!! Same spot where Templeton turned up with a red rose one Valentines day next to the Menin Gate Lions. Now I could see Shiner and Milly sitting there purring instead: Eyes closed, whiskers drawn back, contented in the sun; Girl Guides, not soldiers, marching by.

Canberra Canbeera - how did I ever think leaving would be so hard?

< < Leaving on a Rocket ~~<~<<

The cake from the party mentioned in the email below;
debrief report waived on grounds of poor health

..............

28/3/07

Dear Canberra Crew

I am saddened to let you know that I am leaving town possibly for good in a few weeks time (flying out 11 April). My four year dip here has been fun, exciting, educational, fulfilling and most of all, given me the chance to meet you lot - a fabulous variety of fascinating, intelligent, inspiring & beautiful people. I will take your friendship and fond memories with me where ever I go. And I will now always love straight roads, straight trees, and pretty September flowers planted in the patterns of flags belonging to countries which don’t recognise Taiwan .

But as a travelling showperson I must push on in my journey to infect the world with crass jokes and cheap alcohol – London , Casablanca , and Bangladesh are on the hit list. (BTW [you know who]'s arrived in Bangladesh and on his behalf - "Hi everyone!") When I fix my blog I’ll send it to you on request or you can keep in touch with me here. Please do update me on how much you loved booting Libs out of the office and watching Hicks get off the plane.

To say good bye and also to celebrate turning 13 ½ for the second time, I’d like to invite you to an environmentally friendly ROCKETAIL** PARTY this coming Saturday- we are doing Earth Hour http://earthhour.smh.com.au/ for the entire evening so please wear your cycle vests and nothing that's likely to catch on fire.

Saturday 31 March 2007 - 7.30pm till late

[You Know Where]

BYO all alcohol in your parents’ cabinet

RSVP not required
** rocketail = rocketfuel drunken in style accompanied by bit of Gore-met.

Hope to see you all then!

FB

BREAKING NEWS: I got my P's!

Yes ladies and gentelmen - 24 hours before marking the 27th year on earth, I PASSED MY LEARNER'S FINAL ASSESSMENT, AND NOW HAVE MY PROVISIONAL DRIVER'S LISCENCE.

Looking at this bright red piece of plastic, i think all this blood tears sweat swearing kicking screaming and drama with the instructors all completely paid off. To think I fired two on the spot, gave one a heart attack and the other a very big L sign for his forehead via text message - yay for little old me!! (hey no bad feelings -)

- The Driving Baroness

David Hicks 26-3-07

I find myself angry and disgusted hearing about the coverage on David Hicks. Hearing about this man who is in bad health, low spirits, isolated, possibly tortured, and who after all this time, be humiliated in front a court in front of strangers and his family. And that it has taken five years in solitary confinement before a person is trialed, and that the Australian government tolerates this, and public outrage over this.

Its embarrassing for the Americans to have the last tribunal ruled as unconstitutional, a country who’s government and president that’s already been reduced to chain-email jokes and crass T-shirts. A country who does not respect international law and order at the first place who have taken law into their own hands. We’ll hang this person today and we’ll bomb this other place tomorrow. America, the country that thinks it speaks for everyone else in the world.

I find the whole idea of solitary confinement a repulsive way of punishment, let alone an acceptable way to “temporarily detain” someone for five years. The sort of mental destruction this must have on any one is unimaginable for me. Cutting off people’s beards, taking away their religious scripts, forcing them to walk around in chains or confined to the floor. Did these perpetrators ever think what if this is their brother, sister, father, mother? This is not justice, its abuse. And its tolerated.

The worst news is, David Hick’s case is receiving this kind of media attention because he is Australian. He is the first to be trialed in the new commission out of hundreds of political prisoners detained as those accused of terrorism. There are HUNDREDS of people from countries from the Middle East and around the world not just in Guantamao but all over US military run prisons that do not have the democratic processes behind them, whether it be public scrutiny or government will or media capacity to pressure some action for their case. Before they are trialed properly, many of them would have probably been physically, mentally and sexually abused before they die in destitute, despair, and with absolutely no dignity – without any one knowing about it.

I think what I feel most angry about is perhaps how powerless I feel about this injustice. I can write in my blog, I can go on a protest, I can write to the paper, I can sign a petition, I can cast a vote, I can ring up my local polly. Thousands of people have done that, and still… some times I really wonder.