L's World Portugal

My Entire life flashes before my eyes, not.
OK so I peeled off my L plates in Australia for automatic vehicles just over two months ago and now I find myself driving on the right side of the road in a rented manual not in my name in a very narrow (we're talking like South European standard narrow) street in a country town in Portugal. I take out the windscreen wiper of a parked car, the entire rubbish content festering in the curb and narrowly miss the two old ladies in cute little aprins sitting at the end of the curb selling lottery and scratchy tickets. My travel buddy screams '' LEFT! LEFT!'' , I say '' ops'' quite calmly cos I do that a lot at home. The plastic shield on the front right wheel is nicely scratched like the ticket I could have bought from the little old ladies, and looks slightly munted like my Form Two metal work assignment. That's all... like, the tire is still on. I'm fucked. Or my credit card is.

How I got myself into the situation at the first place
So I went halves with this Mad American Alcoholic who wears Aviators who is very Delightful (MAAAD) staying at the same hostel in Porto on this rental car so we could go check out the vineyards, cute little towns and beautiful bush and wildlife and so forth in Douro Valley, along the Douro River, which stretched about 200km from the sea from the merchant town of Porto all the way to the Spanish boarder eastwards. We set off very happily into the unknown in the chirpy little car we rented.

So lets distract myself a bit
Porto is of course famous for its port and the Douro Valley region is the worlds premiere port growing region because of the landscape, climate, and special soil. The shist is a rock which exists uniquely in Douro Valley. It absorbs heat from sunlight during the day and gives out heat during the night, so it keeps the vines warm at night and keeps the grapes happy with producing sugar. Port is basically wine which isn't fully fermented, ie a lot of the sugar hasn't converted to alcohol yet, so its really sweet, and natural alcohol is added to stop the fermenting process.

Douro Valley is one gorgeously amazing spot. The valley cradling the river is lush, fertile and gets plenty of sun. There are hundreds of pretty little old towns all along the river and the view is magnificent, there are heaps of castles and ruins along the way. Having grown grapes for centuries, the terraces looked almost as if they are naturally that way. Traditionally the Portuguese transport the port in barrels in small boats down the river and into Porto for trading.

It was bloody annoying finding Pinhao, a small town where the vineyards another person at the hostel suggested we go check out, mainly cos the sign posts were confusing and irregular, and the speed signs kept on changing every 10 meters, so we had no idea whether we were speeding or not...

We were kept entertained by lots of interesting locals that carries axes on their shoulders and bundles of hay on their heads. There were also lots of tiny shrines devoted to Virgin Mary along these old roads, which the locals believe to protect travelers, so many ppl leave flowers and rosaries etc on the small statues or shrines to ask for blessing etc.

Yep, the port was fantastic, the portuguese chicken lathered in chili oi against the sunset at the beach was even better.

How I got myself out of the situation
All I'll say is that the woman serving us at the car rental place on the return appears to be really really hung over. We just walked out. HEH!! More port for me and the MAAAD!

Hedwig And The Silent H

Hedwig is the main character from the musical Hedwig And The Angry Inch , a hermaphrodite who only has one inch of the penis left from a botched amputation, and was a lead singer in a transgender band touring the world.

The consonant H in Portuguese is always silent, and so is the performer of a lip sync number.

...........

So two fellow travelers in my dorm aged 19 and 20 takes me out to a street party in Barrio Alto (Portuguese for old town) the Bohemian part of Lisbon to relived my long lost youth as a hopeless fag hag. Wellington New Zealand. The venue was Pound. The year was 2000. The name was Bondage. James Bondage.

I saw a little bit of myself at that age in both of the delightful young people in town with me tonight. Greg from Newcastle Australia doing his OE thing would like to be the Crocodile Dundee type adventurer but is over cautious and has deep inhibitions about being too creative. Rosie - sweetest little girl I've met ever, from the surfy island in north pacific just turned 19 at midnight, maturity and openness beyond her years yet has a bewildered innocence about her, and is as pretty as her name.

A shot of tequila, a piss weak sangria, and a pretty good caipirinha later, we meet some warm, worldly but crazy locals celebrating little sister's 21st birthday. Joao- a real estate agent who used to manage a jungle lodge in Monzambique who hates his food being flown in on a plane so moved back, Pedro 1 - a tourism student, addicted to facial hair, Pedro 2 - lived in Australia and now is a fishing adviser, Mariana - a manager of a gym who starts work at 1pm everyday, Maria - birthday girl and tourism student who loves baked cod, Miguel - accountant with shaved head. Joao takes the guests through the political history of peaceful resistance and world domination in Portugal. And then "Would you like to come to a fun fun show?"

We ended up at the real after party, a drag queen lip syncing competition at the local gay bar. There's only mens toilets so some lipstick lesbians guarded the door for me because, despite being the most over-utilised and under-maintained body fluid depository I've seen since Christmas Eve 05 in Bangkok, there are still about ten red and gold singlet clad gym bunnies pushing to get in. Greg freaks out as his bottom's been pinched but the 60 year old Portuguese grandfather wearing braces across his beer belly whistles on. The dance floor in this shabby little stone house looks like it will crumble any time, but I trust it because its seen a lot more than I have. The 3.30am show starts and an hour later we were cheering for Sandy Jones, the novice, on I'll Never Love This Way Again, and the MC dressed like an obese Dame Edna with a large growth on her chin.





The dark staircases on the way home looked like many many letters of H, as silent as the night, if my ears aren't ringing like the school bell.

Ahhhhh. Portugal.

I found it

... beside the Monastry where the nuns first cooked it up two hundred years ago, after fighting off about 20 women in pink tracksuit pants after a Mother's Day fun run screaming for sugar at the counter. I even enjoyed a bit of church choir music at the Sunday service. Go Pasteis de Belem!!

Town, Beach and Country

Lisbon is an incredibly chilled out town for a capital city. The Jacarandas are on full bloom and the streets are lined with old tile marble stones and faded statues, small monuments and relatively creative "street art". I-ve been wondering around the streets all day just poking around enjoying the sun and relatively pollution free air. The hilly area of Alfalma is gorgeous and traditional, small houses line the streets, even though they look uneven, the vintage beaten look is so very attractive with a huge festive look with ribbons, flags and decorations lining the walls and balconies. Old school trams run up and down the street casually tries to miss the pedestrians. Prices are so much lower here and I was able to stock up a week's worth of food and alcohol for seven Es. Woo hoo!

The locals are so sweet. They are generally very dark in their facial features and are much more petite than other Europeans. Brash, love their drink, their music, and their pork served in big chunks. They are a lot more relaxed and welcoming than the Spanish. I met this Spanish doctor who treats a lot of broken Australian limbs in a busy Barcelona hospital at the hostel, she says the Spanish are just sick of tourists. But the Portuguese are laid back as they don't get the crowds in the same way, and are still relatively economically in need of tourists so they are pretty friendly to most visitors.They have a huge pride about their past as world super power and have no qualm about bagging out the Spanish and the Americans. If you think ppl in Macau, Brazil, Timor Leste and Mozambique all speak Portuguese, then you wouldn't be surprised to know that its actually the seventh most widely spoken language in the world. But the Portuguese have given up on world domination, while some others are still trying.

Seeing a green cargo with the Taiwanese shipping company's logo "Evergreen" painted on it made me think so much today about my first home, Taiwan. The first Westerners to reach Taiwan were the Portuguese back in the 1500s and gave it the name "Ilha Formosa", which means The Beautiful Island, and that was the name it was known to the rest of the world till World War II. Before that time the Portuguese also set up shop in Taiwan and used the northern port of Tamsui as a trading port, and fought continuously with the Dutch, Spanish and English to control the Fort till the Chinese and Japanese took over. The name Formosa has since become synonymous to the Taiwanese Independence movement after a pro-democracy magazine was named after it and the KMT tried to ban it, sparking the end of martial law over Taiwan imposed by the KMT government in the mid 80s. To me, Formosa asserts Taiwan's identity as an outlooking worldly nation, as oppose to the self-centered and self-obsessed Chinese. Being a Portuguese given name is also a reminder that it will forever be struggling off its unfortunate history dominated by colonialism and foreign powers. But the meaning behind the name is a poetic and optimistic lament about both outer and inner beauty and strength of the Island and its people. I still get emotional thinking about the unfortunate but brave history of my country. Visiting Portugal brings it back home for me. When will we have a home of our own?

My Top Recoms for Lisbon
http://www.lisbonpoetshostel.com/index.php
Walk around the Castle next to Alfalma
Night out at Barrio Alto
Beach at Cascais
Belem for the antique markets and the egg tarts

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.