Return of the Blog! And farewell to Morocco
Guys, the blog as you can probably guess has fallen a little behind. Expense, opportunity and lack of time being at least partly to blame. I have (clearly!) given up on making it contemporary. I am writing from Turkey so the blog is a continent behind. But in a conscientious effort at updating.....
Meknes
Apres Marrakesh i zoomed North to Meknes and the ruins of the imperial capital of Moulay Ismail. A seventeenth century megalomaniac whose chief interests were big palaces, bigger palaces, kicking the Spanish out, innovative torture sessions, world domination and even bigger palaces. A favourite pastime was having the royal guards toss a slave in the air in the manner of the birthday bumps. As the condemned returned to earth, rather than being caught and thrown skyward again, the slave was slammed onto the marble floor with maximum force. The procedure was repeated until the corpse was rendered to a bloody mess incapable of further upward propulsion. As I paid my respects at Moulay's tomb i wondered whether his methods could be reinstated for the re-education of faux guides and hustlers. Probably not, would be far too merciful
Fes
Christmas in Fes, the largest living medieval city in the world, passed without notice. Not one Jingle Bells did i hear in the nine thousand cobbled and dirt alleyways - some no wider than a pair of extended elbows, some running under buildings, all utterly confusing. Wandering through this ancient Medina the aromas of the gutters mixed with those of the foodstalls. The clutter and noise punctuated with bellowed warnings of "Attention, attention!" (au Francais) as men drove load-bearing mules through the narrow alleyways scattering scavenging cats and milling tourists.
Most interesting were the tanneries, where vast quantities of leather goods are prepared in centuries old fashion. Men standing up to their waists in huge vats of stinking compounds of chemicals, dyes and pigeon manure (no kidding!). The cowskin pounded to softness, soaked in the dazzlingly bright dyes, dried in the sun and cut to order for the vast quantities of shoes, coats and handbags, given the hard sell for tourist dollars. The smell from the intensely coloured vats is so noxious that faux guides, locals and tourists alike hold mint leaves under their noses just to look from afar.
Chefchaouen
My last days in Morocco were spent high in the Rif Mountains, a world away from the bustle of Fez, the energy of Marrakesh and the tension of Tangier. Chefchaouen is Morocco's self proclaimed capital of sheep, water and hashish. A world away from the cities, the pace of life in the Rif is gentle and draws legions of artistic types following in the footsteps of Capote, Burroughs et al, decades before. During my stay i came across poets, writers, musicians, sculptors, documentary makers and designers of clothes and jewellery as well as various new-agers, many, many hash smugglers and one guy from Sweden who liked to drink his own urine.
Most of the smugglers were European and almost uniformly not on their first trip. There methods were diverse and entertaining. The swallowers ingested up to a kilo for a trip on the ferry to Spain. More organised Northern Europeans negotiated for large quantities in the mountains with appropriate sea transport awaiting in Tangier. One guy was concealing hash oil in exported jars of honey, another melted it down to flat bricks which he concealed in the circuit boards of laptops. Others were sending smallish quantities concealed by various means in postal packages. The level of organisation, enterprise and cunning was something to behold!
Whilst Xmas passed unnoticed, I was fortunate to be in town for Eid el Bkir - the Feast of the Sacrifice, which coincided with New Years' Eve. Each family who could afford it purchased a goat or a sheep in the week leading up to the feast. Men and boys led the condemned beasts down from the mountains, through the tiny cobbled squares into the small houses on the sidestreets. In the souks the merchants added knife-sharpening to their repertoire and in the quiet evenings the animals could be heard gently bleating from the flat rooftops amid the calls to prayer echoing from the town Mosques. A fizz of expectation slowly building. On the morning of Eid the sharpened knives were drawn, a final desolate bleat and the quivering animal spilt its dark, red blood on the pale blue stonewashed kitchen floors. The animals were skinned, the pelts washed and cut, then sold to the men who arrived at the doorsteps with wheelbarrows. The boys gathered the firewood and the young men butchered the animals in the streets and squares. The carcasses were barbecued in the open air, the smell of roasting meat moistening lips and the feast began.
In my short stay i put down transient roots for the first time on the trip. I discovered my favourite local cafe to watch the English footie, my favourite restaurant (serving up chicken tagine and other favourites), the cheapest hot sandwich seller, the best haman and an excellent hostal with book exchange change. It was January and the weather was excellent. Lazy afternoons drifted by on the hostal roof terrace listening tunes, devouring the contents of the book exchange, lying in the sun. It was hard to move on, but eventually the itch returned and on i went. Back to Spain and expensive European living. Morocco sadly left behind ... for now.
Meknes
Apres Marrakesh i zoomed North to Meknes and the ruins of the imperial capital of Moulay Ismail. A seventeenth century megalomaniac whose chief interests were big palaces, bigger palaces, kicking the Spanish out, innovative torture sessions, world domination and even bigger palaces. A favourite pastime was having the royal guards toss a slave in the air in the manner of the birthday bumps. As the condemned returned to earth, rather than being caught and thrown skyward again, the slave was slammed onto the marble floor with maximum force. The procedure was repeated until the corpse was rendered to a bloody mess incapable of further upward propulsion. As I paid my respects at Moulay's tomb i wondered whether his methods could be reinstated for the re-education of faux guides and hustlers. Probably not, would be far too merciful
Fes
Christmas in Fes, the largest living medieval city in the world, passed without notice. Not one Jingle Bells did i hear in the nine thousand cobbled and dirt alleyways - some no wider than a pair of extended elbows, some running under buildings, all utterly confusing. Wandering through this ancient Medina the aromas of the gutters mixed with those of the foodstalls. The clutter and noise punctuated with bellowed warnings of "Attention, attention!" (au Francais) as men drove load-bearing mules through the narrow alleyways scattering scavenging cats and milling tourists.
Most interesting were the tanneries, where vast quantities of leather goods are prepared in centuries old fashion. Men standing up to their waists in huge vats of stinking compounds of chemicals, dyes and pigeon manure (no kidding!). The cowskin pounded to softness, soaked in the dazzlingly bright dyes, dried in the sun and cut to order for the vast quantities of shoes, coats and handbags, given the hard sell for tourist dollars. The smell from the intensely coloured vats is so noxious that faux guides, locals and tourists alike hold mint leaves under their noses just to look from afar.
Chefchaouen
My last days in Morocco were spent high in the Rif Mountains, a world away from the bustle of Fez, the energy of Marrakesh and the tension of Tangier. Chefchaouen is Morocco's self proclaimed capital of sheep, water and hashish. A world away from the cities, the pace of life in the Rif is gentle and draws legions of artistic types following in the footsteps of Capote, Burroughs et al, decades before. During my stay i came across poets, writers, musicians, sculptors, documentary makers and designers of clothes and jewellery as well as various new-agers, many, many hash smugglers and one guy from Sweden who liked to drink his own urine.
Most of the smugglers were European and almost uniformly not on their first trip. There methods were diverse and entertaining. The swallowers ingested up to a kilo for a trip on the ferry to Spain. More organised Northern Europeans negotiated for large quantities in the mountains with appropriate sea transport awaiting in Tangier. One guy was concealing hash oil in exported jars of honey, another melted it down to flat bricks which he concealed in the circuit boards of laptops. Others were sending smallish quantities concealed by various means in postal packages. The level of organisation, enterprise and cunning was something to behold!
Whilst Xmas passed unnoticed, I was fortunate to be in town for Eid el Bkir - the Feast of the Sacrifice, which coincided with New Years' Eve. Each family who could afford it purchased a goat or a sheep in the week leading up to the feast. Men and boys led the condemned beasts down from the mountains, through the tiny cobbled squares into the small houses on the sidestreets. In the souks the merchants added knife-sharpening to their repertoire and in the quiet evenings the animals could be heard gently bleating from the flat rooftops amid the calls to prayer echoing from the town Mosques. A fizz of expectation slowly building. On the morning of Eid the sharpened knives were drawn, a final desolate bleat and the quivering animal spilt its dark, red blood on the pale blue stonewashed kitchen floors. The animals were skinned, the pelts washed and cut, then sold to the men who arrived at the doorsteps with wheelbarrows. The boys gathered the firewood and the young men butchered the animals in the streets and squares. The carcasses were barbecued in the open air, the smell of roasting meat moistening lips and the feast began.
In my short stay i put down transient roots for the first time on the trip. I discovered my favourite local cafe to watch the English footie, my favourite restaurant (serving up chicken tagine and other favourites), the cheapest hot sandwich seller, the best haman and an excellent hostal with book exchange change. It was January and the weather was excellent. Lazy afternoons drifted by on the hostal roof terrace listening tunes, devouring the contents of the book exchange, lying in the sun. It was hard to move on, but eventually the itch returned and on i went. Back to Spain and expensive European living. Morocco sadly left behind ... for now.
posted by Supertramp | 11:27 AM
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