Day 84: Border Hopping

"...in the Name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance..."

The first page of your passport is the most underrated yet the most important page. This weekend...and the rest of the year would have been difficult if the Queen hadn't requested that we be able to travel freely.

Only 6 days remained until our visa ran out so to ensure we could remain in Morocco (even though it would be nice to escape the cold weather) we had to renew our visa. This meant border hopping into one of the two Spanish colonies still present in Morocco. Our destination was Melilia...various spellings will ensue.

We boarded the 3am train and our bodies joined the hundreds of others asleep on seats, the top of the tables and on the floor. Un-phased by the 6am connecting train we arrived at the sleepy boarder town of Nador intact. En-route to the border gates we passed hundreds of cars, filled to the brim, waiting their turn to enter 'Europe'. Guards wandered around looking fairly casual yet there was an agitated air as Moroccans queued in their hundreds to pass through the gate. 
Our British passports gave us a shorter queue and far less hassle. Travelling with our friends of Pakistani origin was an eye opener as one of them said 'it was the first time it was easy for him to be British'. The growing crowd in front of the gate to Melilia parted in two as we waved our purple booklets, and the guards didn't even bother to look at our stamps.Once through we just kept walking...and no-one stopped us. 
 In comparison with our Moroccan friends, who spend months applying for a simple tourist visa, holding a British Passport means one can travel the majority of the world, without hassle. I had completely taken that for granted.

Although Melilia is in Morocco, it is  legitimately Spanish. The 200m walk over the border changed not just the language but the religion, food, currency, attitude and time!? Suddenly we were an hour ahead of the guard who had just let us in. 

The most liberating change of the whole weekend was the attitude the locals had towards tourists, and particularly girls. Last week I was accosted hugely inappropriately by a young school boy so this change in outlook was very welcome.   We took advantage of the more liberal Spanish culture. After a meal where Daisy was insulted and wooed by the same waiter, we went in search of chocolate and cocktails...naturally. Walking along the moonlit sea front at midnight, without cat calls or invisible eyes was wonderful. Even at the boarder the totes on our return into Morocco were more friendly. Unlike the previous morning...none of our passports were snatched out our hands.

Melilia is beautiful, even the weather improved. The old fort at the top of the town looks down onto isolated coves surrounded by Mediterranean water. Desperate to jump into the sea, we satisfied ourselves by staring pensively out onto the horizon for hours...interspersed by taking photos of ourselves being pensive...obviously. 

The more I travel, the more attached to Britain I become. Every country I've been to has been wonderful and inspiring, but ultimately this could not have been possible if I did not carry my British passport. 

الله يهنيك

Nay xxx

Day 70: Topics of Conversation.

It would be incredibly un-British of me not to talk about the weather during my stay in Morocco. Similar to conversations in Britain, conversations here often begin or finish with the discussion of said topic. Not through choice, but because we know weather vocabulary...

It may surprise many of you, but Morocco is now cold! I have had to purchase a very European-esque coat and Moroccans are appearing with over-sized golf umbrellas, which simply don't fit in the small, medina alleys. Ifrane, a village near Fez has snow, and I am reliably informed it has snow for up to 3 months of the year. Who would have thought!?

I've taken to walking home in the evenings, (not when it's dark, don't worry) as the sun is just about to set. Dusk, as it were. The old medina is overshadowed by Mount Zalagh and on Tuesday evening, the final bit of sunlight was shining down on to the top of the mountain and both halves of a rainbow were visible. Pretty darn special. 

Throughout all my travels, British autumn has always been my achilles heel for homesickness. Surprisingly though, this Moroccan weather has cured all that. Our evening routines of mint tea on the roof hasn't changed, except that now we wear coats and scarves (thank goodness for my over-enthusiastic love of scarves!).

Our riad has become increasingly more cosy. The large wooden doors onto the living room and dining room are now shut to retain heat, and we use the smaller doors, built into the big ones. Ingenious.  Our 'Parisian' landlord has supplied us with gas heaters and enough gas for two months. The past couple of weekends have been spent watching films, curled up with various friends and various dishes of food, in front of this magical heater.

Another topic of conversation favored among many,and certainly close to my heart, is food. Last week was the week of 'Bastilla'; a sweet Moroccan main dish made traditionally with meat and almonds, and wrapped in pastry. Our first encounter of the week was at our 'Mahaba Hefla' (party) thanks to our favourite Moroccans Yassine & Youssef. After simply gazing at the large bastilla for hours, we devoured it within minutes. The second helping was at the engagement party of Youssef's uncle which Victoria and I found ourselves dancing at. At 11:30pm we sat down to dinner in multiple languages.
Bastilla is the perfect dish to share; dig in with your hands and pass parcels of sweet meat around to all your friends.

However, my favourite food of the week, possibly of all time, is 'malawi momtez'; thick pastry, coated in chocolate spread and honey, rolled up and cut into slices. The ultimate afternoon snack or dinner...or both. Alash la. Sarah and I have made friends with the malawi-men who now put on extra honey and supply us with mint tea to wash down this meal of deliciousness. Haha. 

So in conclusion, life here is still really good. The weather is beautiful. The food is wonderful, and the people are still incredible. 

الله يهنيك

Nay xxx

Day 49

Definition of tourist

noun - a person who is travelling or visiting a place for pleasure

There are two reasons why I would not have considered myself a tourist this weekend. The first being that after living in Morocco for almost two months, I feel we have progressed beyond tourist status. Although no where near a local, our knowledge, language and attitude towards the country are more educated than the fresh tourist. 

The other reason I would not have thought of myself as a tourist was because, according to the Oxford Dictionary, I was not a tourist. I experienced no pleasure in visiting Marrakesh. 

As a natural optimist this blog is particuarly difficult to write...

Our spontaneous trip to the unofficial capital of Morocco, was spent feeling uncomfortable, upset and on edge. Our original plan of experiencing Eid Kabir (the most celebrate religious festival in Morocco) sadly became less about culture and more about survival in the foreign city. We practiced this art in real life, and on board game as we acquired a Moroccan Monopoly set!

Famous last words uttered by Victoria as we arrived at Marrakesh train station "They should be used to tourists here, so we won't get the hassle we get at home"

The 'hassle' we receive in Fez is now considered polite conversation. In Marrakesh  the traders and restaurant owners know that tourists will eat and spend their dirhams whatever; they have no need to be polite. 

In Fez they don't touch. In Marrakesh they do; hands, cat-calls and curses were thrown our way when we didn't oblige the eager shop keepers. Walking around the old Medina we were followed. Maybe they were just curious, but we were uncomfortable enough not to find out. Taxi drivers demanded extortionate amounts of money and motorbikes roared around the small Medina streets flattening the inhabitants against walls. 

Maybe we were unlucky. 

Maybe we had a bad beginning.

Maybe because we were a group of 4 girls we were a target. 

Maybe we missed a secret that everyone else knew.

Obviously, there was a highlight. Our final night was spent in the main square of the old Medina  which I do implore you to visit. The food stalls in the heart of the square are fantastic and we ate the best aubergine we've ever had. We met up with an ex-Fez student, James, a charismatic Irishman with karma on his side, who had befriended some local Marrakesh boys. Dinner was spent in tears over their jokes where the punchlines simply did not translate, while Sambuka disguised as water was passed around the table to celebrate Eid. Paradox. 

Marrakesh is like London. It has London prices and tourists gravitate towards it's vibrance. However it is nothing like London, because in London people don't care if you're a tourist. The livelihood of the people of Marrakesh depend on tourism. It's a tiresome waiting game to see who will back down first; the tourists or the locals.

I will return to Marrakesh in December with friends and insha'allah I will leave with a different opinion. 

Earlier in the week we moved into our beautiful riad in the heart of the old Medina. The rainy season is about to begin. It's all very exciting. 

الله يهنيك

Nay xxx 

Days 36 & 37.

"The limits of my language means the limits of my world" 

Ludwig Wittgenstein

The limits of our world were widened this weekend as we experienced Chefchaouen; a whimsical European village four hours north of Fez. Our various linguistic abilities allowed us an insight into the lives of the inhabitants of this blue gem.

The atmosphere in Chefchaouen was wonderfully relaxed. Unlike Fez, it's quiet. The essential hustle and bustle was hidden from our eyes and ears. This means that all travellers to Chefchaouen experience a refreshing lack of forced trade.

That isn’t to say that tourism isn’t rife as it is the main dependent for many of the inhabitants, who luckily are very good at their job.

These people, whose livelihood depends on the quality of their salesmen ship, have incredibly impressive linguistic abilities. The majority of these shop keepers and waiters will not have attended university, yet they are able to converse in Spanish, French, English, Daraja and Fusha. A feat even more impressive when you learn that their native tongue is Berber - the language of the desert. It’s upsetting to know that these vastly talented young men and women will never have their abilities recognised by more than the thousands of impatient tourists who flock to the town each year.

Our month's worth of Daraja was used almost excessively as we befriended Ali, who's restaurant we quickly adopted and Mohammad who sold us countless pieces of jewellery and outrageous trousers. Both new friends although from Berber decent spoke Daraja and insisted that we receive local prices and information simply because we spoke to them in stilted Arabic. Mandela's quote "...talk to a man in his language and it goes to his heart" could not be better applied to these situations. 

We impressed ourselves with how much we understood and how far we able to communicate. We learnt about Mohammad's mother from the Sahara, his father from the Rif, and his summer work in Australia. A parting gift to us was a leather friendship bracelet saying "It's nice to do nice things for your friends". Indeed...and it helped as we had just bought half his shop.

Communication was essential when we planned to climb one of the many majestic mountains surrounding Chefchaouen. Local goat herders, small girls and elderly men pointed us in the right direction after the appropriate 10 minute greeting. There is always time to enquire about yourself, your family, your children, your relatives, your animals, whilst thanking god for each thing in turn. Although this is a cultural evolution the language lends itself to these conversations. Arabic was not created to communicate through writing. It was created to express thoughts, greetings and feelings with an unlimited number of words. Time for people. Wonderful.

Saturday was spent hiking high up the gorge from the centre of the village. The view from the top of the mountain gave us a perfect panoramic view of the various villages nestled into the Rif Mountains. Breathtaking. Literally. 

Maybe it was the fresh air, or the scenery, or the un-mistakable aroma of weed that hung over the village, but everyone was enveloped by an overwhelming sense of calm. We spent the evenings on the roof of our hostel as astronomers, exploring the ever emerging stars. Our hostel resembled a bohemian refugee camp, particularly on the roof where it was possible to sleep in one of the makeshift bedrooms. Towels and scarves split up the rooms and various accents drifted out from behind the clashing curtain patterns. Another linguistic phenomenon in the middle of the Rif Mountains.

Our return journey, punctuated by a road side BBQ was all the more exciting as we realised that what we had previously just called Fez, was now home.

In other news, after losing my ring for 4 days it was found in the fridge, next to the aubergine.

الله يهنيك

Nay xxx 

Day 30:


Where ever you find yourself in the world, there is always going to be shadows of a divide between rich and poor. It's an ancient story. I, albeit naively, did not expect the gap in Morocco to be as distinct as discovered this weekend. 

The American Language Center run a community service programme. One of the organisations they work with is a center for girls with difficult backgrounds. Victoria and I, the lone Brits in a sea of american enthusiasm spent Saturday afternoon with the remarkably outgoing girls. Our limited 'daraja'  enabled us to make basic conversation but like most situations out here we relied on smiling and miming. We're getting rather good. 
The students from ALIF accompanying us were fantastic translators and guides when it came to dealing with the girls. We introduced 'duck, duck, dajaj (دجاج)...or chicken'. No one could figure out the Arabic for goose, not even our improved mime could explain this one. After several very dusty, sweaty, side splitting hours we said goodbye to the girls.

                                                                                     Sneaky Paparazzi

The ALIF riad in the old Medina hosted a photography exhibition that night, which was accompanied by a fusion music concert.  Egyptian, Turkish and american folk tunes echoed around the crowded villa. The final song brought everyone to their feet...fist pumping, jumping and the classic two finger dance more commonly associated with a certain warehouse outside Leeds. Victoria and I found ourselves being passed around like over-sized babies for various photographs with the Moroccan students. 

However, what struck Victoria and I from the outset was the dress sense of the 'Ville Nouvelle' audience. Denim shirts, red trousers, good shoes and giant quiffs, and that was just the men. It seems that Morocco really is not that far from it's french cousins. In the middle of the old medieval Medina  where chickens roam free and the cats rule the night, a hundred or so groomed Moroccans danced to american folk music. The juxtaposition could not be escaped for as soon as we stepped out the door we were greeted by donkeys laden with bread and fruit. The attitudes of the 'Ville Nouvelle' were cynical towards the Aladdin-esque lifestyle, yet less than a mile and a generation separates them. They consider their way of life backwards and exclusive, whilst they are more open minded. A view common in my (limited) experience of developing countries. 

Despite their differences though, the tale of each city is remarkable similar. In their various ways both side have shown us enormous hospitality and generosity, and each offer us a unique local insight into the Moroccan world. A world that we shunned slightly as we had a cheeky G&T in a hotel at the end of the night. 

This weekend signified the one month mark for our stay in Morocco. 
We're in love. 

الله يهنيك

Nay xxx 

Day 24. 

The blog is born! After 3 weeks of emailing, whats-apping,  letters and writing journal entries there is now a permanent way of following my Moroccan adventures. 

أهلاً و سهلاً

(Welcome)

We have entered into the third week of our studies in Morocco, and the halfway point of our 'daraja' classes (Moroccan Arabic).  To those of you who are unaware, each country in the Middle East as their version of Arabic. In some countries such as Saudi Arabia, their dialect is very similar to the 'fuhsa' we learnt last year. However, Moroccan dialect is not similar at all. Not in the slightest. To give an example...

In daraja التنين means Monday. 
In fusha التنين means dragon.
Today is Dragon-day.

The weekends are generally used for exploring! The 8am lectures Monday - Friday make it difficult to have adventures during the week. 

On Saturday after a more than well deserved lie-in, we visited the Merenid Tombs. Accompanied by trusty lonely-planet I gave an impromptu guided tour to the "14th century tombs that now lie in ruins". We inadvertently had a tour of the weaponry museum that overlooks the Old Medina as well, which for the equivalent of 80p, was worth it. From the roof of the museum we planned our route to the tombs. Unbeknownst to us this involved scaling the gates at the back of the museum much to the bemusement of passing lorry drivers. From there we followed the goat tracks near the caves to the tombs, which are situation high above the Old Medina. The view enabled us to capture the whole of the Old Medina and the mountain's beyond. It's beautifully deserted. We were able to point out our soon-to-be house in the center of the town. It's the perfect 'thinking spot'.

After hours of climbing the tombs, dropping cameras and getting stuck on top of the ruins we trekked back into town through the cemetery. 

While the rest of the group returned to the villa Ben, Desiree and I went in search of lunch in the Old Medina. After successfully coming through the other end of 'The Moroccan Bug' we felt we were ready to try street food. A local asked if we were looking for the tannery, and when we declined asked if we were looking for a husband instead. Points for not hanging around!

We followed the scent of meat and  came across a tiny shop no bigger than a disable toilet. The man beckoned us in, so we ducked under the door into the tiled room and joined the men at the back of the room for food. At the front of the shop, the owner commanded a coal BBQ over which he cooked lamb kofta. The lamb, when cooked was then put into round bread found everywhere in Fez, and you could add your own chilli or cumin spice. Honestly, the best meal I have eaten since I have arrived. Melt-your-mouth hot lamb chunks in freshly baked bread, accompanied by mint tea. The best mint tea I have had, which is saying something! The shop was obviously well known as the stream of locals getting lunch was constant, while we took up the majority of room at the back of the room. Locals gave us curious smiles and nods...this obviously isn't a familiar tourist haunt. However, if anyone visits, unless your vegetarian, we will definitely be paying a visit! 

Naturally I returned home with typical Nay-amounts of enthusiasm and proceeded to ambush the rest of the house with the story of this sandwich. 

Saturday was in general just a fantastic day for food; in the evening we had dinner at Elizabeth and Anna's house where we were treated to a Moroccan feast topped off with Anna's Swedish chocolate cake. No words can do it justice. 

Life in Morocco has had it's highs and lows. By Friday afternoon our deliriously tired class can barely string a cohesive 'daraja' phrase together, but after a couple of hours getting lost in the Old Medina at the weekend you remember how incredible this country is. We are literally living for the weekend. 

This weekend we're hoping to visit Chefchaouen; a nearby village famous for kif . Of course I'm organizing itineraries...Mamma Nay at her best. 

الله يهنيك

Nay xxx