Thursday, 27 August 2009
Sunday, 23 August 2009
How I've Yearnt For You
I'm truly grateful this year for Ramadan. I don't know where I'd be without it year upon year; it's given me a chance to just step back and re-evaluate my life, and without the constant thought of what to eat, I can instead focus on doing something else. Sure, Ramadan involves days, mornings, evenings like the rest of the days of year, but it gives me an excuse to try and do something that little bit extra, make more of an effort. And since it's fallen in the summer holidays, with no work to worry about, it's given me ample opportunity to properly make use of my free time.
Ramadan is quite weird, where you get yourself into a routine, that when it's all over, you've got to remember that you're not doing it any more, and you have to re-adapt yourself to normality. The same can be said for Taraweeh; everyone gets into "we must finish the Quran by the end of the month" mode, people flocking to the mosques, all standing in line side by side with people burping out contents of their scoffed-down Iftars, while the Imam zooms verse through verse, occasionally stumbling, in an attempt to round the night off one thirtieth closer to the end of the Quran. And when it's all over, it's all over. We go home, and look forward to the same next year.
Yes, we have the weekly "what we should be doing in this month" khutbahs, and everyone gets way excited over the vibe (and what to eat at iftar), but it is something we should keep up for the rest of the year. It should be like a staircase, with every Ramadan involving you working to climb that next step, and maintaining that level for the other 11 months, before trying for the next step the next Ramadan, but sometimes we do find ourselves tumbling down.
At a time of such immense reward (multiplied up to 700 times), maybe we should tone down on our usual activities and focus on more religious things. I'm not a big fan of doing something, or stopping something, for a month and then going on with normal life for the rest of the year, but now is an opportunity that can't be missed, and we never know if it's our last.
Maybe our normal lives are the routine we have to snap ourselves out of.
Ramadan is quite weird, where you get yourself into a routine, that when it's all over, you've got to remember that you're not doing it any more, and you have to re-adapt yourself to normality. The same can be said for Taraweeh; everyone gets into "we must finish the Quran by the end of the month" mode, people flocking to the mosques, all standing in line side by side with people burping out contents of their scoffed-down Iftars, while the Imam zooms verse through verse, occasionally stumbling, in an attempt to round the night off one thirtieth closer to the end of the Quran. And when it's all over, it's all over. We go home, and look forward to the same next year.
Yes, we have the weekly "what we should be doing in this month" khutbahs, and everyone gets way excited over the vibe (and what to eat at iftar), but it is something we should keep up for the rest of the year. It should be like a staircase, with every Ramadan involving you working to climb that next step, and maintaining that level for the other 11 months, before trying for the next step the next Ramadan, but sometimes we do find ourselves tumbling down.
At a time of such immense reward (multiplied up to 700 times), maybe we should tone down on our usual activities and focus on more religious things. I'm not a big fan of doing something, or stopping something, for a month and then going on with normal life for the rest of the year, but now is an opportunity that can't be missed, and we never know if it's our last.
Maybe our normal lives are the routine we have to snap ourselves out of.
Monday, 10 August 2009
Day Five - Fez Furthered
We woke up at 10, but I still felt quite exhausted. We went out for a chicken panini breakfast (without cheese) and haphazardly settled our debts to each other whilst paying for the bill. The ice cream across the square was nice, with an array of flavours to choose from; everyone went for the cheaper 10 dirham two scoops whilst I had to go for the three: equivalent to £1.50! (Vanilla with nuts, cappuccino and pistachio for future reference).
We then decided to walk the long straight road (instead of taking a taxi) down to some building which might've been a synagogue, and relaxed underneath some palm trees and next to an empty swimming pool outside. Quiet, shaded and isolated, we spent some of the most enjoyable moments ever there. We made up rhymes about our holiday so far, and decideded on trying to incorporate 'muchas maracas' (our phrase of the holiday- from a Lynx advert) wherever possible when talking to the locals. And then we made up a game; whenever someone said "yes" or "yeah", they have to do 5 pressups from where they were standing. We thought it was a good idea, and even before leaving our peaceful oasis, we'd done loads of pressups already, which was hilarious! We tried to catch each other out but I failed miserably; "Is your camera working yeah? ... Damn!"
We managed to get only 200 metres, to the massive golden gates of this tourist attraction, when we unanimously decided we should stop; doing pressups int eh 45-degree heat under the sun, whilst tourists tried to take pictures not including rolling-on-floor-laughing youths wasn't right. We were mental that day, and sweaty. We began to head to the old city again, but to the market part this time. It's split into several main parts: shoes, henna, meat, ornaments and stuff. we just walked aorund, looking for a mosque, clutching our things tightly, being bombarded with "Come in - cheap!", "Where you from?", and a few "Pakistan!". Alhamdulillah we managed to get through unscathed, but we stumbled upon a Muslim-only 'mosque' we went pas the day before. Some 'saint' was buried there, and once inside, we saw people with candles and sitting around doing nothing apart from congregate around this little fountain, and listen to a guy singing a weird song. Allow!
And that was a glimpse of pre-market market bartering for a jalabiya.
We went back towards home, through the narrow winding market-filled streets, past the place where the wood man made his wood (quite a cool guy who looked like he had Parkinson's but at the same time hand-make some awesome wooden objects. I bought a snake in a box and a spinning top he made on the spot... using his feet!) Back all the way to the synagogue place, past the royal palace, praying maghrib and isha along the way at a mosque, and to the main-looking district where there were colourful light-changing fountains all along the road and a massive one in the roundabout. We stopped off at a Moroccan (obviously) restaurant, which sold couscous and tagines and stuff. The prices were quite high, and we agreed to eat there once they knocked off the 10% service charge (we are students after all- an excuse that works with even the most persistent of beggars and 'tour guides'). The couscous was nice, but way too much to eat; a massive bowl of sauce and and mountain of couscous between two. We tried our best, which left us not in the mood for ice cream afterwards. We returned to the hotel, picked up the luggage we left, and walked for about 20 minutes to the train station.
The train to Marrakesh left at 2:30, with the time being 12:30, we sat in the overcrowded cafe, football showing on the TV; and even that didn't stop me from eventually falling asleep. When I awoke, I found a cigarette stub and sugar sachet between my fingers, a bottle lid on my shoulder, and my travel-mates all looking at me laughing, with one holding a lighter...
The lights weren't working on our part of the carriage, which was just as well because I planned on catching up on some serious sleep. I didn't. Instead, the 8 hour journey through the night turned out to be one of the worst parts of the holiday for me, with pitch blackness outside, and an annoyingly long beeping alarm going off throughout the train at each stop to wake people up; our stop being the last. And once I thought I'd settled myself across the uncomfortable leather seats, the alarm would go off again or someone would push past my outsticking leg. Not very enjoyable at all! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep Beep Beep Beeeeeep BEEEeeep
We managed to get only 200 metres, to the massive golden gates of this tourist attraction, when we unanimously decided we should stop; doing pressups int eh 45-degree heat under the sun, whilst tourists tried to take pictures not including rolling-on-floor-laughing youths wasn't right. We were mental that day, and sweaty. We began to head to the old city again, but to the market part this time. It's split into several main parts: shoes, henna, meat, ornaments and stuff. we just walked aorund, looking for a mosque, clutching our things tightly, being bombarded with "Come in - cheap!", "Where you from?", and a few "Pakistan!". Alhamdulillah we managed to get through unscathed, but we stumbled upon a Muslim-only 'mosque' we went pas the day before. Some 'saint' was buried there, and once inside, we saw people with candles and sitting around doing nothing apart from congregate around this little fountain, and listen to a guy singing a weird song. Allow!
And that was a glimpse of pre-market market bartering for a jalabiya.
We went back towards home, through the narrow winding market-filled streets, past the place where the wood man made his wood (quite a cool guy who looked like he had Parkinson's but at the same time hand-make some awesome wooden objects. I bought a snake in a box and a spinning top he made on the spot... using his feet!) Back all the way to the synagogue place, past the royal palace, praying maghrib and isha along the way at a mosque, and to the main-looking district where there were colourful light-changing fountains all along the road and a massive one in the roundabout. We stopped off at a Moroccan (obviously) restaurant, which sold couscous and tagines and stuff. The prices were quite high, and we agreed to eat there once they knocked off the 10% service charge (we are students after all- an excuse that works with even the most persistent of beggars and 'tour guides'). The couscous was nice, but way too much to eat; a massive bowl of sauce and and mountain of couscous between two. We tried our best, which left us not in the mood for ice cream afterwards. We returned to the hotel, picked up the luggage we left, and walked for about 20 minutes to the train station.
The train to Marrakesh left at 2:30, with the time being 12:30, we sat in the overcrowded cafe, football showing on the TV; and even that didn't stop me from eventually falling asleep. When I awoke, I found a cigarette stub and sugar sachet between my fingers, a bottle lid on my shoulder, and my travel-mates all looking at me laughing, with one holding a lighter...
The lights weren't working on our part of the carriage, which was just as well because I planned on catching up on some serious sleep. I didn't. Instead, the 8 hour journey through the night turned out to be one of the worst parts of the holiday for me, with pitch blackness outside, and an annoyingly long beeping alarm going off throughout the train at each stop to wake people up; our stop being the last. And once I thought I'd settled myself across the uncomfortable leather seats, the alarm would go off again or someone would push past my outsticking leg. Not very enjoyable at all! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep Beep Beep Beeeeeep BEEEeeep
Friday, 31 July 2009
Day Four - Fez
Waking up for fajr didn't feel nice; only a couple of hours of sleep and what seemed like a full night's worth of me getting up to turn off Shuaib's loud alarm, one by one we got up; and still shattered, we all stood in a sleepy line and prayed, hoping get some more sleep afterwards. But we didn't; we got ready to leave for Fez instead, so we could make the Friday prayer there in time. We were told by the hotel guy that the first train to leave would be at 7, so we painstakingly left (after I took a cold *absolutely free* shower to wake me up, and watched the window too), following the path the mainly female workers took early in the morning to take the ferry to Spain, back to the port.
From there, the taxis, of which most could only take three people and were charging quite high prices. After securing one for a price we were happy with, we focused our attention on another, and whilst we finally managed to negotiate a reasonable price, the first taxi drove away! This happened quite a bit, but in the end, all 7 of us managed to arrive at the train station by 6am. We read the board: Fez - 7:45am, "Hmm, yeah, that's not bad." We thought. But as we were about to buy tickets, we were told that the board only displayed arrival times from other places, and that actually, the first train to Fez would leave at 11 something!
So again, the whole separate taxi thing to the coach station; we were not going to wait more than five hours for a train, and the first coach to Fez would leave at 7:45; an hour to wait in this noisy, paranoia-triggering gathering of passengers, beggars and 'bag-carriers'. I remember noticing such a typical North-African-mentality feature of this bus station: it didn't have a clock, and I was alerted to this fact when Redwan panickingly came to me wondering what this old lady was asking him for... the time. The tickets were 63 dirhams (each), and we realised they pulled a Ryanair on us when we had to pay 5 dirhams extra to store a bag underneath the coach. Whilst finally on board and everyone had settled in, and once all the beggars and salesmen had done their rounds, it set off; every one of us effortlessly just fell asleep, with the exception of me. My friend's heads bobbed from side to side and forwards and backwards as the coach turned and slowed down, nothing awakening them. I on the other hand did what I did best and looked out of the window, occasionally shutting my eyes but instantly awoke if so much as a fly buzzed past.
Once we were out of the city, I realised that Morocco was actually quite a beautiful country; so many things growing in what seemed like desert; shepherds and their sheep, cows, the yellow landscape, fields of sunflowers and corn, people producing piles of salt (either that or rice), mountain valleys and fertile soily hills, orchards and funny-looking thorny trees; it's the kind of stuff you'd have set as your desktop background, a couple of green trees in a bare field of yellow, or an artistic set of winding tractor prints on a dry muddy hill. Looking out of the window really helped me relax and remember our adventures the day before, and here I am now, writing on the coach as the others sleep, missing out on the beauty outside, and whilst the stranger beside me watches on, refusing my offers of pineapple juice. Correction: he seems to like paprika-flavoured pringles :P
The slight aroma of the vomiting girl's produce at the back didn't really hinder us from staying on the coach, but what more of an issue was, was the lack of toilet. Two of us were bursting for a couple of hours, which reminded of the ways you could make a sleeping person wet themselves. As soon as the coach doors opened, they ran out and answered the call of nature. This was it: Fez, and it looked like we alighted in the middle of nowhere. Then came the usual taxi-driving stalkers we all came to know and love, and in the end we went to a taxi bay place and took two taxis, our efforts at trying to reduce the 50 dirham "tariff" futile. The first hotel we were dropped off at was full, so we loaded the bags back up and managed to reduce the price of going to another hotel by 5 dirhams to 15; tariff indeed!
'Hotel Royale' had quite decent rooms, with en suite showers and toilets, so we decided we could let our impatient taxi driver friends go and I gave mine 65 dirhams; a 50 note and 15 in coins. He then drove off. I looked at my remaining money and then it struck me,
"What colour was the 50 note I gave?"
"Pink" my friend replied.
"Have you got any 50's on you?"
He produced one... it was green. "Damn, I think I gave him 50 euros!!" The other taxi driver was still there, and after we told him what had happened, instead of cracking up laughing (which he probably saved for another time), he gave us his number, and that we should call him after we got settled in the hotel. Some 'tour guide' character was straight on the scene, and was there giving his two cents on what we should do; I wondered why he'd be so helpful... not!
Some of us went up to check the rooms whilst I was left downstairs to deal with the 'tour guide'. I'm not really a person to say no, and he insisted he show us another hotel, so a couple of us followed him and tried to converse with his broken-English-speaking self. I had a look at the other hotel room; I didn't like it- but I think it was just the feeling of the 50 euros gone that dampened my mood. We settled for our first choice. The rest is boring (apart from our delayed Friday prayer that we missed... the reason why we woke up so early in the first place!), but when we went out to eat (after changing our seating 3 times, doing a group vote to decide which place had the best AC :P), we conveniently bumped into our 'tour guide' again, but Gallael, the legend when it comes to dealing with the locals, told him that we didn't have any money, and that he would be 'touring' for Allah's sake. the guy said yes, but then he changed his mind when he saw that I'd rewarded the taxi drivers for coming back. Yes, I got my pink 50 euro note back!!
Later on, we went through the usual hassle of getting 3 taxis and visited the old part of Fez; the narrow winding alley-like streets and a multitude of 'tour guides' and beggars. With the useless Lonely Planet maps, we couldn't ask anyone for directions, or they'd start to lead the way and expect to get paid by the end, and the more we walked through the run-down labyrinth of filth and insecurity, the more I didn't want to be there; why were we here in the first place? That was until I saw it- the mosque. Amazing architecture and beautiful patterned designs, with two wudhu fountains at either end of the shiny multicoloured tiled courtyard and one in the middle; the place so calm and such a difference from the mayhem outside.
We stayed a few hours, took loads of pictures and prayed asr, after conducting a group vote deciding on whether we should pray inside the mosque or in the courtyard where the front appeared to be. We also saw a boy dunking his whole head into the long basin full of water, and this gave birth to our idea for the 'suicide competition'; who could dunk their heads in for the longest won! The biggest challenge wasn't holding your breath, but holding your laughs; it was hilarious, and the first to lose would probably be the first to crack up; a flurry of bubbles being the tell-tale sign. We later stood in the courtyard and prayed maghrib with everyone else in the fairly-full courtyard (ignoring the chanting at the end). It was a serene experience, but also weird, as everyone wasn't standing in your standard straight line, but slightly diagonally, like we were footballers standing for a national anthem. I blame the architects.
With the dark of the night approaching, we made our way to the tallest point of the city so we could admire the view from the top. The walking journey was long, and we decided to ask only people who looked like they were going somewhere, religious-looking people or shopkeepers. It kind of worked. We managed to shun our 'tour guide' friends by pretending to know where we were going (even though we didn't), just kept walking, said hello to loads of kids playing football, and continued our brisk walk uphill through the narrow musty walkways.
We arrive at the top (which we later found out, wasn't), and found an extremely expensive-looking hotel, completely out of place and somewhere we wanted to get into and take pictures from its gardens. We had to buy something if we wanted to get in, and even then we'd only have access to the terrace. I'm glad we made the decision to go ahead with it; the hours spent on top of the lit-up old city were some of the most chilled-out hours of the holiday so far, especially with the hectic travelling we'd been doing earlier. We chatted about our adventures so far, I updated my diary, we tried to film the most memorable quotes of the holiday so far, we imagined a few scenarios of becoming lost in a silent, dark Fez, if Salman went missing, and the film 'hostel' came up in the conversation.
After totally relaxing for a long while, we got down to business, and considered all of the possible scenarios we could pursue over the next few days all the way to Friday when we'd go home. Every one of us tired, we triple-checked our plans and voted on how we'd like to spend our days, where we'd be travelling to first, and for how long. Just then, on cue, the hotel guy says it's time to close, and we taxied it back to our hotel, stayed up 'til fajr telling jokes in the room with the two double beds (where 4 of us were staying), taking the limits of our sanity to new levels. I finally dizzily staggered to my bed, more than ready for my first long sleep.
From there, the taxis, of which most could only take three people and were charging quite high prices. After securing one for a price we were happy with, we focused our attention on another, and whilst we finally managed to negotiate a reasonable price, the first taxi drove away! This happened quite a bit, but in the end, all 7 of us managed to arrive at the train station by 6am. We read the board: Fez - 7:45am, "Hmm, yeah, that's not bad." We thought. But as we were about to buy tickets, we were told that the board only displayed arrival times from other places, and that actually, the first train to Fez would leave at 11 something!
So again, the whole separate taxi thing to the coach station; we were not going to wait more than five hours for a train, and the first coach to Fez would leave at 7:45; an hour to wait in this noisy, paranoia-triggering gathering of passengers, beggars and 'bag-carriers'. I remember noticing such a typical North-African-mentality feature of this bus station: it didn't have a clock, and I was alerted to this fact when Redwan panickingly came to me wondering what this old lady was asking him for... the time. The tickets were 63 dirhams (each), and we realised they pulled a Ryanair on us when we had to pay 5 dirhams extra to store a bag underneath the coach. Whilst finally on board and everyone had settled in, and once all the beggars and salesmen had done their rounds, it set off; every one of us effortlessly just fell asleep, with the exception of me. My friend's heads bobbed from side to side and forwards and backwards as the coach turned and slowed down, nothing awakening them. I on the other hand did what I did best and looked out of the window, occasionally shutting my eyes but instantly awoke if so much as a fly buzzed past.
Once we were out of the city, I realised that Morocco was actually quite a beautiful country; so many things growing in what seemed like desert; shepherds and their sheep, cows, the yellow landscape, fields of sunflowers and corn, people producing piles of salt (either that or rice), mountain valleys and fertile soily hills, orchards and funny-looking thorny trees; it's the kind of stuff you'd have set as your desktop background, a couple of green trees in a bare field of yellow, or an artistic set of winding tractor prints on a dry muddy hill. Looking out of the window really helped me relax and remember our adventures the day before, and here I am now, writing on the coach as the others sleep, missing out on the beauty outside, and whilst the stranger beside me watches on, refusing my offers of pineapple juice. Correction: he seems to like paprika-flavoured pringles :P
The slight aroma of the vomiting girl's produce at the back didn't really hinder us from staying on the coach, but what more of an issue was, was the lack of toilet. Two of us were bursting for a couple of hours, which reminded of the ways you could make a sleeping person wet themselves. As soon as the coach doors opened, they ran out and answered the call of nature. This was it: Fez, and it looked like we alighted in the middle of nowhere. Then came the usual taxi-driving stalkers we all came to know and love, and in the end we went to a taxi bay place and took two taxis, our efforts at trying to reduce the 50 dirham "tariff" futile. The first hotel we were dropped off at was full, so we loaded the bags back up and managed to reduce the price of going to another hotel by 5 dirhams to 15; tariff indeed!
'Hotel Royale' had quite decent rooms, with en suite showers and toilets, so we decided we could let our impatient taxi driver friends go and I gave mine 65 dirhams; a 50 note and 15 in coins. He then drove off. I looked at my remaining money and then it struck me,
"What colour was the 50 note I gave?"
"Pink" my friend replied.
"Have you got any 50's on you?"
He produced one... it was green. "Damn, I think I gave him 50 euros!!" The other taxi driver was still there, and after we told him what had happened, instead of cracking up laughing (which he probably saved for another time), he gave us his number, and that we should call him after we got settled in the hotel. Some 'tour guide' character was straight on the scene, and was there giving his two cents on what we should do; I wondered why he'd be so helpful... not!
Some of us went up to check the rooms whilst I was left downstairs to deal with the 'tour guide'. I'm not really a person to say no, and he insisted he show us another hotel, so a couple of us followed him and tried to converse with his broken-English-speaking self. I had a look at the other hotel room; I didn't like it- but I think it was just the feeling of the 50 euros gone that dampened my mood. We settled for our first choice. The rest is boring (apart from our delayed Friday prayer that we missed... the reason why we woke up so early in the first place!), but when we went out to eat (after changing our seating 3 times, doing a group vote to decide which place had the best AC :P), we conveniently bumped into our 'tour guide' again, but Gallael, the legend when it comes to dealing with the locals, told him that we didn't have any money, and that he would be 'touring' for Allah's sake. the guy said yes, but then he changed his mind when he saw that I'd rewarded the taxi drivers for coming back. Yes, I got my pink 50 euro note back!!
Later on, we went through the usual hassle of getting 3 taxis and visited the old part of Fez; the narrow winding alley-like streets and a multitude of 'tour guides' and beggars. With the useless Lonely Planet maps, we couldn't ask anyone for directions, or they'd start to lead the way and expect to get paid by the end, and the more we walked through the run-down labyrinth of filth and insecurity, the more I didn't want to be there; why were we here in the first place? That was until I saw it- the mosque. Amazing architecture and beautiful patterned designs, with two wudhu fountains at either end of the shiny multicoloured tiled courtyard and one in the middle; the place so calm and such a difference from the mayhem outside.
We stayed a few hours, took loads of pictures and prayed asr, after conducting a group vote deciding on whether we should pray inside the mosque or in the courtyard where the front appeared to be. We also saw a boy dunking his whole head into the long basin full of water, and this gave birth to our idea for the 'suicide competition'; who could dunk their heads in for the longest won! The biggest challenge wasn't holding your breath, but holding your laughs; it was hilarious, and the first to lose would probably be the first to crack up; a flurry of bubbles being the tell-tale sign. We later stood in the courtyard and prayed maghrib with everyone else in the fairly-full courtyard (ignoring the chanting at the end). It was a serene experience, but also weird, as everyone wasn't standing in your standard straight line, but slightly diagonally, like we were footballers standing for a national anthem. I blame the architects.
With the dark of the night approaching, we made our way to the tallest point of the city so we could admire the view from the top. The walking journey was long, and we decided to ask only people who looked like they were going somewhere, religious-looking people or shopkeepers. It kind of worked. We managed to shun our 'tour guide' friends by pretending to know where we were going (even though we didn't), just kept walking, said hello to loads of kids playing football, and continued our brisk walk uphill through the narrow musty walkways.
We arrive at the top (which we later found out, wasn't), and found an extremely expensive-looking hotel, completely out of place and somewhere we wanted to get into and take pictures from its gardens. We had to buy something if we wanted to get in, and even then we'd only have access to the terrace. I'm glad we made the decision to go ahead with it; the hours spent on top of the lit-up old city were some of the most chilled-out hours of the holiday so far, especially with the hectic travelling we'd been doing earlier. We chatted about our adventures so far, I updated my diary, we tried to film the most memorable quotes of the holiday so far, we imagined a few scenarios of becoming lost in a silent, dark Fez, if Salman went missing, and the film 'hostel' came up in the conversation.
After totally relaxing for a long while, we got down to business, and considered all of the possible scenarios we could pursue over the next few days all the way to Friday when we'd go home. Every one of us tired, we triple-checked our plans and voted on how we'd like to spend our days, where we'd be travelling to first, and for how long. Just then, on cue, the hotel guy says it's time to close, and we taxied it back to our hotel, stayed up 'til fajr telling jokes in the room with the two double beds (where 4 of us were staying), taking the limits of our sanity to new levels. I finally dizzily staggered to my bed, more than ready for my first long sleep.
Monday, 27 July 2009
Day Three - Tangerines
I woke up for fajr fairly refreshed; it seems that 4 hours of sleep is just enough for me. Then there was the usual wait for everyone to do wudhu (conveniently falling back asleep ¬_¬), and only 2 bathrooms to the whole hostel! We prayed fajr very close to sunrise on the roof terrace, which was an extremely calm and spiritually nourishing moment, and then everyone went back to sleep, relying on me to wake everyone up at 9. I stayed up and went downstairs to first have a shower unhindered, then type up Day One as well as check Facebook and the usual stuff.
I woke everyone up at the time I was supposed to, and only one person actually listened; everyone else went back to sleep after giving their pledge of awakedness. By the time everyone had woken up, we went downstairs, ignored the (probably drunk) nutcase in the kitchen, and instead got our breakfast from the bakery as we did the day before. Then we made our way to the coach station (via the 3 or 33 buses - for future reference :P), and boarded the midday coach to Algeceras, sat at the back, and had a chat with the twostalkers ladies who conveniently were taking the same coach, who took our photo the day before at Alhambra, and who I later learnt, saw us at the mosque as well. Before we spoke to them, we thought our trip was jam-packed; one of them came from Paris, through Barcelona, picked up her friend from Madrid, then to Granada, to Malaga and Marrakesh, then London, Vienna, America and back to Mexico where she lives! Our new-found friends got off at Malaga, and the rest of the journey was spent either talking about our intruiging conversation and the Spanish name assigned to Gallael (Geraldo), about hair straighteners (Qasad), Arabic culture and haggling techniques, or playing DS, or just sleeping with the slight bit of dribble emerging from the mouth.
Four hours later, and after admiring the clean sandy beaches (I didn't really, I was half asleep), we descended from the coach and bought our ferry tickets at a shop opposite the port, before getting halal meat and chicken sandwiches at a nearby shop. Al-Jazeera sport was on, and I was finally able to make use of my bilingual self, asking for no olives or tomatoes :P This place didn't have a full Spanish feel to it; you could feel the Moroccan influence seeping through. Would Morocco be just an Algeria with tourists? Only time would tell.
I didn't understand the whole ferry timing thing, with Morocco being an hour behind Spain, but the 5 o'clock ferry ended up being 7 o'clock anyway. The ferry journey itself was phenomenal! After boarding through what looked like a car park, we soon found the upper deck, with the breeze blowing and the sun shining, we enjoyed every moment of it, and each other's company, with the knowledge that the lifeboats were a few metres away :P We forgot about the lack of sleep and were full of energy, taking loads of photos and videos on the way. We imagined scenarios of people/things falling overboard and what we'd do in certain random situations, and then we watched the sunset together... amazing. Looking away from the sun and back towards it quickly, you could actually see it move! And slowly, it disappeared behind the calm and vast ocean. This journey was probably the best experience so far! We had our passports stamped on the ferry, and after an exhiliarating ride, we drop anchor at Tangier, Morocco.
Now, I was expecting a watered-down version of Algeria, but as we entered the port town, it seemed just the same: Mayhem. This was no Algeria Lite; similar attitudes, similar accents (sort of) and a clear disregard for toothpaste or soap. The first guy that came to us asked if we wanted a hotel to stay in or a taxi. He had a heavy Italian mafia accent, probably picking it up from a film or something, but he certainly did sort of look the part! Even after we said no, he followed us all the way to the currency exchange; these kinda guys being quite erm, persuasive; we wouldn't want to disappoint him now would we, capeesh? But we did. One other moustachioed guy tried following us (something that we realised we'd probably have to get used to over here), but we ended up walking to the nearby coach office, finding that the last coach to Fez had already left, and so we'd have to spend the night in Tangier. Golly.
Armed with our Lonely Planet guide, ignoring the stares and offers of rooms, showers and hash, we chose one place, and you could see the glee on the hotel guy's face. We instantly became his 'friends', and the standard of jokes he was cracking showed he was over the moon at the impending transfer of crusty moroccan banknotes in his favour. We initially thought it was 50 dirhams for the whole room (in which four of us were going to be sleeping on the floor- cockroach territory), but we were swiftly brought back to reality when we realised it was 50 per person (with the option of an extra 7 dirhams for a shower)! The lobby place was intricately decorated with patterned tiling (well, under the deceptive cloak of night), but the rooms were plain and adequate for the night, with a sink in the corner. Which should've been in the bathroom. The bathroom had what you'd expect, minus a sink; a toilet and a shower. And a window; a window that was head-height and accessible to any corridor-goer who could turn their head to the right and know if the toilet was occupied or not. Great stuff.
We went out looking for somewhere to eat, and as we didn't want to wander too far (as we loved to do back in seductive Spain), we settled for a place we passed on the way in, a small kebab hut thing that we all congregated around. And as they told us the price of one, I had the 'cheek' of asking a moroccan customer how much he was paying, just to make sure we weren't being swindled. Even though I avoided the salad and chips in my bread (and I wouldn't have had the meat either, or the bread), I did get a bit of a tummy ache. After everyone else went for seconds, and me just sitting wondering what on Earth I was doing there, we went for tea in a quiet restaurant the hotel guy recommended to us. I was absolutely shattered, especially as I didn't sleep on the coach earlier, but I did have the brainpower to visualise how a 'hostel' scene would pan out for us, which I thought was become increasingly likely, until the tea showed up half an hour later. I sleepily watched the others drink their mint teas, before we returned to the room in time for the hotel's 1pm curfew.
At that point I wished I was back home; my basic needs weren't being met, and at least with Algeria I knew what I'd be up against in advance and be able prepare for it, but I was thrown into Morocco not knowing what to expect, coming to the conclusion that actually, Algeria is better in loads of respects. At least there no-one shouts "Namaste" to Yemeni's!
[Wow, this day (after the ferry) was pretty painful, and I took a two day break before typing up the Tangier part just to brace myself for the recollection. It's somewhere that won't be making my list of favourite places anytime soon!]
I woke everyone up at the time I was supposed to, and only one person actually listened; everyone else went back to sleep after giving their pledge of awakedness. By the time everyone had woken up, we went downstairs, ignored the (probably drunk) nutcase in the kitchen, and instead got our breakfast from the bakery as we did the day before. Then we made our way to the coach station (via the 3 or 33 buses - for future reference :P), and boarded the midday coach to Algeceras, sat at the back, and had a chat with the two
Four hours later, and after admiring the clean sandy beaches (I didn't really, I was half asleep), we descended from the coach and bought our ferry tickets at a shop opposite the port, before getting halal meat and chicken sandwiches at a nearby shop. Al-Jazeera sport was on, and I was finally able to make use of my bilingual self, asking for no olives or tomatoes :P This place didn't have a full Spanish feel to it; you could feel the Moroccan influence seeping through. Would Morocco be just an Algeria with tourists? Only time would tell.
I didn't understand the whole ferry timing thing, with Morocco being an hour behind Spain, but the 5 o'clock ferry ended up being 7 o'clock anyway. The ferry journey itself was phenomenal! After boarding through what looked like a car park, we soon found the upper deck, with the breeze blowing and the sun shining, we enjoyed every moment of it, and each other's company, with the knowledge that the lifeboats were a few metres away :P We forgot about the lack of sleep and were full of energy, taking loads of photos and videos on the way. We imagined scenarios of people/things falling overboard and what we'd do in certain random situations, and then we watched the sunset together... amazing. Looking away from the sun and back towards it quickly, you could actually see it move! And slowly, it disappeared behind the calm and vast ocean. This journey was probably the best experience so far! We had our passports stamped on the ferry, and after an exhiliarating ride, we drop anchor at Tangier, Morocco.
Now, I was expecting a watered-down version of Algeria, but as we entered the port town, it seemed just the same: Mayhem. This was no Algeria Lite; similar attitudes, similar accents (sort of) and a clear disregard for toothpaste or soap. The first guy that came to us asked if we wanted a hotel to stay in or a taxi. He had a heavy Italian mafia accent, probably picking it up from a film or something, but he certainly did sort of look the part! Even after we said no, he followed us all the way to the currency exchange; these kinda guys being quite erm, persuasive; we wouldn't want to disappoint him now would we, capeesh? But we did. One other moustachioed guy tried following us (something that we realised we'd probably have to get used to over here), but we ended up walking to the nearby coach office, finding that the last coach to Fez had already left, and so we'd have to spend the night in Tangier. Golly.
Armed with our Lonely Planet guide, ignoring the stares and offers of rooms, showers and hash, we chose one place, and you could see the glee on the hotel guy's face. We instantly became his 'friends', and the standard of jokes he was cracking showed he was over the moon at the impending transfer of crusty moroccan banknotes in his favour. We initially thought it was 50 dirhams for the whole room (in which four of us were going to be sleeping on the floor- cockroach territory), but we were swiftly brought back to reality when we realised it was 50 per person (with the option of an extra 7 dirhams for a shower)! The lobby place was intricately decorated with patterned tiling (well, under the deceptive cloak of night), but the rooms were plain and adequate for the night, with a sink in the corner. Which should've been in the bathroom. The bathroom had what you'd expect, minus a sink; a toilet and a shower. And a window; a window that was head-height and accessible to any corridor-goer who could turn their head to the right and know if the toilet was occupied or not. Great stuff.
We went out looking for somewhere to eat, and as we didn't want to wander too far (as we loved to do back in seductive Spain), we settled for a place we passed on the way in, a small kebab hut thing that we all congregated around. And as they told us the price of one, I had the 'cheek' of asking a moroccan customer how much he was paying, just to make sure we weren't being swindled. Even though I avoided the salad and chips in my bread (and I wouldn't have had the meat either, or the bread), I did get a bit of a tummy ache. After everyone else went for seconds, and me just sitting wondering what on Earth I was doing there, we went for tea in a quiet restaurant the hotel guy recommended to us. I was absolutely shattered, especially as I didn't sleep on the coach earlier, but I did have the brainpower to visualise how a 'hostel' scene would pan out for us, which I thought was become increasingly likely, until the tea showed up half an hour later. I sleepily watched the others drink their mint teas, before we returned to the room in time for the hotel's 1pm curfew.
At that point I wished I was back home; my basic needs weren't being met, and at least with Algeria I knew what I'd be up against in advance and be able prepare for it, but I was thrown into Morocco not knowing what to expect, coming to the conclusion that actually, Algeria is better in loads of respects. At least there no-one shouts "Namaste" to Yemeni's!
[Wow, this day (after the ferry) was pretty painful, and I took a two day break before typing up the Tangier part just to brace myself for the recollection. It's somewhere that won't be making my list of favourite places anytime soon!]
Friday, 24 July 2009
Day Two - Fountains, Flowers and Finesse
As we sat in one of the many open-air courtyards of Alhambra castle palace, fountains gushing, birds whistling overhead, and people taking pictures of the awe-inspiring art that covers every inch of the walls, I couldn't help but notice the recurring phrase carved in Arabic into every wall and pillar: "There is no victory except with Allah", the motto of the ruler of Granada at the time. Even though it's in everyone's faces and people are taking pictures of it, it looks like they're missing it's meaning; this place once stood only because of the people's faith in God, and it now stands as a lesson to later generations, that as seemingly easily as something can be gained, it can also be lost. Now, it's just a tourist attraction, but remains standing as a reminder of what could be, and was.
I'm kind of glad that my camera battery ran out before I had a chance to take pictures of this place; it gave me a chance to properly take everything in and not worry about documenting everything on film. No-one could properly take pictures of this place and do justice to its beauty at the same time, you just have to be there! You'd need to take a hundred pictures of one spot to understand how it feels being there. I just put my glasses on and looked at the most well-crafted place I've ever seen, the man-made and nature complementing each other brilliantly.
Then we just wandered around the gardens, climbed the castle towers, and honestly, the word 'amazing' is an understatement. I can't describe it. The gardens of flowers and fountains with goldfish and attention paid to every intricate detail. On the way to one of the gardens supposed to be representing one of the forms of paradise, we cooled ourselves down with the water gushing down either side of the tall garden staircase, shaded by the intertwined branches of trees overhead. You couldn't get more perfect a place than this. Our last 'wow' moment involved the longest corridor of roses I had ever seen! Engulfed by a tunnel of pink, you just had to stand and stare into the distance as the pinkish sunlight streaked its way through the gaps where the roses chose not to grow.
The way back to the town from the castle was fairly easier as we were all going downhill, and we sat down to a shawerma for lunch, happy with my souvenir postcards and clay plaque reading "There is no victory except with Allah". The ice cream shop we went to later was nice, with its wacky flavours and pretty ice cream decorations. I chose ferrero rocher. Then I had caramel. We then asked directions towards the small mosque where we prayed and met a moroccan/spanish kid (7 years old, and called Al-Ghali), communicating with him through mainly sign language, "face- book", "computer", "poke, yes?"
We made our way up to the main mosque, sitting on the peak opposite Al-Hambra. Inside we just chilled, had a little talk about our priorities during our travels, with the conversation gradually changing to which kebab shops were the best in England. After relaxing for a couple of hours in the shade of the mosque, we prayed maghrib (and to be honest I was quite freaked out by the whole chanting thing after prayer), then we met a moroccan man who said he'd help us with our trip to morocco, and who we'd meet after we found somewhere to eat. We continued down some narrow lamp-lit walkways until we found a nice spanish/moroccan tea place, and we had some nourishing rice and meat. they had a whole menu full of different teas, and the two young brothers running the shop made us feel very welcome.
We retraced our steps, guided by the streetlamps and familiar landmarks and graffiti, along the alleys, taking loads of pictures on the way. We again came across the mosque converted into a house, which we were quite annoyed with, and we finally found our way to the moroccan man's baklawa shop, where we met some other guys who spoke english, two of whom lived in Willesden for a while! It's a small world.
After my fairly long chat with one of the guys (an asian, who's travelling through Algeria to random places), and getting details about Morocco, Salman and I paid a visit to the nearby mosque we went to earlier to see if it was still open (it wasn't), but on the way we met Al-Ghali again! He took us to his dad and gave us each incense sticks, probably because of the euro I gave him earlier. Happy that we were rewarded materially for going to the mosque, we returned to the hostel to find Suzie (a fellow hostel stayer) jovially reminding us again to be quiet at fajr time and at night (with a few choice swear words :P), as she had told us on the roof earlier. Instead of going out and eating ice cream, we spent the rest of the night on the roof terrace pointing our laser down at random passers by (and their dogs)... too hilarious!
Then we discussed our plan for the next day (like the adults we were), which involved leaving the hostel at half ten, and probably waking up ten minutes before.
Here are a few more photos of Granada from my friend's camera:
I'm kind of glad that my camera battery ran out before I had a chance to take pictures of this place; it gave me a chance to properly take everything in and not worry about documenting everything on film. No-one could properly take pictures of this place and do justice to its beauty at the same time, you just have to be there! You'd need to take a hundred pictures of one spot to understand how it feels being there. I just put my glasses on and looked at the most well-crafted place I've ever seen, the man-made and nature complementing each other brilliantly.
Then we just wandered around the gardens, climbed the castle towers, and honestly, the word 'amazing' is an understatement. I can't describe it. The gardens of flowers and fountains with goldfish and attention paid to every intricate detail. On the way to one of the gardens supposed to be representing one of the forms of paradise, we cooled ourselves down with the water gushing down either side of the tall garden staircase, shaded by the intertwined branches of trees overhead. You couldn't get more perfect a place than this. Our last 'wow' moment involved the longest corridor of roses I had ever seen! Engulfed by a tunnel of pink, you just had to stand and stare into the distance as the pinkish sunlight streaked its way through the gaps where the roses chose not to grow.
The way back to the town from the castle was fairly easier as we were all going downhill, and we sat down to a shawerma for lunch, happy with my souvenir postcards and clay plaque reading "There is no victory except with Allah". The ice cream shop we went to later was nice, with its wacky flavours and pretty ice cream decorations. I chose ferrero rocher. Then I had caramel. We then asked directions towards the small mosque where we prayed and met a moroccan/spanish kid (7 years old, and called Al-Ghali), communicating with him through mainly sign language, "face- book", "computer", "poke, yes?"
We made our way up to the main mosque, sitting on the peak opposite Al-Hambra. Inside we just chilled, had a little talk about our priorities during our travels, with the conversation gradually changing to which kebab shops were the best in England. After relaxing for a couple of hours in the shade of the mosque, we prayed maghrib (and to be honest I was quite freaked out by the whole chanting thing after prayer), then we met a moroccan man who said he'd help us with our trip to morocco, and who we'd meet after we found somewhere to eat. We continued down some narrow lamp-lit walkways until we found a nice spanish/moroccan tea place, and we had some nourishing rice and meat. they had a whole menu full of different teas, and the two young brothers running the shop made us feel very welcome.
We retraced our steps, guided by the streetlamps and familiar landmarks and graffiti, along the alleys, taking loads of pictures on the way. We again came across the mosque converted into a house, which we were quite annoyed with, and we finally found our way to the moroccan man's baklawa shop, where we met some other guys who spoke english, two of whom lived in Willesden for a while! It's a small world.
After my fairly long chat with one of the guys (an asian, who's travelling through Algeria to random places), and getting details about Morocco, Salman and I paid a visit to the nearby mosque we went to earlier to see if it was still open (it wasn't), but on the way we met Al-Ghali again! He took us to his dad and gave us each incense sticks, probably because of the euro I gave him earlier. Happy that we were rewarded materially for going to the mosque, we returned to the hostel to find Suzie (a fellow hostel stayer) jovially reminding us again to be quiet at fajr time and at night (with a few choice swear words :P), as she had told us on the roof earlier. Instead of going out and eating ice cream, we spent the rest of the night on the roof terrace pointing our laser down at random passers by (and their dogs)... too hilarious!
Then we discussed our plan for the next day (like the adults we were), which involved leaving the hostel at half ten, and probably waking up ten minutes before.
Here are a few more photos of Granada from my friend's camera:
Sunday, 19 July 2009
July the 19th
Well as I write this, it´s now the 16th of July, but I can´t help but think of the date ´July the 19th´ as it´s been a day that has changed my life on more than one occasion. July the 19th 2004, I was walking with my friend near a tunnel near my old house, when we were attacked by five boys and two dogs, and it´s a long story, but what happened was that we got battered; kicked in the face, everything, blood flowing everywhere, bruises on top of bruises, with me having to repair two slightly chipped teeth as a result. That moment had changed my life and the way I would see everything in the world from then on.
Then came July the 19th 2005, exactly one year on and at exactly the same time, I cut my fingers extremely badly on a circular saw whilst not paying attention and playing with the power switch. Blood was gushing out like a fountain and I needed stitches to repair them, initially thinking I´d lose them, and I´m now left with visible scars on two of my fingers. As I now look at them, I still can´t believe it happened! I hadn´t felt so much pain in my life. But alhamdulillah I learnt something.
Since then, it´s been relatively quiet. But as July the 19th approaches, and I´ll be in morocco by then inshaallah, I can´t help but think about it. Should I be believing in special days where I could expect something to happen to me, even though I believe Allah is controlling of everything? Or since nothing has happened the past few years, is it a lesson to Not believe in ´mathematical fate´? All I know is that on July the 19th I´ll be doing everything normally, I don´t want to be superstitious and be wary of everything I do; I may even forget about it until it´s the 20th! But what happens happens, and we can´t change it, but if we do decide to go water-skiing or something on the 19th, it will certainly be... interesting :)
Maybe I should treat every day like July the 19th.
Then came July the 19th 2005, exactly one year on and at exactly the same time, I cut my fingers extremely badly on a circular saw whilst not paying attention and playing with the power switch. Blood was gushing out like a fountain and I needed stitches to repair them, initially thinking I´d lose them, and I´m now left with visible scars on two of my fingers. As I now look at them, I still can´t believe it happened! I hadn´t felt so much pain in my life. But alhamdulillah I learnt something.
Since then, it´s been relatively quiet. But as July the 19th approaches, and I´ll be in morocco by then inshaallah, I can´t help but think about it. Should I be believing in special days where I could expect something to happen to me, even though I believe Allah is controlling of everything? Or since nothing has happened the past few years, is it a lesson to Not believe in ´mathematical fate´? All I know is that on July the 19th I´ll be doing everything normally, I don´t want to be superstitious and be wary of everything I do; I may even forget about it until it´s the 20th! But what happens happens, and we can´t change it, but if we do decide to go water-skiing or something on the 19th, it will certainly be... interesting :)
Maybe I should treat every day like July the 19th.
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