July 15-17: Cinque Terre

We met up with Vicky’s friend Fiona and headed to the Cinque Terre with great excitement. Not only were we heading to one of Italy’s most beautiful regions, but finally there would be someone to talk to apart from ourselves.

“Cinque Terre” (meaning “five lands”) is a chain of five little villages on a 10 km stretch of very steep coastline on the Ligurian sea. The area is renowned for its quaint charm (ie. cobblestone paths, great local produce and wines) as well as the fact that they can only be easily accessed by foot or rail, due to the hilly-ness. We stayed at town #2, Vernazza, which was the one with the good beach. Strictly speaking, the beach was a pile of grey sand/dust next to the place where the boats moored. But still, very popular.

Vernazza.

Never has grey dust been more highly appreciated.

Nothing says style like matching beach towels.

The three of us stayed in a camere (a room-to-let) run by an Italian mamma of predictably large girth. She was delightfully maternal but also rather shrewd. On our arrival she proudly displayed her front-loading washing machine to me and declared: “Your laundry – it’s for free! But – you must write a review.” I was confused. A review of the laundry? “You know Trip Advisor?” I nodded. “You write to Trip Advisor, I do the washing!” Sharp.

The following day we decided to walk the famous trail that links the five villages. However, given the undulating paths and steepness of ascents and descents between each village, there was a question as to the appropriateness of our choice of footwear (ie. thongs). While still in town, Fiona addressed this by asking a robust-looking American fellow wearing hiking shoes.

“Do you think it would be OK in thongs?”

“Um … do you have proper shoes?”

“Yes.”

“Well … I think you’d be crazy to do it in thongs.”

“Yes, but we’re hardcore.”

The American seemed to take Fiona’s sarcasm as an affront.

Later, upon reaching the trail office at the commencement of the path, Vicky asked the information guy for his opinion.

“Have you ever seen people walk the path in thongs?”

“There have been…some, but … (classic Italian shrug)”

“Did they look injured?”

“No … but you can try …”

As we commenced the walk, we were stopped by a Dutch woman: “I really think it would be dangerous to walk in those … but (classic Italian shrug) … it’s just my opinion …” Admittedly, she had just witnessed us struggling to cross a section of gravel path as wide as a foot, from which one could quite easily tumble to one’s death. However, we carried on.

The treacherous path.

Glittering!

After about twenty minutes of trouble-free walking, a young man in a Quiksilver T-shirt and thongs approached from the opposite direction. I took the opportunity.

“Have you had any trouble doing the path in thongs?”

“Nuh!” (classic Aussie accent) “These people here, they just don’t understand. We do everything in thongs downunder!”

We ignored the fact that he was bleeding from some sort of wound from his leg.

In the end, the path was almost completely free of slippage or thong-related incidents, proving conclusively that Australians are indeed “hardcore”. I cannot deny feeling a swell of nationalistic pride every time we passed anyone in hiking boots, especially if they were also carrying trekking poles (ie most people). Incidentally, the path was very beautiful. We swam in the glittering blue water below the path, on a rocky shore (Fiona exclaimed, “It’s just like the movies!”). We had gelati in Corniglia, anchovy bruschetta and coffee in Manarola (“Cappuccino? But it’s 4.30 in the afternoon!” exclaimed the waiter, “It’s very strange …”) and bought some of Riomaggiore’s world-famous pesto.

Corniglia: Hitler beer, Stalin beer, Bob Marley beer.

That's not us.

Also not us.

Riomaggiore.

Upon our return to the room, we discovered our neatly folded pile of clean laundry next to a handwritten note which requested that we leave our payment. A brief addendum stated: “Here is the laundry. And don’t forget … clean the slip.” This last phrase prompted much debate among the three of us. What could this mean? A misinterpretation? A comment on our hygiene? Some sort of threat? No answer could be found, even after emailing our hostess weeks later (she denied writing any such thing). If anyone with a knowledge of Italian idioms can help, we would be appreciative.

Despite the atmosphere of danger and fear, the Cinque Terre was a wonderful place: beautiful, great water for swimming, amazingly good pizza, coffee, gelati, olives and wine, and we left feeling the time had passed too quickly.

Happy customers.

It's like ice-cream in a burger format!

July 12-14: Milan

Milan's cathedral.


Not a great deal to say about Milan, mainly because we spent most of our time shopping and eating. It was quite fortuitous that we should arrive in Italy during sales week (one of only two such weeks in the year). What better way to become reacquainted with capitalism.

A shopping arcade.

Milan’s place in the league of stylish cities is established, thanks to its many glamorously attractive and well-dressed citizens. Many handsome Italian men were seen, clad in impeccable suits and astride cream-coloured Vespas. High heels and designer sunglasses were everywhere – including the policewomen, which seems rather impractical for chasing pickpockets, but perfect for standing outside monuments looking foxy. Even their uniforms were figure hugging. Vicky got a much needed haircut in Milan, during which the hairdressers repeatedly exclaimed, “Italian people, belissimo! No?” which she felt compelled to agree with since they were wielding large scissors.

Dressed to kill.

Ooh! Celebrity measurements!

No trip to Milan is complete without visiting the Golden Quad, a rectangle of streets containing elite fashion boutiques. We made the mistake of entering the Salvatore Ferragamo store while wearing thongs. The saleswomen were silently but noticeably aghast.

July 8-11: Essaouira

Essaouira, a port village midway along Morocco’s Atlantic coast, has a reputation for being windy. For the first time in weeks, we were actually cold. Somewhat concerning, as we had been hoping for a bit of beach time. We counted our blessings: there were far less people, which meant less crowding, less stress, and less random shouts of “Japanese!” in our direction. Also, the constant odor of fish was mildly more preferable to the odor of donkey.

Limmy with all his friends.

A fellow resident at our guesthouse.

The combination of strong winds and fine sand made the beach rather challenging. The shallow, cold, opaque, grey, metallic-tasting water made swimming unpleasant. We managed four hours of quasi-relaxation, during which time Limmy fell victim to the paradox of sunburn on a cool day (possibly potentiated by exposure to whatever was in the water).

Concerningly grey water.

The following day, we decided to try a Muslim ritual: the hammam. It was Islamic custom of old to attend the community bath-house, or hammam, once a week, to be aggressively cleansed, exfoliated, oiled and massaged by an attendant of similar gender. As men and women congregated (separately) in their naked splendour in these hot steamy chambers, they would swap stories, dispense advice, gossip and arrange marriages, while awaiting their turn. The practice still occurs in a somewhat diluted form today, but usually in hammams out of the tourist eye. Other hammams have become tourist establishments – unsurprisingly, given the prospect of a “traditional” experience incorporating sauna, massage and a servant giving you a bit of a bath.

Vicky went before me, as the hammam we went to treated girls in the morning and afternoon, and guys in the evening. She returned looking relaxed and clean, and thus I looked forward to the same, not really knowing what to expect. I arrived at the hammam, and once inside, I stripped down to boardshorts (no nudity in this place) and waited in the “hot” room – a small tiled room with three taps over three sinks and a very low tiled bench along on the walls – along with a Dutch man and his son.

Two Moroccan men in underwear entered – our cleaners. One of them, a dead ringer for Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, indicated to me and pointed to the floor, then made the “sleepytime” motion of hands together held under his tilted head. I obeyed. He filled a bucket with water from one of the taps, and proceeded to pour what felt like near-boiling water on me several times over. My legs, which had borne the brunt of the sunburn, felt like they were glowing red. I rolled over and the same parboiling followed.

As I lay facedown, the man knelt over me and donned a small mitt. I caught a whiff of body odour and wondered how this could be possible for a man who cleans others for a living. This train of thought was broken by the sensation of something like unlubricated steel wool scouring the exposed skin on the backs of my legs. He was really going for it. Back and arms followed in the same forceful fashion. I turned over again and watched as he scrubbed my sunburnt legs. I recalled the unusual sequence in which small nerve fibres transmit information from the dermal layer: first light touch signals, then pain and heat signals, are sent to the brain. There was a mildly pleasant feeling, followed by the fresh, prolonged searing … and then a strange coolness. Maybe I should have said something. The scrubbing came to an end and I was stood up and drenched with more very hot water. As I returned to my seat, covered in soap and small, thin rolls of clumped dead skin, I saw the Dutch man motion to a small area on his forefoot and declare to his cleaner: “Watch out – sunburn!” I thought this was incredibly soft.

I looked forward to the massage but noticed the absence of a massage table or similar Western appliance. When it came to my turn, I was led into the “cold” room – a similar room but much smaller than the “hot” room. Once again, I was asked to go sleepytime on the tiled floor. This was difficult, as the little boy had occupied almost the entire floor of the room with his spread-eagled frame. And so, with feet sticking into the change room and head unavoidably pressed against the bench, I received an oil massage from a smelly man on the floor of a bath house.

July 4-7: Marrakech

We arrived in Marrakech, tired after our 7 hour train trip. Needing cash and food, and with darkness descending, we headed to the city’s famous square, the Djemaa el-Fna, to seek out an ATM and see what the fuss was all about. After a short walk through the polluted streets of the kasbah (of “Rock the Kasbah” fame) we came upon the Djemaa, a thick buzz of people, street stalls and noise. Crowds of locals were ringed around solo street theatre actors performing by lamplight, babbling indecipherably and staring maniacally, generating laughter (and probably money). Little old women squatting on the ground proffered their decorated hands and offered “free” henna painting. A reedy teenager walked straight towards Limmy and whispered into his ear, “Hashish?” before darting away towards his next prospective customer. A couple of small fistfights broke out between local youths, watched by indifferent bystanders (police included). Bicycles whizzed between clusters of people and snake charmers. Like a beacon rising above the commotion, dozens of tall food carts were visible, their lamps illuminating all kinds of edible vectors of gastrointestinal illness such as grilled sheep’s gonad kebabs. We found a working ATM on our eighth try and breathed a little easier, despite the ubiquitous smell of food, people, smoke and oil. Welcome to Marrakech.

The Djemaa el-Fna.

Slightly closer than the last picture.

Our unforgettable experience in Marrakech was a Moroccan cooking class. Run by a Dutch lady, we got to buy our own ingredients from the souk (market) and cook them under the watchful eye of her grumpy-faced assistant Aisha. The souk area surrounds the Djemaa, and is just as crazy. Early in the morning we got to see locals woofing down their usual breakfasts of baked sheep’s feet and/or snail broth. We haggled with the local grocers for our veggies. Vicky lined up to buy the almond oil before realising (after being bypassed by about ten locals) that queueing is not the Moroccan way.

The souk.

Would you like meat with your tub of fat?

Limmy makes a new friend.

It's common practice to kneel at the market.

Not even a photo will stop a Moroccan selling his bananas.

Usher teaching Vicky how to knead the perfect loaf.

Don't mess with the bread guy!

That afternoon, in the Dutch lady’s beautiful house, we learnt three different ways to mash eggplant, parsley, tomato, garlic and spices, as well as making our own tagines and cookies. We can’t claim to have cooked it all, as at the first sign of incompetence, the grumpy-faced assistant would wrest any utensils from Limmy’s hands and complete the task at hand. As we ate our meal on the rooftop in 45-degree heat, our host remarked how fortunate we were that it was not like last year, when it was mid-50s during summer.

They almost look good enough to eat!

Iron Chef Limmy.

The fruits of our labour.


Here are several photos!




Nice pool.

In the mosque.

Peekaboo.

July 1-3: Fes

We’d heard from a few travellers along the way that Morocco is a bit of a shock to the system. We’d listened to these various stories passively, thinking perhaps these people were of the sort who thought staying at a hotel without a pool and a Starbucks downstairs was roughing it. Us? We thought we were pretty hardcore travellers – we’d been to a Muslim country before, trekked through dangerous jungles, survived cold water showers and dodgy food, fought off thousands of touts and dodged millions of donkey poos. How hard could it be? As it turned out, Morocco really was the most completely chaotic and crazy place we’ve been to, a fact which doesn’t quite translate in the photos. We met so many incredibly friendly people but also some of the dodgiest. The Moroccan tagines, kebabs and couscous were amazing but also gave us gastro the whole time we were there. There are some Moroccans with incredible wealth but poverty is everywhere on the streets and cheating tourists is pretty much an accepted practice in order to keep your family fed. The streets are filthy but the people take great pains to be completely clean at least once weekly as part of their Islamic tradition (literally, scouring their entire epidermal layer off – more on this later).

We caught a ferry across the Straits of Gibraltar from the southern coast of Spain to arrive in Tangier on the northern coast of Morocco. It was interesting that a 45 minute ferry ride could take you from Europe into Africa. Stranger still was the passport control into Morocco which we found was a couple of Moroccan guys in T-shirts sitting at one of the tables in the ferry cafeteria smoking casually while stamping out visas. The Lonely Planet Morocco gives the impression that foreigners landing on the shores of Tangier will inevitably be confronted with a ruthless mob of money-hungry touts capable of tearing you to shreds. People on tripadvisor.com had posted horror stories and comments like “Get out of Tangier ASAP!” We had mapped out our strategy on the ferry: no eye contact, walk straight and fast, and pretend not to speak English (if pressed, claim to be Mongolian students). So it was mildly anticlimactic to disembark and find only two disinterested taxi drivers waiting at portside. In fact, our taxi driver was so friendly he took us to the train station for free because he didn’t have change for our 100 dirham note.

On the train to Fes we encountered the apparently trademark Moroccan gregariousness. Locals hopping on and off the train struck up conversations with us and each other about the best bug sprays, where they were born, which was the best town in the country etc and the atmosphere soon became akin to a little cabin party. The girl in the corner gave half her sandwich to the woman next to Vicky who then gave Vicky a friendly slap and squeeze on the thigh. People taught us Arabic words and we met a man who exclaimed “That’s my friend!” while pointing to the shepherd on the cover of the Lonely Planet Limmy was reading.

The medina of Fes is a labyrinth of 9600 narrow meandering streets, a handful of which are signed in Arabic. Almost every street looks the same. Houses, shops, butchers (with bunches of live chickens bound by their feet, and strung-up camel heads destined for soups), beggars, grubby kids running everywhere, real estate agents, spice shops, donkeys with huge loads, cartfuls of oranges, all crammed into the same space. Melbourne has 18 people per hectare. London, 47. Kuala Lumpur, 78. Fes medina has 550. Houses stacked on houses stacked on shops. No cars are allowed in the streets; the only permitted transport is donkey. They will never expand the medina outwards because it is bounded on all sides by Muslim graves. It took us 40 minutes in 40 degree heat walking with a combined 40 kg of backpack, to locate our guesthouse even though it turned out we’d been dropped off less than 100 metres from its door. One of the guys we met on the train had hooked us up with a guide to take us around the medina which probably saved us lots of time trying to find our way around. He took us to a hill overlooking the medina so we could appreciate the chaos from above.

Fes from above.




The neighbouring suburbs.

Limmy, sheep and derelict building.

Traffic jam in Fes.

Fes real estate agents.

Outside the medina.

"Waiter? I feel like a little beer."

The following day we ploughed into the medina on our tour. We saw the mosque, the world’s first university (est. 859 AD), the wood museum, the woodcraft shop, the carpet shop, and after lunch, the tannery (and leather shop), the traditional pharmacy (a.k.a. herb shop), and the silk shop. Moroccans are some of the hardest sellers in the world. The carpet guy suggested that buying several $2000+ plus carpets and re-selling them back home for a ten-fold profit was the perfect way to recoup travel expenses. We kept a pretty safe distance from the tanneries. They use pigeon droppings and camel urine to soften the skins – ugh! The one sour note was our guide who was pretty shifty and seemed upset at not earning any commission from us since we didn’t buy anything from the shops. So we were somewhat relieved when the tour ended (not without bickering over payment) and we were able to get out of the dirty streets and 40 degree heat and back to our lovely riad.

The tannery. If only you could smell it.

"Hello, Fatima!"




Look how he loves his food!




Breakfast at the riad.