Les Dossiers de Marrakech - Day 1

Marrakech beckons

I almost missed my flight, you know.

Well, i technically almost missed my flight. I actually almost missed my train, because i almost missed my cab to the train station, because my alarm clock did not go off. But i won't bore you with the details. All i will say is "the devil is a liar". This holiday that i've been looking forward to for months, i will now come and miss my flight? Iro ni, it's a lie.

The flight was the usual humdrum. The in-fligth movie was Ocean's Thirteen. I read a book instead. As we approach Marrakech, we've almost touched down, when all of a sudden the plane gathers speed and takes off again. After 5 minutes the Pilot announces that its too windy to land from the east so were going round to the west runway to land. On arrival, we have to fill out a form which is basically a visa for EU citizens. You don't have to get one beforehand.

The Hotel
I arrive at the Hotel and check in, but not before filling out yet another form *yawn*. The Hotel's 'public relations' lady comes over and introduces herself to me. I ask about day trips and she informs me of/tries to sell me what they have on offer. I decide to go for a day in the Ourika Valley, between the first foothills of the Atlas Mountains and about 1hr30mins outside Marrakech; and a trip to Essaouira, a seaside town about an 1hr outside Marrakech for Saturday and Sunday respectively. I haven't got any money on me so i tell her i will pop out later, once i've settled in. After unpacking and a short rest, and much psyching up of self, i venture out on to the mean (rather clean, actually) streets of Marrakech.

The Hotel is located in Gueliz, which is Marrakech's new town and was built by the French during their occupation from 1912 to 1956. The new town is as different as can be from the old town, the Medina (see below for a movie clip of my trip into the Medina). Gueliz is home to the business district i.e. banks, hotels, restaurants serving western type food, a McDonalds, bars and nightclubs.

The streets are very wide and as i stand at the zebra crossing trying to get to the other side for 5 minutes hoping someone will stop and let me cross, it suddenly hits me that that just ain't gon' happen. Taking a deep breath, i step out and manage to make it to the centre of the road amidst angry horn tooting from the oncoming scooters and cars. Heart pounding, i realise i'm going to have to be assertive here, so i take a step forward. More angry tooting occurs, but i give the scooter driver a look that says 'ok. You're either going to let me pass, or you're going to run me over'. Thankfully, he lets me pass.

I follow my nose and stumble onto a busy road with aforementioned McDonald's and several banks. Yippee. I withdraw the cash for my day trips and return to l'hotel.

Venturing out - again...

"You take the blue pill and the story ends. You wake in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill and you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes".
Morpheus to Neo (The Matrix)

I'm one of those people who enjoys watching local television stations when abroad, so i shun BBC News 24 and flick through the other channels. There's a German one, Spanish one, French one, Al-Jazeera and a local Moroccan one. My highlights so far have been watching the Spanish version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire and German The Weakest Link. Great fun!

Later in the evening i literally have to drag myself away from the TV, but somehow, i manage it. I step out again, intending to find the Place Jemaa al Fna, the main square of Marrakech. At night, it's meant to come to life with food stalls, dancers, musicians, story-tellers, henna tattooists, and lots more. Definitely worth seeing, so i retrace my steps from my earlier trip out. At the busy road, i notice all the non-Moroccans heading in a particular direction, so i make like i know where i'm going and i follow. I'm like a man in that respect - i never ask for directions unless i have to, which usually turns out to be when i have become hopelessly lost.

Hardly anyone is out and about on the streets as it's the middle of Ramadan and everyone is at home, breaking their fasts. I stop to take a picture of something that's caught my attention, and that one simple act changes the course of my holiday. I reserve judgement as to whether for better or for worse.

A scooter swoops down on me and the driver rattles something off in rapid fire french-arabic. I reply with something to the effect of "me no speakie frenchie". Hey, Mr Oguchi my JSS french teacher was narcoleptic and spent 45 minutes of our 1 hour lessons asleep on his feet! He asks if i'm going to the Medina and i make the mistake of saying yes. He offers to take me. I say no, because i'm sensible. I do not know this man from Adam. There's no way i'm going to get on the back of his scooter and allow him to cart me off to goodness knows where in a strange, unfamiliar land. I remember that i was actually heading towards Place Jemaa El-Fna and i say so (turns out he speaks Anglais). He says there'll be no one there at this time (it was around 7pm). He's very persuasive and my resolve starts to crumble as i ask myself the point of coming to Marrakech on my own in search of adventure if i refuse to take any risks. "Oh, ok", i say. "Let's go".


The red pill...
I clamber on to the back of the scooter and away we go. My driver's name is Mustafa. Occupation - okada driver and part-time tourist guide (so says he).
"Take me", he says suddenly.
"Erm, what"?
"Take me".
It turns out he means i should grab hold of him. Now, if he was Josh Holloway on a Harley Davidson, he wouldn't have had to say it twice. Alas he is not, so i choke back my laughter and politely decline. "I'm fine, thanks".

We make idle chit chat and somewhere along the line, i invent a Fiance back home in London in response to his question, 'Are you married'? Some of the material i read beforehand actually suggested wearing a ring on your ring finger if you're a woman travelling alone. Suddenly, i realise the enormity of what i've done and i begin to speak in diverse tongues. "Father, your word says...".
Mustafa: You ok?
Me: Perfectamundo, mate! Just perfect! Never better.....Yea though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i will fear no evil...

First stop, the Koutoubia Mosque, the biggest mosque in Marrakech. It turns out that that day is the only day in the week on which non-muslims are allowed within the courtyard. I manage to get some good pictures, and then we resume our journey into the Medina. At this point, my apprehension that i might have hooked up with an axe-murderer has begun to dwindle and i somehow have the presence of mind to take out my camera and film part the journey. Please click here to share the experience with me.

Destination, Sahid's shop, a veritable Aladdin's cave nestled within a building in the labyrinth of dusty streets that make up the Medina. We go in and i'm invited downstairs to sit down. Sahid is a Berber Artisan who comes into Marrakech on a monthly basis to sell his silverware and other goods. He leads me down the stairs, warning me to mind my head on the door frame, but i still manage to knock my forehead. Aah well.

I ask if i can take pictures. He says fine. I take a couple. I've read that people might demand money for their pictures to be taken by tourists, and sometimes it gets ugly. I ask again and Sahid tells me they are Berber, not Arab. They don't mind. Hmm. Good to see North African tribalism at work!

No sooner have i sat down, than Mustafa swoops down with 2 bowls of soup. Oh no! I've always been squeamish about eating things whose origins i am unsure of, but do not wish to appear rude.

"What is this"? I ask.
"Vegetable soup", they reply. "Try it. It's good"
No spoons are provided so i mimic Mustafa and slurp the soup out of the side of the bowl, whilst noting to myself how surreal this whole experience is.

Vegetable soup is promply followed by mint tea, an accompaniment to every meal. "Do i want sugar"? "No", i reply, but they don't seem to be able to get their heads around the fact that i don't want sugar and proceed to cajole me. "Ok, already. Just a little". Sahid goes off and comes back with the tea. I take my first sip and it takes every ounce of self control i possess not to spit it out. Do you not understand the concept of little? The thing tastes as if it's one part mint tea, one part sugar! Disgusting!!! I manage a few more sips, but then i give up. If its a toss up between offending them and taking another sip of that goo, then sorry dudes...

Pleasantries out of the way, we begin to transact some business. What? You thought the vegetable soup and mint tea came without strings attached? Sahid begins to pull out some hand woven rugs and show me the intricate desgins, explaining how they've been hand woven with silk by Berber women in the Mountains. He whips out a cigarette lighter and holds it to one of them. I'm halfway up from my seat and about to knock it out of his hand, when he explains that pure silk does not burn. He demonstrates it and is proven right. Phew! Ok.

As you can see from the pictures, there are numerous rugs, of various designs and colours. Sahid pulls out a number and lays them on the floor, inviting me to take my shoes off and walk on them. I comply and then sit back down. They tell me the words for 'yes' and 'no', which i have now forgotten. He raises them up one by one and asks me to tell him if i like it or not. We finally settle on one rug, but i change my mind because i'm not quite sure how to fit it into my luggage. Also, the total price he gives me for the rug, a silver bracelet and another item is just too ridiculous for words. They actually have this fun system for bargaining. He takes out a little notebook and divides a page into two columns - one with my name and one with his. He then writes down his total price (which was 4,700 dirhams. At an exchange rate of approx. 15.6 dh to the £). I'm like, 'Yeah, right'! He says to not worry, just write down what i'm willing to pay. I write 500 Dh. He shakes his head in a mixture of shock and incredulity and is rendered partially speechless for a while.

Long story short, i select some smaller items as gifts for my family, and a bedspread for myself. Sahid gives me a ceramic bowl as a gift and i'm happy with the other stuff i got 'cos i know they'll make good gifts, but i still leave there feeling like i've been Punk'd! Well, i tell myself, that's my souvenir/gift budget blown on my first day.

I know Mustafa's was going to demand some sort of remuneration at some stage. As we leave, he lays it on me - 500 Dh. I laugh and say 'thou art not serious'! I beat him down eventually to 350 Dh, which i'm still not happy about but by now i'm tired and have had enough excitement for one night and wish to retire to my supposedly 4 star, but in actual fact 2.5 star hotel room, and just crash for the night.

He drives me to the cashpoint, where i find out i've exceeded the daily limit for withdrawals (£125 a day). Just great! I persuade Mustafa to come by the Hotel the following evening. He drops me off and i go to bed.

End of Day 1.

On being vulnerable (...or simply put - Pieces of Me)

I will present you parts of myself slowly.
If you are patient and tender, I will open drawers that mostly stay closed, and bring out places and people and things, sounds and smells, love and frustrations, hopes and sadness.
Bits and pieces of life that have been grabbed off in chunks and found lying in my hands they have eaten their way into my heart altogether, you or I will never see them.
-They are me-
If you regard them lightly, deny that they are important, or worse judge them. I will quietly slowly begin to wrap them up in small pieces of velvet, like worn silver and gold jewelry, tuck them away in a small wooden chest of drawers and close them away.
By Jim Messina

...........
This is so beautiful, and exactly where i have gotten to on this journey towards my true, authentic self. It's about allowing yourself to be vulnerable, taking the risk to be real and true to yourself. Knowing that, in the process, you may get hurt, rejected, disapproved of etc, etc; but nevertheless taking this risk, fully persuaded that more often than not, the fear, doubt and hesitancy you may feel will be worth it in the end because you finally connect with the world and people around you.

Over the years, i became desensitised to a lot of my emotions to the extent that they became inconsequential as a result of my failure to acknowledge them. Being the thinking, questioning, introspective person that i am, i was able to trace the origin of this back to my early years in primary school in Nigeria. I was shipped off to boarding school, where i was subsequently bullied. I won't go into the details right now, but i basically stood out as an easy target, being the girl who spoke with a british accent, and who had ideas of what and how things should be and wasn't afraid to voice them.

And so the bullying began, and subconsciously, i learnt that the best way to deal with it was to withdraw into myself, betray no emotions and just focus on surviving. Period.

Withdrawing into myself became the norm as i grew up and i got better and better at disguising my true feelings. I presented this, 'together' front to the world, but inside i was in agony because i knew i wasn't being real. I mean, if you haven't been there, you have no idea how draining and energy sapping it is to maintain a front that isn't real.

I'm a naturally caring, nurturing person so i've never found it difficult to relate to people, but i began to find that i had a lot of acquaintances, but very few people i could call true friends. My relationships lacked the depth that i longed for and it soon became clear that it was due to my need to appear in control and never be vulnerable, thereby protecting myself from hurt. Self-preservation is a very strong instinct, however, the basic human need to feel rapport, validation and connectedness with others is very strong also. So it became a tug of war between these two urges.

It's been hard. It continues to be hard, that is why i'm glad that the writer of the piece above was able to put my feelings into words better than i ever could have. I'm learning to love myself daily. And with that, i'm learning to reveal myself to others, knowing that even if they reject me, it doesn't affect the way i feel about myself. Because i love ME.

George Benson, Whitney Houston, and whoever else has covered the song got it right when they sang

'Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all'.

My Quest for a Life (Part 2)

So, i went to my first gig with the meet up group on Tuesday. It turned out that there were 3 other acts before the group we thought we were coming to see actually came on, so we didn't have a choice but to sit through everything.

The first was a 'sister' from the States and she did a song accapella. It was quite good actually, especially as she didn't need a mic cos the acoustics in the venue were awesome. Did i mention the venue, by the way? Well, it's this chapel in the middle of Soho, really small and intimate and they have music gigs every Tuesday evening as a way of raising money to keep the place open. The place is very old and has a very gothic feel which was all the more enhanced by the several candles dotted around which provided the only lighting for the evening. Very spooky, but cool at the same time.


So anyway, there i was with this group of total strangers and the only black face in our group (although i've already come to terms with this particular reality and my reaction to it through my job).

So, the second act comes on and they're basically 3 guys with guitars and 1 drummer. The only polite way i can describe their music is - gentle. As in send-you-to-sleep gentle. One of my new found 'mates' - an Irish chap, commented that their stuff reminds him of 1960s Pink Floyd. One of the others laughs saying 'yes, as opposed to 1970s Pink Floyd because the two are quite different'. More laughter all round. Me, i smile and nod my head vigorously, trying to look as if i knew the heck what they were on about. Or rather, trying not to look completely clueless and ignorant. But in my defence, i have heard of Pink Floyd, i'm just not familiar with their music, ok.

These guys are not so bad actually, but they do go on...and on.........and on. They do at least 5-6 songs, all equally dreary... i mean, soothing. By the time they annouce the title of their final song i and another girl in the group are giggling rather noisily and passing comments. Not very supportive, i know, i know.

Ok, so the 3 act comes on. Four guys again - 1 guitar player/lead singer, 1 drummer, 1 ukelele (yep!) player and we had a good debate as to the nature of the final guys instrument. I can only describe it as something resembling a child's toy xylophone. So, the come on, clearly pi...., i mean drunk. The singing is atrocious. Believe me, atrocious, but the lyrics are funny. Something along the lines of 'I had a conversation with my mother one day and she told me i drank too much, now all i want to is have another ...WHISKEY! (sorry, you really had to be there).

Finally, a ripple of excitement is felt as the main attraction prepare to come on. And the do not disappoint. Definitely worth the wait. They're a jazz band and exceptionally good. I wonder what it is about creative guys, but i found myself gazing at the double bass player in fascination as he skillfully strummed the strings and caressed the shiny polished wood surface of his instrument (that's not meant to sound suggestive at all, honestly!), thinking 'hmm, i wouldn't mind a piece of that'! Then i remember they're all aged between 20 and 22 and i decide to respect my old age and appreciate their talent only.

All in all, it was a lovely night. Mixed bag, but the goal is to cram as many experiences into my existence as i can, as opposed to vegging out at home on my sofa watching tv and comfort eating.

I think i'll try salsa dancing next................

My quest for a life

I am new to all this blogging malarkey (obviously, this being my first post). Being the girly girl that i am at heart, although i would never admit this to a soul usually. I'm more of a strong, independent, no frills type of person on the outside. Anyway, being the girly girl that i am, i spent ages messing around with the colour scheme for my blog just to make sure it looked perfectly spot on. I think it will do for now.

Back to my original point. I consider myself to be a doer rather than a talker, therefore, i've become thoroughly tired of sitting around with my Nigerian friends and moaning about how there's nothing to do in London apart from clubbing (not even an option if your belief system does not exactly gel with putting on the barest minimum of clothes and gyrating away to extremely loud music in a smoke filled room till the early hours), the movies and hanging out in each others houses and moaning some more! I've decided to take matters into my own hands and find me a hobby in this town if its the last thing i do.

Naturally, i began my quest based on things that interest me. Number one being my love of books and so i joined a reading group, book club, book group, call it whatever you want but you know what i mean - a group (usually predominantly women, because we do like to talk) getting together on a monthly basis to discuss their impressions of and opinions on a predetermined book. It was good fun, i must admit. I met some really cool people (no nigerians, suprise, surprise) and we bonded over our love of good books. Unfortunately, the group died a death after about 5 months because the level of commitment could have been quite better.

After some more head scratching, i stumbled across www.meetup.com and joined one of the music based meet up groups. I will be going out to an event next tuesday with about 15 others. Can't wait, will keep you posted............