Tizi n'Tichka Pass

(I wrote this while waiting.)

It is 10:30 and for half an hour I have been sitting on the steps of the one and only internet cafe in the village of Imlil, waiting for the owner (a young man with far too much gel in his hair) to wake up. I know he is asleep because he is sleeping on a blanket on the floor between the computers. It would be ethnocentric to think "Wake up man, all your customers are leaving!" But I am finding it hard not to.

At least it is cool out; for the first time in Morocco I am exactly the right temperature, and sitting outside would be perfect if I did not have a direct view of the butcher's shop where 3 large pig carcasses are swinging in the breeze like ghostly wind chimes. What must it be like to live in a town like this, where every other shop sells only djellabas and tagine, and brightly clad donkeys parade (or trundle, which seems a more âppropriate word for a donkey) up and down main street?

(What I set out to write.)

For the 3rd time in the passed 4 days I am driving/speeding/flying down a road packed so tight into a vehicle, I cannot move my arms, holding on for dear life.

The last time was in a taxi, heading from our little haven in Todra Gorge to a town who's name I don't remember, hoping against hope the post office would still be open and I could rid myself of the large ceramic bowl I have been carrying as hand luggage for the passed two weeks. Have you ever tried carrying pottery on a public bus? Please do so and get back to me, if you're still sane. With me is my Australian roommate who is trying to send home a carpet and a bagful of clothes which I know will cost her a fortune, but she does not seem to care.

The two of us are sitting on one seat, as there are already 4 in the backseat, none of whom speak English, which is a shame, because if they did I would have asked them to tell the driver to "SLOW DOWN!" Honestly, I'm not in a rush! I doubt my blasted bowl would survive a crash. The door does not shut properly, because my hip is in the way, and as we zoom around corner after corner I am holding so tight to the handle my fingers turn purple, and when we finally stop and unfold ourselves from the seat it takes 10 whole minutes to get them straight.

This time I have slightly more room (a whole seat to myself), but the road is scarier still (the Tizi n'Tichka pass, the highest in Morocco) and low and behold that damn bowl is still with me. This time I have no handle, so I am holding tight to the seat with one hand, a coke light bottle with the other (moral support), while using my right foot to keep the bag with my my bowl in it from sliding, and trying to keep my very bruised left ankle elevated without kicking the girl beside me... who is asleep.

The very kind driver --who has a well-ironed shirt and exquisite nails-- has taken the head rest off the front seat so I can see out the front window, which is very kind except now I have what I'm sure will be a bird's eye view of my death, and I am not sure I want to see that clearly. The others sleep or play scattegories or write what will inevitably be illegible journal entries (I should know!) but I sit perfectly still and stare out the window with all my energy. I would never say so out loud, but I am quite certain it is me and my will-power alone that is keeping this hell-bound bus on the road, and I refuse to let the group down.

We road the corner, and another corner, and another in rapid succession, never knowing til we're halfway round if something is coming toward us. It is a stunning view, no question, and the driver is singing along at the top of his lungs to the new tape of Berber music he bought at the road stop, where the children tried to sell us prickly pears and a man with a donkey stopped for a cigarette, and a hard-faced, wind-beaten vendor holds up a bright red fossil and says "Canada, Very Good Toronto, Vancuver, Montream, Yes!"

I tell myself to relax and let go of the seat with one hand, thinking "Breathe, Nel, breathe!" and BANG, we round a corner and I hit my head on the window. The driver grins at me in the rearview and our guide is trying to find a dance move that somehow fits this confounding beat, and my seatmate snores and I pray just like this "I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die..." Whoosh, we round another corner and this time it is the bowl that starts to slide, but I grab it just before it hits the door.

"100 words that start with A," says the girl behind me, "You have one minute! Go!"

"10 minutes til the next stop," says our guide. "They have ice cream!"

"Ice cream," I think, "Now wouldn't that be the perfect thing just now!"

And, with a whoosh, and (of course) a BANG, we round another corner.

N.

Desert Dreams

I had this recurring dream (while in the desert in Namibia) about falling into an ant lion's trap, and I had wondered if returning to the desert (only now the Sahara) I would have this dream again. But I did not. This is what I dreamed instead:

I am walking up and down Khoa San Road (Bangkok) trying to find a bar that is not playing Jack Johnson music*. Finally I find one, and sit down at a table, but when the waitor comes to take the other chair away I tell him I'm waiting for someone.

Suddenly a Thai man in a fancy suit approaches me off the street. "Sister!", he says (which is definitely an African greeting and not an S.E.Asian one) "This came for you!", and he holds a postcard out to me. "For me?" I say "But no one knows I'm here!" He shurgs, and I am not sure whether this means "I don't know" or "No English!"

I look down at the card. I don't remember what the picture on the front was, only I remember it was a place I did not recognize. I turned it over and the card was stamped (again the language on the stamp was unfamiliar) but there was no address and no message. Only my name --my full name-- in big bold letters.

I looked up to ask the man what this meant. Who was this from? How did they know I'd be here? What do they want? But the man is gone.

If you have a theory as to what this means, do not hesitate to let me know.

*Don't worry about the Jack Johnson detail; I'm sure that's because as I was falling asleep one of the girls was playing THE J.J Thailand soundtrack, as I remember it, and brought back memories of trying to escape the incessant crooning of "Sitting Waiting Wishing" and James Blunt's "You're Beautiful".

N.

"Morocc-An-Roll"

Never, ever, ever use this expression in my presence.

That is really all there is to say about that.

N.

Shout Out

Oh, and I must share the good news:

Many congratulations to Hannah and Ben, who have arrived home in one piece (metaphorically) after 10 months of traveling together, and are still on good enough terms to GET ENGAGED. Of course I will take full credit for this, as I was there when the ring was purchased, and said something really insightful like "She's going to love it!"

Many, many, many happy returns to you both. You deserve it!

*Hugs*

N.

Tales From A Multilingual Illiterate

For a change my lack of updates has not been because the internet has not been unavailable -in fact so far every place I have been in Morocco has had cyber cafes around every corner- but because, well, the computer is giving me a headache!

I have made a fair study of computers (and more often computer problems/challenges) around the world, but the situation here is something quite new. True, this is a country whose offical languages are Arabic and French (neither of which I speak, I regret to say) and the keyboard must account for this (yes, this is an Arabic keyboard) as well as the odd baffled-looking English tourist.

So all the usual suspects are here (a-z and basic punctuation... however more than half of the keys are in completely different places than in North America, Europe, Africa and Asia (no comment on Antarctic computers; I have not been there). A few examples: Q is where A is, M is now ù, W is Z, and rather than pushing shift on the number row to find punctuation, you press shift on the punctuation row to get numbers). I still have not found the @ symbol, and have resorted to copying and pasting from my inbox.

Over the last week (a week! I have been in Morocco a wee already!) I have been learning to type all over again, while desperately trying to pick up a word or two of Arabic (Ana Nabat! I'm a vegetarian!) and remember something of French beyond colours and rooms of the house (if only I were looking for a blue kitchen I would be on such a roll). I think I am finally getting the hang of it -I say, before going through this message to correct all my mistakes!- though even now if I try and type quickly (while staring at my anxious fingers) I get dizzy.

So I will keep this brief. I am currently in Chefchaouen, and no, I can't pronounce it. I arrived here from Tangier -an unspeakably dodgy but certainly lively city only 13 km from the coast of Spain- this afternoon, after an endlessly entertaining bus ride. Please note that "entertaining" is a word very like "interesting" which often means "I'm-too-polite-to-tell-you-it's-bad", in which the air conditioning leaked all over my clothes (and by extention, me) and a bag with a computer on it fell on my head).

Despite the free shower I was quite happy to arrive in this stunningly beautiful town, at the foot of the Rif Mountains. The name of the town literally means "Look At the Peaks" for, as our guide pointed out, there is nothing else to do here. Having said that there is always something to do, and exploring, walking up and down (I mean seriously up and down... mountains!) and around the new cities and towns with my camera is one of the enduring passions of my life (I say, at 21). Should I ever decide to be wild and bohemian and committ myself to a few months of "secluded" writing, this would be the place. Although that would mean I'd have to get back onto that bus...

This trip is flying by, and while in some ways this is sad (because it will end, and I will have to come home) it is also exciting (for it will end, and I will have to come home). I am not in the least tired of traveling (god forbid), but it would be fair to say I am tired of luggage. Luggage, I'm afraid, will have to be another story altogether.

And where are you, tonight? Are you happy there? I hope so.

N.

It's Funny 'Cuz It's True

From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done

There is far too much to take in here
More to find than can ever be found
But the sun rolling high
Through the sapphire sky
Keeps great and small on the endless round

It's the Circle of Life
And it moves us all
Through despair and hope
Through faith and love
Till we find our place
On the path unwinding
In the Circle
The Circle of Life

It's the Circle of Life
And it moves us all
Through despair and hope
Through faith and love
Till we find our place
On the path unwinding
In the Circle
The Circle of Life


Lyrics: Tim Rice

Wherever You Will Go

"Goodbyes do not get easier, the more of them you say."

(Again I must refer back to my lists for an entry point into what I'm feeling.)

To be fair this particular lesson is not a new one; I have said many goodbye before. On this trip, in this place and in others, many many others, how many people have I known? How many of my "nearest and dearest" are far away? I should be used to this by now, this tremendous rush of feeling one gets for people, any people, when they are all you have. If I can give you one bit of advice today, it would be that nothing brings you closer to people --often too close-- than travel. Whether this is good or not is mostly irrelevant.

It is that time again: the time of goodbye. The trip ends, and from the end of the driveway I am waving to my friends --for in my mind they are all friends, whether chosen or by default-- as they drive away; quietly and without ceremony in private cars coming to carry them off to new hotels, or in a flurry of tears and photographs, as it was this morning when the boys who are heading on to Kampala, flanked by their new and nervous looking group, loaded into jeeps and were off to the Masai Mara.

I woke up at 6, though I didn't have to. I am so accustomed now to waking up at the first sign or sound of movement from the camp, or even before it, that the fact that I didn't have to get up today at all if I didn't want to... just didn't register. I woke up at 6 and deliberately did not take my tent down, and did not go to the truck for breakfast. Instead I paced around the lounge where we spent last night, watching TV or pretending to watch TV and hoping that if we don't mention "leaving" than it will never happen. I pace, I sit, I stand, I sit, I read, I don't read. I pretend I am not just waiting and feeling lost without the chaos of the truck; on the truck there are things to do, so much to clean and stack and put away... for two months now there has been precious little inactivity, despite the never-ending drives.

The boys stand by the jeeps, shuffling their feet and looking at their hands and arguing about who has or has not taken their malaria pills. The 5 of us still staying at the camp --though another 3 have left in the intervening hours-- I admit I am grateful that our truck is staying in Nairobi --more repairs-- for a few days, even though I know they will be joining it on the other side of Masai Mara. The idea of watching our people --albeit greatly depleted in numbers-- driving off in our truck would be hard to take; I can just imagine trying to hold back that flood which longs to carry you out the door waving and shouting "Wait! Wait for me!" If you think it is strange that I am so attached to a truck, and to my few remaining friends inside, then you have never done overlanding.

I'd like to say I didn't cry, that I smiled bravely and waved them off, unaffected by the bone-crushing hugs and the faces of Denford, the boys, and my dear maddening seat-mate --who I have been sitting beside for 52 days-- as he laughs and says "I'm so choked up, I can't even thinking of anything disgusting to say!" Then they are gone, and we are still waving, finally turning back towards the camp and repacking my bag for the 1500th time. Sure, I could say I didn't cry, but would you believe me?

We arrived in Nairobi 2 nights ago, through a haze of honking, bleating, screaming trucks, diesel fumes and men in dark glasses patrolling the highways, trying to sell us stuffed toys, holding up their wares to the truck windows and mouthing something we cannot hear, but even so we know means, "Good price, sister! My friend, for you good price!" Even now, after the touristy Tanzania and comparably wealthy Kenya I am still overwhelmed just by the prospect of a city, let alone one commonly referred to as "Nai-Robbery". But what does that mean? Who creates these names, and their mostly insulting spin-offs? After all, I liked Dar es Salaam (Dar-Is-A-Slum), and on our first night in Nairobi we took taxis (such luxury) downtown and ate at an Italian restaurant (we had a table! and napkins!) and the streets were well lit and a club nearby was blasting the same terrible music you would find playing at home, and I was happy.

I am not naive enough to suggest that all the stories you have heard are false and actually this place is all fine and dandy, but I am coming to realize that you can either look for the best in a city, country, or god forbid continent, or you can look for the worst. I sometimes get the alarming sensation, listening to other tourists talk, that there are people who go away solely to look down on things which are not them, or theirs. Others are just so sure they are going to find something negative they can't help but find it. I guess it is easy to judge, to criticize, and never have I found people (or tourists, I should say) so eager to do so as in Africa. Why?

I think the problem here --as the rest of the world is concerned-- on this continent is that no one really knows anything about it. For instance, there are 53 countries in Africa. How many can you name, place, or recall anything about? I don't ask this to embarrass you, after all, I have the worst sense of geography imaginable (ironically) and couldn't place the provinces of Canada for you on a map, without considerable effort. But how do you travel to a place you only know from devastating news reports, racist and prejudicial history and The Lion King?

Wherever we go we can't help but have some imagine in our mind, an image constructed from all we have seen or heard or imagined; it does not have to be true, or correct or deliberate, but deep down we are always looking for "that place" as we expected to find it, and there is just a twinge of disappointed when you cannot find it. I guess we always inventing, designing and building our experience into a reality we can live with. The danger, perhaps, is in the retelling?

Kwa Heri, my dears, go well. I will miss you.

N.

Things I've Learned: Dar es Salaam to Nairobi

Just a sampling, once again...

Things I've learned:

- A bargain is only a bargain if you want what they're selling.
- Small bills are easier to use than large ones.
- Don't pick a fight; it will find you soon enough.
- No one is colour blind. This does not have to be a bad thing.
- Learn to spell the name of the place you're in.
- Sand lingers.
- Lock the door, shut the windows.
- The line between paranoia and precaution often blurs.
- Carry spare batteries.
- Routine is inevitable.
- 9 people can take up the same amount of space as 17.
- Take every opportunity to stretch your legs.
- Know your limits.
- Wet-dry-wet. This is what happens to laundry when you leave it out to dry, overnight.
- BYOTP.
- The time granted to the __ second rule depends entirely on how much you want the thing you've dropped.
- The buddy system isn't just for swimming.
- Where there's a will there's a way, particularily if you're a mosquito.
- It's possible to spend 24 hours a day with people, for weeks at a time, and not know them at all.
- There's nothing in life (or at least in traveling) more satisfying than a good shower and clean clothes.
- The ETA is only an estimate.
- When you gotta go, you gotta go (even in the Serengeti).
- You can tell how fresh a foot/paw print is by the level of detail in the impression.
- Always leave room for an elephant between tents.
- It costs nothing to be nice. Usually.
- It's been a good day when you have to start weeding out your lion photos.
- Will you still want this bowl/spoon/bracelet/painting when you get home?
- Talking about food -particularily food you want and cannot get- will only make you hungrier.
- Clarify whose "left!" and "right!" you are meant to be looking out of.
- Never under-estimate the power of camera envy.
- Things aren't always where ou left them.
- Big cats are surprisingly similar to small cats.
- Whatever will be will be, but be prepared.
- A few words in another language go a long way.
- Babies are cute in any species.
- When looking for animals, look for tourists.
- If in doubt, blame the hippos.
- Men want to be hunters. The prey is irrelevant.
- Don't break the windows!
- Breathe "in through your nose, out through your mouth". Repeat.
- You don't look like your passport photo. Thank god.
- Goodbyes do not get easier the more of them you say.
- "Don't fuck with a tourist, mate!"

N.