Tea In The Sahara – Morroco

If someone asks me if I enjoyed my trip to Morocco, I will respond: “Morocco was a very interesting place to visit.” And if they persist, and ask me if I plan on returning to Morocco, I will respond: “I saw many interesting things in Morocco.” The reason I will give you for these evasive answers to seemingly simple questions, is that I don’t think I really know. When Ann explained we were going to Morocco with her sister’s family, I was initially concerned about vacationing in a Muslim country during Ramadan. What I should have been concerned about was going anywhere near that part of the world in August. I told Krusty, whose real identity will remain a secret to those out of the loop, Morocco in August is where they send people in hell when they’ve been bad.

This bears explaining, so get comfortable. We touched down in Casablanca where we met Ann’s sister Kate and her entourage, made up of her three boys and one girlfriend (not one of hers, one of the boys’). I realize the whole Kate/girlfriend picture remains vague. Sorry about that. We all climbed onto a much smaller plane to the flight to Fez, whose claim to fame is its medina. The old town constitutes one of the largest urban areas closed to vehicular traffic, which makes perfect sense once you get there. The streets, a generous use of the word in this case, are sometimes no more than a meter across, and usually packed with people. That being said, the occasional scooter does manage to work through the (literally) unwashed masses.

Propane delivered to your door.

We spent the first day doing a guided walking tour of the medina in spite of the heat (40c+), although we had been assured the hot spell was over. I was reminded of the big market in Istanbul. There were countless stalls, and countless people. So many of each that it seemed unlikely we could go more than an hour without losing someone. So we did. The most responsible eldest nephew found a way to go left where we went right and after a few minutes of backtracking through the rat maze, we realized he would not be found quickly. Since he was an experienced traveller and past voting age, we chose to abandon him, knowing full well he had no money and probably no knowledge of our hotel name. 

Just imagine a thousand stalls like this...

While the rest of us sat sipping sweet mint tea in the comfort of a carpet store, our guide put out feelers within the medina. In less time than Ann could complete choosing an overpriced carpet, the lost member of our group was returned to us. We then took in a visit to the local tannery, accessed conveniently through a leather goods shop. If there is a better way to encourage kids to stay in school than watching the locals muck about in dying vats in almost 50c heat, I would like to know what it is.

And it smells as good as it looks.

Still, I am beginning to believe teenagers are generally immune to obvious life lessons. Perhaps, as an employee of the tannery, Perri will be able to get a discount at the leather goods shop. Glass half full? As we strolled through the medina, Ann and I tended to be a bit cavalier about eating the sample fruit at the fruit stands, not to mention the salads at lunch. This strategy proved to be … flawed.

Gate to old Fez

Another gate to old Fez

A quick note about Ramadan, which, when observed in Morocco in summer, makes something like Lent seem pretty simple. These people give up all the basics between sunrise and sunset for a whole month: eating, drinking, smoking, sex. In the heat of summer, the first two items (and possibly the last two, as well) take quite a toll on the local populace toward the end of each day, as witnessed by the occasional street fight around 6 p.m.. The flipside is the big party once the sun goes down. Each night the streets refilled around 8 o’clock with people in a partying mood. The revelry usually continued until well into the morning, all without the benefit of alcohol! We experienced no difficulties (except perhaps guilt) acquiring a midday meal, or water anytime. Our guides were consistent in the message that observers of Ramadan harbor no ill will to those who aren’t observing, although we were discouraged from being too in-your-face about publicly eating and drinking during daylight hours. Sadly, not all tourists seem to have embraced the same philosophy.

The next day we were picked up in a large van, later to be known as the hot box, and carried away over the Atlas mountains to a small town on the edge of the western Sahara. At this point, the first member of our group began to display symptoms of an unnamed malady, which stalked our group throughout the remainder of the trip. Knowing almost nothing about tropical medicine, I would hazard a guess that this predatory illness was a non-lethal mix of new and suspect food, suspect water, and varying degrees of heat stroke. In my case, I lean towards giardia or dysentry, based on how I'm feeling today. The impact on the various individuals in the group wasn't perfectly consistent, although, without going into graphic detail, toilet paper quickly became a commodity of great value.

Not a lot of trees around.

So, after gearing us up like Lawrence of Arabia wannabees, we were unceremoniously deposited upon the backs of a number of ill-tempered and flatulent camels, and led into the desert.

My trusty steed.

I know that doesn’t sound very interesting or fun, but it was. Although I had seen pictures and movies, I remained completely unprepared for the impact of seeing endless dunes of sand, marching off to the horizon. Sadly, it was pretty windy, and the sun had set as we wound or way out to the camp, so my camera was ineffective. Half way to our objective, the equivalent of the Ramadan horn blew, signaling the end of the fast. Our guides immediately dropped to the ground and began chugging water. At this point I realized:”Wow! These guys have just gone 14 hours without water in this unbelievable heat. And this is day 23 with 6 more to go.” I’m not sure I could do it.

So we arrived at camp where I must have missed the orientation because I had no idea where we were going to sleep, or whether dinner was on the way, or when we planned on leaving the next day. After about an hour of standing around in the dark, listening to the orchestra of farting from our ‘ships of the desert’, the guides emerged from their dinner tent in a very good mood. Soon we were enjoying our own dinners while being entertained by our guides’ personal song stylings. Curiously, I didn’t seem to have an appetite although it had been some time since our last meal. Probably nothing to worry about.

In the wee hours of the morning, I was able to enjoy a meteor shower while praying for the quick departure of a large and angry bobcat from my bowels. At least that’s what it felt like (again, I’m no medical professional). If I were to pick a specific moment where this particular trip turned a corner, I would have to say this was it. The next morning I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, foolishly thinking that silly bobcat had moved on rather than depositing a litter, as it were, before leaving. Dawn over the desert was an emotional moment for all of us as our worthless lives were quickly brought into the proper perspective. Fortunately, the previous night had taught me patience and humility, so I was able to face the rising sun without any pretensions.

Dawn 

Perri's cousin contemplating his place in the world.

Nice to visit, but...

Choo Choo!

The temperature rose as quickly as the sun so we were off to town on our four-footed methane producers and a nice breakfast. Curiously, I was still not hungry. Probably nothing to worry about, although the next twenty-four hours were a bit hazy for me. I have a strong recollection of it being really hot, and then stopping a few times. There was one stop for lunch, where I was more than not hungry. We stopped somewhere later in a pretty nice hotel and I didn’t have supper. It had a pool, I’m pretty sure. The next morning I was feeling much better, although the rest of the trip remained a study in inner strength and concentration.

The nephew's skateboard proved to be a hit.

Many long and circuitous miles later, we found ourselves in Marrekech, but not before seeing the aftermath of at least three major accidents. Seatbelts on everyone! The conditions were such that the interior temperature of the van was 37c with full air-conditioning. Our guide suggested the exterior temperature had exceeded 50c. The oases we saw along the way were such a contrast to the sandy backdrop of the desert, I kept expecting to see golf courses.

Is this the par 3 or the par 4?

Combining heat with the wiggly nature of the road, and the one member of our group immune from the bowel monster was also feeling a bit off. As for the rest of us: no comment.

Marrekech seemed much more contemporary than any other place we’d visited so far. Even the medina was less… medieval than Fez. The quality of the genuine handmade goods had a ‘made in China’ look and feel and it was clear the tourists were expected and welcome.  The highlight was the main square in the old city, after dark, where it took on a carnival atmosphere. We saw snake-charmers and jugglers and belly dancers.

Is that a cobra?

It was there where I’m almost certain a local man made me some kind of offer for Perri. Sadly, my Arabic and French weren’t up to snuff to close the deal.

While in both Fez and Marrekesh, we stayed at hotels converted from old family homes, known as riads. The riads are very cool places to stay but are often very difficult to find without some local assistance. Additionally, you can’t get anywhere close to these places with a car, so some toting of luggage may be required. In Essouari, there is an entire industry around hauling tourist bags around the old town with modified wheel-barrows. On the bright side, you get an opportunity to be truly immersed in the local culture.

Essaouira is a coastal town where the Moroccans go to escape the heat and we joined them for the last two days of our adventure. Along the way we passed a grove of argan trees. The nut produces argan oil, a much-valued product, and the leaves are a favourite of goats. So much so that the goats have been known climb up into the trees for a snack.

Those birds look funny.

The town is on a fishing port and is one tic further along the touristy spectrum. We enjoyed the moderate temperatures (high 20’s) and wandered the streets looking for knick-knacks. Perri was able to acquire a henna tattoo (at least, I hope it’s henna).

Still smells better than the Fez tannery.

We finally arrived in Paris where we stayed the night and had almost a full day to amuse ourselves before catching the high-speed train back to Bordeaux. Like anyone who finds a free day in Paris on a hot day, we went to an English movie (air-conditioned, of course) and had Vietnamese food, followed by a bike ride along the Seine and a spot of ice cream.

Where can a guy get a good meal?

Morocco: great people, occasionally good food (if it doesn't kill you), and killer weather.

Who loves Tapas?

Before I go into the details of our recent road trip to Barcelona, I feel the need to comment on Olympic television coverage from this side of the channel. Admittedly, this week I have been exposed to some of the more obscure sports. At least more so than I might have had I been parking my butt in front of a North American television. As it turns out, obscurity is a relative definition as archery, fencing, judo, and handball are of great interest to French viewers, if airtime can be any sort of measure. Also, all these sports may be getting similar exposure back home. I have no way of knowing. Still, I’m pretty sure ladies field hockey and white water kayaking (really? An Olympic sport? Who knew?) aren’t front and center on CBC or CTV, or even ESPN. I like to think this is yet another opportunity to broaden my horizons.

As part of our ‘keeping it close to home’ strategy, and considering Perri’s friend Samantha was visiting from Canada, we looked for a sensible driving-distance destination and settled happily on Barcelona.  To break up the long drive, Ann managed to find a way to spend three or four hours in the Pyrenees, participating in something called “canyoning”. That’s right, the noun ‘canyon’ has been turned into a verb. No one told me of this adjustment to the English language, but there you go. Imagine combining hiking, rock climbing, and white-water rafting, without the raft, and you’ve pretty much got it. We started by gearing up with wet suits and harnesses, which in retrospect was a good idea since the water temperature was somewhere between ‘numbing’ and ‘bone-chilling’ (it made me a little homesick). 

Staring death in the face... and not blinking.

Yes, we paid to do this.

In a nutshell, we spent three or fours hours sloshing along, sliding, swimming, rappelling, zip-lining, and just jumping off small cliffs into water of suspect depth. Other than a few minor tailbone bruises and a couple of fresh-water sinus flushes, we survived intact.

Just before the jump.

Look closely - someone is halfway down that waterfall.

One quick stop at the monastery at Montserrat, where somebody decided you’ve got to get high in order to be close to heaven. Before I get comments about condoning drug use, I’m talking about altitude. The Benedictine abbey was built at the top of a very odd looking mountain (roughly 4000 feet above sea level) about 1000 years ago. The site also hosts one of the ‘black Madonnas’, a wood carving of the Virgin Mary, originally thought to be brought from Jerusalem in the first or second centuries (carbon dating by scientists of suspect faith pegs its vintage at 12^th century). It was worth the brief visit, but I can’t see anyone like me wanting to spend more than a few hours there (italics added by Ann).

Part of the monastery- late in the day.

As an aside, I neglected to bring my camera on this trip, so I relied heavily on inferior but adequate equipment (perhaps I could have worded that better). Still, many of the shots worked out ok.

Barcelona was different from most of the other European cities I’ve visited. The core of the city had wide, well-treed streets, and striking architectural variation, even if you don’t include the Gaudi creations. The waterfront was a happenin’ place, and there were no lack of eating establishments (important for me). That Barcelona is in Catalonia adds to its character. Catalan is the language of the locals and they have no issues with letting you know. Ann stopped in shop for directions and asked the obviously Spanish woman working there if she spoke English, to which she replied “Not really, but I have a little Spanish”.

 Flash Mob - Barcelona style.

Funky Buildings everywhere.

We wandered around for a couple of days, taking in the usual stuff: big old church, buried Roman ruins, restaurants, etc.. The creations of Antoni Gaudi proved to be the coolest part of the trip. We toured the Geull Palace, Park Guell, and of course, the Segrada Familia, and they all had a high WOW factor. I don’t know what Gaudi was smoking, but somehow he made it work. I think he might have a bit of trouble getting financing in this day and age, but I'm glad someone, specifically his rich benefactor Eusebi Guell, ponied up over a century ago. Barcelona should go on everyone’s list.

Roof of Guell Palace

Ann at Guell Park

Ann with her new boyfriend

Tourists, and me. 

This might surprise everyone but there were gobs of tourists from everywhere. After listening to a mishmash of international tongues, I realized Arcachon is a very regional tourist destination, compared to Barcelona’s truly international flavor. That being said, I kept asking and answering questions using French, even though I knew the words in Spanish. Strange because I never do that in France.

Flinstones get religion.

This thing could be alive.

I was impressed with how bright this place was.

Too cool. Way too cool for a church.

Next stop: Morocco (I won’t forget my camera, probably).

A Year in the Merde

So here we are a full year ‘in country’ and some things seem exactly the same: Perri is in Calgary and we are half a world away, the Tour de France is in the Pyrenees (this time I’m sensibly watching on the telly rather than observing in person), the traffic in Arcachon is getting crazy, and I continue to speak very poor French, if any.  Where does the time go?

Like any parents freed from the shackles of endless parenting, Ann and I decided to go on a road trip involving three items nowhere near the top of Perri’s list of interests: France, history, and golf. What better way to experience this trifecta of Perri’s dislikes than to take a road trip to Brittany. Typically, we had no real plan except to head north and hope for the best. I wasn’t aware before we left that Brittany is an ideal holiday destination for those vacationers trying to escape summer-like weather. Nothing makes me happier than daily highs in the mid teens and a high likelihood of drizzle in mid-July. I began to think Brittany was named to suggest that if you can't cross the channel you can still get the weather. Sadly, we only experienced true British Open conditions for the first day in Nantes, where the sun chose to shine occasionally, and the rain showers were reminiscent of a tropical monsoon. Still, I’ll admit road trips can be very educational, as I had no idea Nantes was bigger than Bordeaux with history dating back to the Romans. The castles and cathedrals were starting to run together a bit so we looked for other distinguishing features to help us remember Nantes. While we were there, a city-wide modern art exhibition was is full swing and we were frequently surprised by curious works resembling treehouses and giant wasp nests. I thought the scale-model walking elephant ride thing, complete with functioning trunk, had to be the highlight.

Art?Maybe. Student Accommodation? Probably.

This was kinda cool.

We had an early start Sunday to meet some friends who were touring through the low countries for a few weeks. We had agreed to meet them at Mont Saint-Michel, an extraordinary abbey dating from the 11^th century.

Roving bands of Canadians with bump in background.

Bump from closer.

Having just missed the start of the early walking tour with an English guide, we chose to walk it on our own, with the help of a few portable audio tour devices. The danger of sharing said devices is those getting the information second-hand may miss some key information. For example: the abbey, former home of one of the early 20^th century comedians, Bud Abbot, has been occupied by monkeys for nearly 1000 years. At least that’s what I think I heard. Now, I may have got some of that wrong as there were no monkeys to be seen nor any written reference to Abbot and Costello.  Still, it was a fascinating place.

We finished the day by driving up the coast to a quaint little coastal town called Cancale, where we enjoyed a great seafood meal at a seaside restaurant. As it turns out, most of the meals we experienced were pretty good. Even Tuesday breakfast in La Baule-Escoublat, consisting of nothing more than two fresh croissants and a large mug of hot chocolate, was pretty good.

Cancale - typical north Brittany seaside town.

We spent Sunday night and Monday morning in Saint Malo. For those of you well-versed in Canadian history (both of you), you will remember Saint Malo being the birthplace of Jacques Cartier, one of the first Europeans to bring the gift of modern Europe to Canada. It’s too bad that for all his nosing around in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, the French ended up with nothing more than a few windblown rocks off the coast of Newfoundland. History is funny that way. St. Malo is another beautiful seaside town although a little chilly and windy for my tastes, especially in July.

Saint Malo

Ann flying the national colours.

We wrapped up the weekend playing some golf around Saint Nazaire, on the south Brittany coast. Weather-wise, the south Brittany coast is on a different planet from the north Brittany coast and has a number of popular beaches. We played at a couple of fabulous courses, which were a lot of fun, but a bit expensive. The second course was around a chateau and made for some unusual backdrops to the game.

You can stay here, if you like.

If you get it in the clown's nose, you can cross the bridge to the castle.

Time well wasted.

Next stop: Morocco.

As an aside, we were travelling on a holiday weekend celebrating Bastille day (Saturday July 14th this year), which is generally celebrated by fireworks in every little city and town in the whole country. Driving into Nantes on Friday night, we noticed a substantial fireworks display. I thought: “ A day early but no problem. We’ll take in the big show tomorrow night in Rennes”. The next night in Rennes we were told they were supposed to have the fireworks the night before, but it was rained out. And, although Saturday is the actual holiday, they would not be having the show that night regardless of it all being there and ready to go. On Sunday night, long after giving up on any fireworks, we were treated to a substantial fireworks display from our B&B bedroom window in St. Malo. Obviously the French look at Bastille Day as a holiday only loosely fixed to a specific date on the calendar (like Easter), and consider the time of the celebration flexible, hopefully within a couple of days. I’m ok with that so long as I get me some fireworks somewhere along the way.

I’d like to finish this 1^st annual blog with some thoughts on ‘365 days in Aquitaine’:

Living in France is like living in Canada, except when it isn’t. It’s the same, but different.

If you see something in a French supermarket which is unrecognizable, it means you probably shouldn’t think about eating it.

French school is hard. Really hard.

French television is bad. Really bad.

Answering any question in the affirmative even though you don’t understand the question can lead to some awkward situations.

Not all French food is as good as it looks, with the exception of anything in a Patisserie, where it is all better than it looks.

Bureaucracy in France is a sport taken seriously by every member of the civil service.

People are the same everywhere: most are good, some aren’t.

The internet means you’re never really too far from home.

 

Tilting at Windmills - Majorca

If it’s May in France, it must mean there’s another long weekend. The French like their long weekends so much, they clump them together. I’m pretty sure they do this in May so everyone can warm up to the idea of taking vacation for all of July and August. After all, how can you be sure all the beach toys work and the summer house is ready unless you get a few trial weekends to test things out? At chez Burrage, a long weekend means we must be going somewhere. This time, we’re visiting one of the Balearic Islands: Majorca (the rest of them are Minorca, Ibiza, and a few others not important enough for me to remember). All I knew about Majorca, other than being a little island off the coast of Spain (Mediterranean side), is that it is the birthplace of tennis star Rafael Nadal. Having been there, I now know many more facts about Majorca, varying considerably in usefulness and accuracy.

We decided to visit Majorca after being invited by some Calgary friends who were going to be vacationing there. As it turns out, they belong to a secret society, which has vacation properties squirreled away in cool places all around the world (freemasons?). I got the whole story after swearing absolute secrecy, although now I’m a bit fuzzy as alcohol may have been involved.  Anyway, let’s not worry about the details. Just be sure there was an extra room or two in their shabby, youth-hostel-like hacienda tucked up in the hills of southeast Majorca:

We had a room in the back.

One of the pleasantly surprising discoveries about Majorca, driven home immediately upon arrival, is that Majorca is an excellent place to brush up on your spoken German. One of the guidebooks warned about dropping into some of the resorts for dinner unless you were comfortable in ‘a German environment’. Why, there’s even a German radio station! To be fair, there were tourists from other places, but I am comfortable in saying the Germans dominated the tourist landscape (which can occasionally be beneficial, especially at the beach).

The landscape in Majorca reminded Ann of the Okanogan valley or southern California. Agriculture seems to be the dominant industry (although the size of the airport suggests tourism has a lock on first place), with endless orchards and olive groves. They’ve certainly upgraded their windmills from the classic Don Quixote style, and there were plenty of them on the south side of the island, although none seemed to be moving.

Not your typical Saskatchewan farmhouse.

There were a lot of these.

We spent most of the first day eating, with a visit to the beach to allow proper digestion to occur. We stopped at the local market to stock up on fresh ingredients for dinner. Our chef was a stickler for quality produce and I caught him perusing the goods:

Mystery Chef at work.

The beach was at the end of a deep cove and had a WOW! factor of about nine, not including the toplessness.  There was a collection of large pleasure craft moored in the cove to add to the feeling of being somewhere special. Expensive, but special. The downside was the invigorating temperature of the water. In Arcachon, you face the Atlantic ocean, which isn’t known for getting too toasty, so you don’t ever expect much in the way of warm water. The Mediterranean, on the other hand, sets the bar a little higher. Sadly, if I were to quantify it, I would say more than a few brass monkey balls could expect to be lost while taking a dip in those waters. I imagine it warms up quickly such that July and August waters are closer to bath temperature. After lunch (more food), we took a stroll around the point where Ann’s exuberance required restraining by any means possible:

Too much coffee.

Perri at the cove.

A quick ice-cream and then home for a fabulous dinner. As dusk approached, I noticed the local view got quite boring as the second and third night proved to be no more interesting than the first.

Same old, same old...

Day two was a more cultured experienced as we ventured into Palma, the main city, to take a traditional, narrow-gauge railway trip up into the hills. In classic Burrage vacation style, we made the last train with almost 5 minutes to spare. The train winds up through the valleys to the town of Soller, which had some interesting architecture, a beautiful church, and tasty food.

Pretty cool for a bank.

Soller Church

A train ride down, a quick trip to the supermarket, and then home for … you guessed it: dinner. I will take this opportunity to recommend, while travelling, mooching off people with a good sense for food and wine, as we did on this trip. Thanks, mystery hosts.

Our last day was abbreviated by a flight home. However, we were able to take in a few historic sites before rubbing elbows with the masses of travellers returning to Dussledorf or Munich. One such site was the castle overlooking Palma. Although the castle itself was not amazing, by European castle standards, the views of the local area were fabulous.

Inner courtyard

Perri probably asleep w Palma below.

Finally, the most impressive structure on the whole island was the cathedral in Palma. We had planned on spending a few hours poking around the building before we left. Well, the best laid plans of mice and men… and vacationers on a short timeline, meant we were able to get a few quick snaps as we passed by on the way to the airport.

She's a brute.

All in all, Majorca was a great experience squeezed into far too short a time. I now understand why it is a vacation destination for many Europeans. The beaches are great. The people seem very nice, and the food is good (the local wine is also surprisingly good). My greatest regret is not having more time to explore the place.

On the local scene, I entered a golf tournament last week. It was a fun affair where I was playing the best golf of my life until the 13th hole. At that point I foolishly allowed myself to think I had a shot at          

some hardware, so I promptly scored a 9, on a par 4. Two double boogies on the next two holes eliminated any chance to win, but I did tie for third in my division. Golf truly is 90% mental, and 10% mental.

Gossip item: My retired neighbor's girlfriend/wife (I've never been sure) has moved out on him. He tells Ann he will wait an appropriate amount of time before his new girlfriend moves in. The stereotype of the French male lives on...