tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58180288169167085872024-03-14T06:07:42.255+02:00Destination AnywhereIf you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there - <b>Talmud</b>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-35930506096657881282011-05-22T22:04:00.000+03:002011-05-22T22:04:39.366+03:00Around the world with 40 Lonely Planet bloggers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4DivxaAJ7z4G3oXmHNTCZ-Y9_eue3NXWlOb_aTaC6rv-Wy7xBCeZQy5uKkttMu4mzVSuQhmiyneqf_0bc9w4OkpGRFcA1ONHPtFLn1-P5I6Y052-5CPmUTVqBdy1Z63euCDdrbw69wko/s1600/around-world-bloggers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4DivxaAJ7z4G3oXmHNTCZ-Y9_eue3NXWlOb_aTaC6rv-Wy7xBCeZQy5uKkttMu4mzVSuQhmiyneqf_0bc9w4OkpGRFcA1ONHPtFLn1-P5I6Y052-5CPmUTVqBdy1Z63euCDdrbw69wko/s400/around-world-bloggers.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>40 <a href="http://www.lonelyplanet.com/">Lonely Planet</a> travel bloggers come together as a group to release their first free photo ebook. "Around the World with 40 Lonely Planet Bloggers" takes readers on a world tour featuring almost 70 countries, and introduces the world of professional travel blogging. Within it, each blogger, hand picked by Lonely Planet, shares a collection of stunning photos that capture the essence of travel for them. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>The gathering of this eclectic group of travel experts was born out of Lonely Planet’s effort to broaden content for their audience. “The concept was simple – get the best 10% of travel bloggers out there to share their thoughts and ideas…shining a light on the very best travel writing and photography on the planet,” tells Matthew Cashmore, former Innovation Ecosystem Manager at Lonely Planet on the creation of the BlogSherpa Program.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Uniting from across the globe, the BlogSherpas, as they are called, share their adventures and travel lifestyles through the photo ebook. “Managing 40 bloggers perpetually traveling in and out of jungles, cafes, monuments and ruins, and internet free zones (gasp!) was not an easy task” says Todd Wassel, the blogger who headed up the project. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>In addition to an eye-popping collection of photographs, the book is a rich resource for anyone with a passion for travel who wants to learn from the experts. “The 40 BlogSherpas showcased in the ebook specialize in travel modes ranging from solo to couples to family travel, road trips, budget travel, expat living, voluntourism and even perpetually traveling digital nomads,” explains Karen Catchpole, one of the featured bloggers. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><a href="http://inside-digital.blog.lonelyplanet.com/2011/05/03/around-the-world-with-40-bloggers/">Official Lonely Planet news release</a></i> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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The whole thing started more than a year ago. Somebody from Blogsherpa's blogger group suggested an idea of making a paper photography book featuring our collective travel photos. After few months of brainstorming, the group settled on publishing an e-book, sort of as a test run to see how it all comes together. The road to that "coming together" has been rather long. It's pretty hard to effectively round up people most of whom are at any given moment on the road somewhere or often living in an area not yet blessed by the presence of reliable internet connection. Endless amount of discussions later 40 bloggers (out of hundreds of Blogsherpas) managed to get their act together enough to compile the material for the e-book. That was almost 10 months ago and in May we finally have an e-book to present. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">While a lot of people worked from their own free time to make this happen, i think the illusion of putting out a coffee table photography book in the future has slowly passed. It's much too time consuming and expensive to embark on that path lightly. But in my opinion, publishing an e-book is just the right outlet for a content like this. The photos used are not largely high enough quality to be printed on the paper, but a digital e-book doesn't have those restrictions. You also don't need to be a professional photographer to capture memorable travel shots nor do you have to have an impeccable eye for composition or use the latest camera equipment to produce high quality printable images. Lonely Planet financed the e-book's design and technical compiling, so there were very little expenses we paid from our own pocket. I think that the e-book's design is probably the weakest part of the whole project, considering the price of the designer's work, i think many of us expected more elegant outcome. But somewhat amateur design aside, it's a great way to showcase so many different people and their life on the road, hopefully inspiring many others to follow. <br />
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So this e-book we are offering you today, is solely about personal journeys that bloggers want to share with their readers, me included (page 64). It is a really great collective effort by enthusiastic travel addicts, a wonderful insight to how 40 very different bloggers see the world while traveling and/or living abroad. The photos are personal and full of emotions, conveying the excitement and joy of experiencing something new. <br />
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Download the e-book from here: <br />
<b><a href="http://media.lonelyplanet.com/pdfs/Around_the_world_40_Lonely_Planet_Bloggers.pdf">"Around the world with 40 Lonely Planet bloggers"</a></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div></div></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-69317315066234279292010-11-12T02:34:00.000+02:002010-11-12T02:34:38.145+02:00"Love across the Estonian language divide"<br><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJKhzZJPLXdzzrScBH8Gqb09DMor4oal-eyqlXQdSOK_f_yO8Ft4nWEuYqF6OafJYgZ48Kg0eELQPGkm91kOjR2RGN4zD-hjHUi-r4uF-z1sHaRkwVwbBZ7dHjKmzTK9OsUcZlPZOQz8/s1600/spot4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJKhzZJPLXdzzrScBH8Gqb09DMor4oal-eyqlXQdSOK_f_yO8Ft4nWEuYqF6OafJYgZ48Kg0eELQPGkm91kOjR2RGN4zD-hjHUi-r4uF-z1sHaRkwVwbBZ7dHjKmzTK9OsUcZlPZOQz8/s1600/spot4.jpg" /></a></div><span id="goog_1335671240"></span><span id="goog_1335671241"></span>A lovely travel site called <a href="http://www.pocketcultures.com/">Pocket Cultures</a> recently published an interview in their "People of the World" section with yours truly here.<br />
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Fancy a read? :) <br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.pocketcultures.com/">PocketCultures</a> is an interesting project aiming to help you discover the world in another way than one hotel at the time. It's a collection of stories about real people and real places, not dry facts and glossy commercial texts. It's all about encouraging connections between people, even if you are not able to go traveling yourself. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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"Love across the Estonian language divide"</span> </h1><a href="http://pocketcultures.com/peopleoftheworld/2010/11/11/love-across-the-estonian-language-divide">http://pocketcultures.com/peopleoftheworld/2010/11/11/love-across-the-estonian-language-divide</a><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Ragne Kabanova is an Estonian who loves to travel. I first ‘met’ Ragne through her blog, <a href="http://www.sshiksa.blogspot.com/">Destination Anywhere</a>, and enjoyed her open minded approach to writing about the different countries she encounters. In this interview she tells us about travelling the world, love accross the language divide and what’s so good about life in Estonia.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>To start, please tell us a bit about your background</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m from a pretty typical Estonian family. We had a small apartment in the countryside, in a place which was like a big village, where everybody knows each other and spends their time gossiping all day long. My family consisted of me, my brother and my parents.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I spent my summers in my grandmother’s farm, running around in the nearby forests and taking insanely long walk with the dogs; so much so, that upon returning my grandmother was often in tears because she thought I had gotten lost in the woods. I loved spending time alone and you could say that me, myself & I got along quite well.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I got older, I can’t say I was dying to break free from my parents. My parents had this unique approach to raising kids – it will take considerably less effort raising them if you don’t get in their way. Which meant that when I started living on my own at the ripe age of 17, it wasn’t because I was feeling suppressed, it was just a very logical step for an independent kid.<br />
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Life made its twists and turns and I ended up choosing a university quite far from my parents home (as much as something can be “far” in a country which you can cross from side to side within 5 hours). I met my husband soon after, we were both studying on the same course. And few months ago we just celebrated nine years together.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today we live in a small student town called Tartu. It’s a lovely place, cozy and compact, but it’s also Estonia’s leading development center for world-scale IT and science inventions. Ever heard of Skype? ☺</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>What languages do you use to communicate? What languages did you learn in school?</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Official language in Estonia is of course Estonian. There is a big Russian community here which every once in a while sparks up a discussion to add Russian language also as an official language, but majority of Estonians are so strongly against it that it would be a political suicide to any public figure to start seriously pushing the matter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I was in school the most important foreign language was Russian. That was taught already from 3rd grade followed few years later by English or German. Nowadays it’s all changed. Most important is English, which depending on a school can start even from 1st grade already. Some schools teach French, German, Spanish etc, Russian is pushed quite a lot to the background. Sometimes even totally out of the picture.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My husband is Russian and when we met he didn’t speak any Estonian. I do speak Russian, but on lower intermediate level at best, not really fluent enough to discuss anything with big words in it. So when we met, it took us about three minutes to switch to English and it’s been our home language ever since. Some people might think it’s rather uppity of us to speak in English while living in Estonia, but it’s actually a good balance - if we’d speak Russian or Estonian then one of us would have an unfair advantage when it comes to intricate knowledge of the language, wide vocabulary and cultural background. Considering that in the beginning quite a lot of our disagreements and fights were stemming from us being from different backgrounds, I’m quite glad we were accidentally wise enough to take the language barrier out of the equation.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>So do Russian speakers and Estonian speakers form separate communities in Estonia?</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here’s a small glimpse of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Molotov-Ribbentrop_pact">Russian-Estonian history</a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Estonians and Russians do not mingle in Estonia. They keep away from each other and avoid interactions as much as they can. There’s a lot of history between the two nations and strong resentment from both sides. The resentment mostly stems from politics and historical events and from the different interpretation of those events. Even today there is so much unnecessary political haze between the two countries that it doesn’t really benefit anybody.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You’re not likely to find big mixed groups of Estonians and Russians rubbing elbows and being good friends. I don’t think it’s because people are nationalists and avoid each other by principle, they just feel more comfortable within their own ethnic group because that’s what they are used to with. Very often there’s also a language barrier which complicates things even further. The cultural background between the two nations is not that different that it would cause insurmountable problems, but there haven’t been really serious and consistent plans to integrate the two communities. Just a few commercial campaigns here and there, effects of which are soon downsized to zero by yet another politician stirring up national issues for cheap popularity either with Russians or Estonians.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">There are still quite a few Russian-language based schools in Estonia which produce high-school graduates who don’t actually speak Estonian and therefore find that most local universities are out of reach for them. And that causes even more resentment and creates sort of closed communities where only Russians live. The eastern part of Estonia is a big region where the population is mostly Russians and Estonian isn’t spoken. This region is also the poorest in Estonia and most criminal, an inevitable side effect of an encapsulated community where education is not very propagated. Dislike for Estonia as a country is rather rampant. On the other hand, Estonians themselves are very closed people and are not likely to reach out and compromise with Russians who are often viewed as “occupants”, especially by the older generation. Some of the bad history is still too fresh. I expect it will get better in time, or I hope.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But regardless of all the nasty history between Russians and Estonians and apart from politics meddling in, we’re not at all that different and we are quite capable of peacefully co-existing. Sometimes I’d like to think that me and my husband are giving a small contribution to Estonian-Russian integration, because not only did our families have to deal with their issues about us two getting married, but we also have now a wide and rich group of friends from both nationalities. Sadly, Estonian-Russian couples are quite rare.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>How did your love of travel begin?</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My first proper foreign trip was to Saint Petersburg in Russia. But since at that time me and my husband were seriously poor students who actually hitch-hiked half of the way, were accommodated on the place by kind relatives and were bringing contraband cigarettes back with us to make some money off them, I don’t count that as a serious travel yet. But the trip that really made me take a moment and think about what kind of travels I would like for future was our vacation in Santorini island (Greece) in the summer 2006. I decided right there and then that package trips just weren’t for me. I felt such an incredible itch to get around on our own, spend every single second away from the hotel and definitely avoid the hotel pool 100%.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m not saying that sun vacations by the pool are any bad, but I do feel the nasty grin coming on my face when people who take those vacations talk about experiencing the local culture afterwards. While I’m not a person who feels the need to hike the jungles, teach something profound in Africa or live for a month with Mongolian yak herders to get to the root of things, I do think you can’t experience much by being satisfied with what you’re being fed by your hotel’s organized tours and pool menu. Throw the guide book out the window and go and wing it. You might just like it! I know I do! ☺</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">By now I’ve been to more than 20 countries and I strongly prefer the ones without euro or dollar as a currency. I figure I have plenty of time to make culture trips in Europe when I’m older and calmed down, until then I’ll backpack and feed my curiosity with exciting places like Cuba, Syria, China …</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Would you like to live abroad, or do you always like to go home at the end of a trip?</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I think I would really much like to live abroad, maybe even for a longer period of time, but at the moment I can’t really imagine moving away for good. But then again, I’ve always been very bad at long term planning ☺. I do know that every time I visit a new country, I find something new to appreciate about Estonia and while coming back is sometimes a drag, it’s usually because of the weather not because everywhere else is better. I’ve understood that Estonia has amazing nature and while we do not have mountains or waterfalls, the snowy forest in the winter can take your breath away!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Estonia is also very comfortable to live in. You can do anything over internet – organize your finances in the bank, file tax returns, vote for your favorite politician during elections, study in university, create your own firm within 15 minutes, sign contracts by using digital signature, deal with the bureaucratic machine and so on. And all that while sipping coffee in your favorite café and using the free wireless internet available almost everywhere. Or you can use your mobile phone for various services like paying for taxi or food in the grocery shop, parking, bus tickets etc. You can even order a real Christmas tree via mobile phone! Estonia is pretty high tech and I like it. It’s also very compact which means that changes can be implemented here fairly quickly. For example, for a long time we had an issue of negative population: more people died than were born. Now there’s a “parental salary” which pays you for 18 months your average wage, just so you can have a child and stay home without worrying about finances. And our population is slowly growing, not dying away. So yes, I want to come back home, I just wish there’s be better weather to greet me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>What’s your favourite place in Estonia?</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, here comes the rather embarrassing part about me – I can’t say I’ve really extensively traveled in Estonia. Yes, I’ve been here and there, camping a bit and various daytrips, but I’ve never taken time off and just gone exploring around. Maybe it’s because traveling in Estonia requires a car. To see the nature and get off the beaten path, you can’t really rely on public transportation. And since I don’t have a car or a driving licence, I’ve had to make do with biking. Actually just a few days ago I thought we should go couchsurfing through Estonia, this could be very much fun.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But to anybody out there reading this article and thinking of visiting Estonia - do not limit yourself with just the capital Tallinn. Every city in Estonia is different and villages can be pretty cool as well!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-10523329499545846732010-08-23T21:57:00.006+03:002010-08-23T22:16:40.914+03:00Why travel?<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let’s see, the first answers popping to my head would be something in the lines of „to see the world“, „to experience different cultures“ or „to expand my horizon“. But honestly, all that falls into the category of extra perks, the main reason is still that inexplicable itch and yearning to get away and not to stay put for too long.<br />
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It might be due to my heritage, centuries of oppressed Estonians have always been farmers who rarely got out of their own villages, not to mention traveled to other countries. Maybe my genetic memory is having a bit of a social revolution of it’s own and creates this determined wish to be off again to make up for the lost time? Whatever the reason, i love every second of it and hope my enthusiasm will never be crippled with daily problems and family routine.<br />
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It does make for a bit of a lonely life though, because big part of my family and friends, though absolutely cool and lovely people themselves, do not really understand why do i put all my free money into yet another trip somewhere (preferably a place without Euro or Dollar as a currency) and i still don’t have children or even a car. So being somewhat alone in that gripping endeavor, i found myself a trusted friend to give me extra motivation and most importantly – the loveliest memories ever that will last until the nuclear blast or ice age, which ever comes first. It’s my sweet sweet Canon 30D that travels with me anytime and anywhere. I can see myself forgetting to pack my passport, but never a camera :).<br />
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As they said in some movie voice over once: „Time is priceless, yet it costs us nothing. You can do anything you want with it, but own it. You can spend it, but you can't keep it. And once you've lost it, there's no getting it back. It's just .. gone.“ And how very true it is! So travel and experience, before it’s all gone.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgILh_VvcBQTN0mjYGXhdbkXgAUfXHvU35tOcnGxbvDik6DL0ignFaWjOhe7jll1iIBjueQuti8C-5w4TbIHsKfi2G_LUSsIB9hm5cfET6KoYUTnuPOTSipPjsL6hBaeWNtfblHHugZwrM/s1600/Ragne_wallpaper_1280x1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgILh_VvcBQTN0mjYGXhdbkXgAUfXHvU35tOcnGxbvDik6DL0ignFaWjOhe7jll1iIBjueQuti8C-5w4TbIHsKfi2G_LUSsIB9hm5cfET6KoYUTnuPOTSipPjsL6hBaeWNtfblHHugZwrM/s640/Ragne_wallpaper_1280x1024.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Anybody cares to guess where all those shots are from? :) </i><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Download this travel wallpaper!</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Resolutions: <a href="http://norvidia.com/Ragne_wallpaper_800x600.jpg">800 x 600</a>, <a href="http://norvidia.com/Ragne_wallpaper_1024x600.jpg">1024 x 600</a>, <a href="http://norvidia.com/Ragne_wallpaper_1024x768.jpg">1024 x 768</a>, <a href="http://norvidia.com/Ragne_wallpaper_1280x800.jpg">1280 x 800</a>, <a href="http://norvidia.com/Ragne_wallpaper_1280x1024.jpg">1280 x 1024</a>, <a href="http://norvidia.com/Ragne_wallpaper_1366x768.jpg">1366 x 768</a>, <a href="http://norvidia.com/Ragne_wallpaper_1440x900.jpg">1440 x 900</a>, <a href="http://norvidia.com/Ragne_wallpaper_1680x1050.jpg">1680 x 1050</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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PS! <span id="profile_status"><span id="status_text">I do this mistake every time i go on a trip somewhere - I forget to write about it to my friends and then later i find out that somebody i know was in the same place exactly the same time i was, except we didn't know about each other's travels. So, now i'm going to keep my travel schedule up in the blog (see left side menu) and hopefully these annoying situations won't happen again!<br />
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<span id="profile_status"><span id="status_text">Until then, if anybody is heading to Middle-East between 20th September to 13th October, let me know, maybe we can meet. I'll probably be covering Turkey, Syria, Jordan, no fixed plans yet.</span></span><br />
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</div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-35548816274450237562010-06-30T17:56:00.000+03:002010-06-30T17:57:48.555+03:00Journey back<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It just so happened that Fes turned out to be my last stop in Morocco. Actually Fes turned out to be my last stop on this trip altogether because i had to return to Estonia quite unexpectedly. But -- it was fun while it lasted and i'm very happy i decided to embark on that trip to begin with.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, on my last days in Fes i took it very slow. I walked around the city, strolled along the market streets, bought some spices and sweets and so on. After spending so much time in Marrakech, one starts to realize what a peaceful and tranquil place Fes really is. And -- coincidentally not really a best place to buy souvenirs from. No, don't get me wrong, Fes has some nice authentic things to offer, like the famous blue patterned ceramics etc, but for more typical Moroccan souvenirs like <i>babouches </i>(slippers) Marrakech has just bigger choice and is more open to .. let's say flexible bargaining.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQaxphATqT9bg56q_zvnjlX2GEx5vLC9NDQSWu4IaLYZjNn_Sju5NWgaCiDaGSmiemFNqOsz8a9__2bp6OY4xl_-dllKrV4StwOqdvUwD98m8SKh4Hcx6aPgk9g19fiEqjOAIoZ3Hxsg/s1600/0239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQaxphATqT9bg56q_zvnjlX2GEx5vLC9NDQSWu4IaLYZjNn_Sju5NWgaCiDaGSmiemFNqOsz8a9__2bp6OY4xl_-dllKrV4StwOqdvUwD98m8SKh4Hcx6aPgk9g19fiEqjOAIoZ3Hxsg/s400/0239.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Fes is known for it's superb blue ceramics</i></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQJIE-HesUFNN0JsHudH712fcxVE0h9ZYG0HmPtDGyJijYUPxx6csvZet-q0NOVG9MyUaT96nUY5FMJ3cSGjTF-3p5VkG4mP-QJm7GoA6LecaJnu3zrwbwBbHFLS_9J1dq89n8oQRK9g/s1600/0055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQJIE-HesUFNN0JsHudH712fcxVE0h9ZYG0HmPtDGyJijYUPxx6csvZet-q0NOVG9MyUaT96nUY5FMJ3cSGjTF-3p5VkG4mP-QJm7GoA6LecaJnu3zrwbwBbHFLS_9J1dq89n8oQRK9g/s400/0055.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>A very typical way to serve tea</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigyb8N3ZNvgT2hnhYMcye4Wq7xpAw61k-8zZaS7xbIBGLC3PX0kVgF5mm3rBKEI0SG_2YoA0QsIv-_w_oXFl_0nSLi5DSouccU-SYTzuZ_1HWOej8YLMcDeWK3hoSRy4vFiNKIVsl_3Kw/s1600/0059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigyb8N3ZNvgT2hnhYMcye4Wq7xpAw61k-8zZaS7xbIBGLC3PX0kVgF5mm3rBKEI0SG_2YoA0QsIv-_w_oXFl_0nSLi5DSouccU-SYTzuZ_1HWOej8YLMcDeWK3hoSRy4vFiNKIVsl_3Kw/s400/0059.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiACKunzhyIbmBBa0Zdp_kwVX2OJAAmxmyGGEdnbut08iskk79iM7FWhpvY41ndUgIM9YSASx6Q4F9hA-EF7Vzpn9zO9CNwmzDcaj1mSpJ_PJzfcYNUyGZBGuaexG6pFI_hM8KTNx4Kasw/s1600/0070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiACKunzhyIbmBBa0Zdp_kwVX2OJAAmxmyGGEdnbut08iskk79iM7FWhpvY41ndUgIM9YSASx6Q4F9hA-EF7Vzpn9zO9CNwmzDcaj1mSpJ_PJzfcYNUyGZBGuaexG6pFI_hM8KTNx4Kasw/s400/0070.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A cook in a street restaurant</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGQuwYSfkaqn9_Mt8jtjT03TKiYyiXuLkL07v3bB5WOwJWtJhPsIqTFr_Bhn4w40h5Ui31ffQXQLgdVXKPNN0BPqOiwVbP_Lt0qxYweyOufP4mq0mlGrd7FztoODa-nmOi1o74z51UVwE/s1600/0073.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGQuwYSfkaqn9_Mt8jtjT03TKiYyiXuLkL07v3bB5WOwJWtJhPsIqTFr_Bhn4w40h5Ui31ffQXQLgdVXKPNN0BPqOiwVbP_Lt0qxYweyOufP4mq0mlGrd7FztoODa-nmOi1o74z51UVwE/s400/0073.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A lamp shop</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUf23UWp4BszRXnGwdoDr33xEUAo_Ej8quWinIHueaTwBv3p4M3DrTQCoQ15LGg8WhgqbZJByAxKeldziTs4wARt-ypO77bxAVHFmFnVUQ_qEt9k2q4fYwmGmvfipcXBpZ-NuYvZe3y8/s1600/0247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUf23UWp4BszRXnGwdoDr33xEUAo_Ej8quWinIHueaTwBv3p4M3DrTQCoQ15LGg8WhgqbZJByAxKeldziTs4wARt-ypO77bxAVHFmFnVUQ_qEt9k2q4fYwmGmvfipcXBpZ-NuYvZe3y8/s400/0247.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Taylor shop</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1_49FMYOfHUv8FnBiTqBjsRKl_7FFcg-Kcj0hKxSdkexeltvBMXqENJt68NKEgaiwyS-rGvcDB7USlJnUuhQQWVSk6pSY6X8Zglt-QDsUs-2M_FN54FGH8bqNax_IGt2mSHhWtdD4RI/s1600/0255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1_49FMYOfHUv8FnBiTqBjsRKl_7FFcg-Kcj0hKxSdkexeltvBMXqENJt68NKEgaiwyS-rGvcDB7USlJnUuhQQWVSk6pSY6X8Zglt-QDsUs-2M_FN54FGH8bqNax_IGt2mSHhWtdD4RI/s400/0255.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil0FHpyPKCeJvHbW4jKri6k4bVwpx1nslKyQ5Zq1-Bgd9gr0SlBiRklJ2_4PhY_GxnrRj_lEw4AWFwmfzrGhR-iATlTWORAqj1rcJ2Kp0lxo2aMAUvBJYArbSLtRznn1j7_88KZsVX9yc/s1600/0145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil0FHpyPKCeJvHbW4jKri6k4bVwpx1nslKyQ5Zq1-Bgd9gr0SlBiRklJ2_4PhY_GxnrRj_lEw4AWFwmfzrGhR-iATlTWORAqj1rcJ2Kp0lxo2aMAUvBJYArbSLtRznn1j7_88KZsVX9yc/s400/0145.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Medina. Walls of the houses are supported to prevent collapsing. </i><br />
<i>A pretty surreal place to walk</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqNkVVpzfO72xN3qiFi-qsVRqU0EQOUc4I7TAPysaqHcOAK_JwsBcIHmaDCfb0u31NOTOB82IbiRNarmu2HEjtsRNRe48Mwcwzy4nZOEwWRF0VtOnik2E1tiCwdso56pHzSacHg_WNUOo/s1600/0216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqNkVVpzfO72xN3qiFi-qsVRqU0EQOUc4I7TAPysaqHcOAK_JwsBcIHmaDCfb0u31NOTOB82IbiRNarmu2HEjtsRNRe48Mwcwzy4nZOEwWRF0VtOnik2E1tiCwdso56pHzSacHg_WNUOo/s400/0216.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>At the market</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQBn1H1euaja1lNhga3fSdZpndQwbC065hE-n9VhQr5PEeyn8fz4X07MpFcgaoSmk9JVNLFo7TDDgiwMs5yLTaszV4Qq6_9PzlGaq8WlQCghVRNZeAoaozAL1O0UhqQvs2G1MAXXH940/s1600/0310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQBn1H1euaja1lNhga3fSdZpndQwbC065hE-n9VhQr5PEeyn8fz4X07MpFcgaoSmk9JVNLFo7TDDgiwMs5yLTaszV4Qq6_9PzlGaq8WlQCghVRNZeAoaozAL1O0UhqQvs2G1MAXXH940/s400/0310.JPG" width="253" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Note the writing on the girl's pants :) </i><br />
<i>If mom and dad would know what it meant, </i><br />
<i>d'think they would still be so open minded?</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmpXdJGyj2CRnmanlxpQeITBIy_loQK0KCWVQDKYv6SM3s0TIdVX_ObUP7E4fEy_t5dFQqyxyN6GrT7rMUu_3an_E3qFzKiDM3MqUAjfSZsJofvszxcGDWC4zz4DC7lwdt-nkUfN6MT0/s1600/1220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmpXdJGyj2CRnmanlxpQeITBIy_loQK0KCWVQDKYv6SM3s0TIdVX_ObUP7E4fEy_t5dFQqyxyN6GrT7rMUu_3an_E3qFzKiDM3MqUAjfSZsJofvszxcGDWC4zz4DC7lwdt-nkUfN6MT0/s400/1220.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But, after i was all stocked up and organized, it was time pack my bags and head out. The Fes-Saïss Airport is about 15 km outside the city and you are most welcome to walk there / take a bus OR you can take a taxi and pay supernatural price for a rather short ride. The taxi drivers in Fes know exactly how to keep a monopoly running and charging 120DH for one way is a strict code they all abide by. No exceptions. But i'd heard that there was also supposed to be a local bus to the airport (bus no. 16) that stops at the train station and costs only few dirhams. So i got myself to the train station, found a bus stop, snickered disdainfully at the taxi drivers offering their services and generally felt pretty good about myself. Never again will i pay that over-inflated sum just to drive 15 km, hah! Now <i>this</i> is what separates a tourist from a traveler - sense of adventure and independence! So i waited. And waited. And waited some more. And that went on for over an hour until i couldn't wait any longer. Mysteriously, every person i tried to ask from about the bus didn't speak not even a word of English, so in the end i didn't even know if i was indeed waiting in the right bus stop or if the elusive bus no.16 existed at all :). <i>Damn that bus!</i> i thought while eyeballing my watch to see if i'm late yet. Finally i gave in, counted my remaining money and went to look for a taxi.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The first taxi driver told me the fare is 150 DH without blinking an eye. Moroccan taxi drivers have mean poker faces. Watching me pass him by to get to the next guy he quickly changed his price to the usual 120 DH. I felt annoyed. Like supremely annoyed. Not only had i just gotten bitch-slapped by my own arrogance, but now this guy was trying to skim the little pride i had left. So i made a sad face and told him that i only have 90 DH left. I took the money out of my pocket and showed him as if to prove it beyond any doubt. Of course i had somewhere in my backpack more, but i didn't want to give him any more money than i necessarily had to. He looked at the money, probably sized me up for a second or two, then laughed and said the fare is 120 DH. I figured i have about 5 more minutes before i really had to start going to the airport, so i decided to try my little pathetic cheating game on the next taxi driver. But you know, there are few things in this world that you can always count on - the grass will grow upwards, your mother is always older than you, silver foil isn't edible and that the taxi drivers are greedy. So of course he accepted my 90 DH price and i got to the airport quite in time in the end.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You got to be careful with locals in the airport. There's almost no such thing as "waiting in line" behind the check-in counter. Tourists usually try to keep an order of some sort, but Moroccans themselves - they are just all over the place. They will step over your bags and push you aside if you don't hold your ground. But they will do it very slowly, about 5 cm at the time, so you just feel like you're imagining it and don't want to cause trouble for nothing. And when you do say something, they will look at you with an obvious surprised look in those beautiful brown eyes of theirs and once again, you will feel like a mean old tourist with no kindness to others :). I always think of them as good people, just .. impatient. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, a handy tip for all those (single) ladies out there who are flying out of Morocco and fear that their baggage might be over the allowed weight limit. Always pick a check-in counter with a man sitting behind it. They are ALWAYS too busy to flirt with you to keep an eye on the weight of your bags. It saved me this time as well. RyanAir has this greedy little policy that a checked bag can only weight up to 15 kg, for every gram extra you will have to pay. And i mean <i>every gram</i>. Just next to me was a couple with about a kilo over the allowed limit and the check-in lady made them go and pay for it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicluPNtsSVN46kkeXbtT6W6Q0so8ROZ-D11wuBGyxWsaVT2QakGoEkl-MsWRISISW1W9-NTC2BcIsWxnh9V4c82CM1nbpFYbAw-YDofdtvbyx4-61cokcIUNapQdoREs2mP7ZULHNBgYQ/s1600/1399.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicluPNtsSVN46kkeXbtT6W6Q0so8ROZ-D11wuBGyxWsaVT2QakGoEkl-MsWRISISW1W9-NTC2BcIsWxnh9V4c82CM1nbpFYbAw-YDofdtvbyx4-61cokcIUNapQdoREs2mP7ZULHNBgYQ/s400/1399.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>My journey back to Estonia was loooong. Since i had to get back quite abruptly, i didn't have much of a choice in terms of reasonably priced convenient flights. I ended up having 2 different flights and a long bus-ride to get back home. I spent a night in Frankfurt Hahn airport (Hertz Car Hire has pretty decent leather armchairs for sleeping) and then a whole day in Riga, the capital of Latvia. On the best of days i find Riga to be very boring city, but if you've been in transit for more than 24 hours, you really don't want to be stuck in some overpriced pretentious little province. I walked around for a whole day until it was time to catch my bus to Estonia. I had bought a ticket online already earlier and i was quite glad for it because i got the last seat in the bus, no. 43. But when i got to the bus, it turned out there only were 42 seats and they had sold me a seat that didn't exist! At first the bus was rather empty, so i could sit anywhere, but as it passed through cities towards Estonia, it got pretty full and i kept being bounced around from one place to another every time a new person got on the bus and claimed my seat. I was quite dreading that last stop on the way, because the bus would get full and i would have to spend the rest of the trip sitting on the floor somewhere. I guess the big guy up there was just having a bit of fun on my expense and hadn't forgotten me completely, because when we got to the last stop, turned out that one person had missed the bus and i got to sit like a normal person for the rest of the trip after all.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Coming back home is always more trouble than going away. The bags are heavier, the flights seem longer and more boring, lingering in the airport and waiting for connecting flights is more torturous than usually etc. Needless to say i couldn't wait to get home already. I was feeling restless and incredibly anxious, but also very glad. Only Jevgeni knew i was coming home, we didn't tell anyone else. I figured, i might as well get some fun out of it. It was completely satisfying to surprise my family and friends by just showing up, well worth the effort of coming back under the cloak of darkness. In many ways it felt that i've been away for so long and at the same time just for a little while.<br />
<br />
Well, that concludes my stories about Mexico, Cuba and Morocco. But since i've been blogging here retroactively and i've traveled since then quite a bit, i hope you will stay tuned for new stories & photos of new places. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Hope to return to Morocco one day soon, </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Insha'Allah!</i></div><br />
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</div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-39396470703681653212010-05-31T03:37:00.006+03:002010-05-31T13:17:51.384+03:00The old cemetery and a twisted adhan<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A little Moroccan story # 3</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
There is an old cemetery in Fes, right on top of the hillside, keeping watch over the <i>medina </i>down below. It's old, it's actually very old. Most of the tombstones are already gone or least turned into almost indistinguishable pieces of rock due to years of persistent wind and rain.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUxfn8W7x48ErhmVMBJvsuFaueIFXvyTJEVkqF5lOxvv4oHMiA9VvIwLC6DmTskm8pS5M_uZ_5rQ6Sd-SGLPaDFNDQkQlWGuyPbNVq0RjFLdlySoOeZvZ_z-rZ8CkFjL2aWxJCUAOFyI/s1600/_MG_3828.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUxfn8W7x48ErhmVMBJvsuFaueIFXvyTJEVkqF5lOxvv4oHMiA9VvIwLC6DmTskm8pS5M_uZ_5rQ6Sd-SGLPaDFNDQkQlWGuyPbNVq0RjFLdlySoOeZvZ_z-rZ8CkFjL2aWxJCUAOFyI/s400/_MG_3828.JPG" width="400" /></a>There are ruins of past buildings and big sandy rocks with cave-like shallow openings. The place is quite remote and not exactly on the trail of tourist traffic. It's a pretty cool place to sit and watch over the city, minus some creepy guys who sometimes gawk around there. But if you pay no attention to them, they eventually fade away. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">You can see far and wide from there. From surrounding nature to the busy city. The view over the city (<i>medina</i>) isn't much to look at actually. For a sensitive eye of a European, trained in modern clean and sterile architecture, it all looks like a big pile of something .. unpleasant. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY_porgQCQ3QO52Y86d2ExMPmg4zDTivyyh3z1yjrFzcnZjgMZt9y4334YkDA_b1SK5yxLeWygMdyZX13P9P-nslvBiPtp0_kmxWRJNW2fD7Z-46LT2AFIupB6DE7z8CokGcD-ijLCSQo/s1600/0150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY_porgQCQ3QO52Y86d2ExMPmg4zDTivyyh3z1yjrFzcnZjgMZt9y4334YkDA_b1SK5yxLeWygMdyZX13P9P-nslvBiPtp0_kmxWRJNW2fD7Z-46LT2AFIupB6DE7z8CokGcD-ijLCSQo/s400/0150.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The houses are unfinished, extremely dull, gray and undecorated. They all look the same and they cover a lot of ground, like someone just CGI'd the whole <i>medina</i>. But that's the way Moroccans roll. The houses are unfinished because the families are ever-growing and you never know when a new floor needs to be built. The rooftop is an important part of the house - women do a lot of their major household chores up there (like washing etc); rooftop is also place to store things, dry laundry and maybe even keep a small garden patch; it's a playground for kids and if necessary even a farmyard for birds/animals. So nobody really goes out of their way to keep it shiny and trendy. But all that makes the city look like a huge heap of trash piled on top of garbage dumped on top of construction remains. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This cemetery is a perfect place for listening the sounds of the city, including <i>adhans</i> (prayer calls). An extremely religious city like Fes is filled with bigger and smaller mosques, all of them serving their nearby community and reminding Muslims to pray when mandated. For a non-Muslims like us <i>adhan</i> basically only marks the passing of time, but Muslims are faith-bound to honor Allah five times a day by praying to the direction of Mecca and reciting their individual prayers. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, me and Kaidi were once sitting up there, enjoying the summer breeze and warm sun on our faces. The prayer time was just being announced and you could hear how <i>muezzins </i>from different mosques were one by one calling Muslims to the prayer. The flow of <i>adhans</i> (prayer calls) started from one side of the city and gradually moved over it to the other side, it's direction tied to the movement of the sun. It seems to me that Fes has either 1) very bad recordings of <i>adhan, </i>or in case it's actually sang live then 2) most mosques must have severely substandard speakers-equipment. Because the quality of the call is often so bad that it's painful to listen. The constant audio noise gets in the way, distorts the speech and provides an opportunity for two tourists with their non-religious pagan ears and filthy minds to hear exactly what we heard. And i swear, we both looked at each other, blinked wildly and confirmed that we did indeed hear how the<i> muezzin </i>was singing and singing and suddenly ended with " .... <i>kebab</i>!". I know, we're going to hell for that, but an ear hears what an ear hears. Or maybe it was all that old creepy cemetery .. Later when we told our little observation to the <i>riad</i>'s manager Nabil, who by the way is the least religious guy around, he actually got annoyed with us and said it's was a horrible thing to hear! I guess we're lucky we didn't recount our little auditory mishap to an actual devout Muslim. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-42231099459214610722010-05-27T03:29:00.011+03:002010-07-26T21:12:33.333+03:00Love & Morocco<div style="text-align: justify;"><em><br />
</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A little Moroccan story # 2 </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUoMMJHQ71vRYGhWxc6eCA5NTB_nLCOTiiPw00yd0YRpqBCU_YxMaeYqVUNgPamgIMk_vvBQ-_6ygMHCQoWUH75Gy_-v8UPe_zAz7eFlxEIY5ZVdCPQjpqG_D2LPjOrnscEF52Hcharsc/s1600/_MG_9904.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUoMMJHQ71vRYGhWxc6eCA5NTB_nLCOTiiPw00yd0YRpqBCU_YxMaeYqVUNgPamgIMk_vvBQ-_6ygMHCQoWUH75Gy_-v8UPe_zAz7eFlxEIY5ZVdCPQjpqG_D2LPjOrnscEF52Hcharsc/s400/_MG_9904.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Morocco is a country of feisty people and opportunistic minds. A lot of young Moroccan men dream of making it big either in Morocco or elsewhere, but by far the most popular dream is just getting out of Morocco, into the wealth and freedom of Europe/USA/etc. There's even a joke going around that Morocco’s main export is eligible grooms :).<br />
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If you’re a woman and you visit Marrakech, Fes or any other bigger place, you’re bound to encounter young men looking for a one night stand, future sponsor or a <i>de jure</i> wife. Any white woman will do, her outlook is not a factor. If you’re not familiar with the tactics and maybe also just a bit naive, it is very easy to be swept off your feet by powerful words and seemingly sincere feelings that those dark eyed passionate men claim to feel already after few mint teas together. How many women hear something like that back at home on a regular basis? Every woman wants to be cared for and cherished and those men play right on those women’s insecurities – who wouldn’t want to be loved just as they are? Not as a bit thinner or prettier, but just as they really are. Realistic view of the situation is of course that those women are just being used for money, visa or marriage and the guy’s love will dry up as quickly as the minutes pass after you've lost your usefulness to him.<br />
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Marriage proposal is something that any woman visiting Morocco will experience sooner or later. My funniest proposal was in Fes when a guy suggested i marry him and when i turned to leave, he yelled after me on the street that he will be a good husband, will cook and clean :).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGOr0OcfAeXXsZtpBFheaTdV9JuvNpM1a1_dEav_go6v_6xhtkhH3EYRngG4M4Vh9Qo8xkzw9bObyp9uJohY4Duml49UUfF8AQMVwWQ38-ZK-PJgNposXX9FOBu4vHC-LY-BKIZbjfcHk/s1600/_MG_7995.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGOr0OcfAeXXsZtpBFheaTdV9JuvNpM1a1_dEav_go6v_6xhtkhH3EYRngG4M4Vh9Qo8xkzw9bObyp9uJohY4Duml49UUfF8AQMVwWQ38-ZK-PJgNposXX9FOBu4vHC-LY-BKIZbjfcHk/s400/_MG_7995.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve made some curious acquaintances in Morocco and after you get past the playboy hustler image and they don’t see you as an opportunity for a better life anymore, it is quite interesting to talk to them – to listen to their stories, opinions, thoughts and ambitions. These are the guys you see hanging on the streets or cafeterias, hair carefully oiled, dressed up to their eyeballs in Versace and Dolce & Gabbana knock-offs. They really do aim to get out of Morocco, but if that fails, they would also go for a woman who lives somewhere in Europe, but is rich enough to support him in Morocco. They don’t necessarily want to abandon their family and friends, but easy life and get-rich-quick schemes are definitely in their minds. Next time you go to an internet café, look around before ferociously logging on to your e-mail account – it is not at all uncommon that behind one of those computers you will see guy with a bunch of instant messaging windows open on his screen, chatting with more than one woman in the same time and proclaiming his undying love to each and every one of them. It’s a game and it’s fun, and the grand prize is the easy life!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I read an interesting list once. It gives few handy pointers to women who truly believe that they have found a true love from an Arabic country, but who have still maintained enough presence of mind to think realistically and doubt even a tiny bit in His motivations. The original list is in Estonian (<a href="http://islam.pri.ee/reis/reis_4.html">Islam-introducing website in Estonian</a>), but here's the summary:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Depending on what he wants from you, tell him that .. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">1. you are not really wealthy at all and you did not pay for this trip yourself, it was a lucky prize of some sort.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">2. it's almost impossible to get a visa or a permanent residence permit to your country</div><div style="text-align: justify;">3. you don't believe in premarital sex<br />
4. it's customary in your society that men pay for everything</div><div style="text-align: justify;">5. you do not agree to take things further with him unless you get to meet his family (not close friends, but exactly his parents)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>How big is his love afterwards?</i><br />
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<i> </i> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mMMmjf4-np-UUxXmm2tvttusnaVzsuXWaNX0aw9o9XypkkNikXnDhdQ-yUCnzfJ_TvoQRG345XJpX_mjnC8r4JQUGMMTIbtwykHq82Uhymw220ohW2bTUx4aU_y5TVNhr2J-H0ySxfY/s1600/_MG_0505.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mMMmjf4-np-UUxXmm2tvttusnaVzsuXWaNX0aw9o9XypkkNikXnDhdQ-yUCnzfJ_TvoQRG345XJpX_mjnC8r4JQUGMMTIbtwykHq82Uhymw220ohW2bTUx4aU_y5TVNhr2J-H0ySxfY/s400/_MG_0505.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When me and Ylle visited Fes, we actually had an chance to meet and observe one such couple. Let's call them Houssam and Aiko. Houssam was a 26 years old Moroccan man with a strong philandering feel about him. In Estonia a man like that would be described as "bangs everything that moves". The girl he was trying to reel in was this little timid and frail Japanese woman. She was slightly over 30 and clearly very much in love with Houssam. I imagine she wouldn’t be considered a beauty in her own country, but she was definitely a very cute and lovely girl. Houssam and Aiko had met a year or so back on her first trip to Morocco and without really speaking each other’s languages, they somehow started exchanging emails. Soon after Houssam proposed to get married and Aiko happily accepted.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7W_2irLxH1c4EmPYj6ooGx72pqKpMAztv_BYD7LlrWabHfZUG6Llp4YPfPhsdphoX3fF8YeP1TKFQZ-pKuUtRzVWUmivxFcQ9hATleQIDDJWqgOwgbwiZbG-ohq0j26zzweAxmSnwVk/s1600/0526_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7W_2irLxH1c4EmPYj6ooGx72pqKpMAztv_BYD7LlrWabHfZUG6Llp4YPfPhsdphoX3fF8YeP1TKFQZ-pKuUtRzVWUmivxFcQ9hATleQIDDJWqgOwgbwiZbG-ohq0j26zzweAxmSnwVk/s400/0526_m.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Houssam and Aiko</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We met them in the <i>riad</i>, they had just come from visiting Houssam’s home in the desert. At the first glance they were a cute couple, but the more you looked at their dynamics, the sadder the situation seemed. Houssam was indifferent and sometimes even rude with her, which is actually very uncharacteristic - men like that usually are sweet as honey and make a woman feel like a princess. If you are trying to get a woman to marry you, you really want to keep her happy and illusioned. All that made me and Ylle think that if he is already now so distant and uncaring, what will he be like after they get married and everyday routine kicks in? <br />
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Aiko spoke some English and when she found out that I am married, she seemed to decide that I am exactly the right person to talk about her love life with. She was telling me how Houssam wants to move out of Morocco right away, but not to Japan, but to somewhere in Europe. She was an office worker back in Japan, she couldn’t really imagine starting her life all over again on a new continent. I got this very strong vibe from her that she desperately wants to get married and start a family, the pressure she was feeling to accomplish all those goals was quite obvious already after a brief conversation. Maybe back in Japan it was somehow shameful that she was over 30 and still unmarried. She wanted kids but Houssam didn’t want any yet, he was also not interested in meeting her family in Japan. Frankly, the guy seemed like a complete douchebag and I really couldn’t believe she was even considering starting a life with him. But it wasn’t my place to comment on that, so I kept my mouth shut. I just listened to her talking about the man of her dreams and a wish to start a life together. <br />
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I made some photos of them and when I got back to Estonia, I sent them copies as well. Houssam answered right away, all flirtatious and eager, which reminded me immediately how he was trying to brush against my hair and kept petting my hand back in the <i>riad</i>’s kitchen when nobody else was around. I’m getting a gag reflex just by thinking about it. I’m telling you, the guy was a dog and he definitely had many irons in the fire at the same time. Aiko e-mailed me back as well, thanking for the photos and going into a monologue about her relationship again. We e-mailed back and forth for a while before she asked right out if I think she should marry Houssam. I guess she still had doubts, good for her. I told her about my little observations, but all in all I don’t even know what she decided in the end. We lost touch at some point, though would be interesting to know what became of them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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My husband is Russian and I am Estonian. A lot of people ask how do we cope with the culture differences. And every time I want to ask back: “What culture differences?”. I mean, yes, Russians and Estonians have some differences when it comes to general background, temperament, language etc, and at times even interpretation of historic events between those two nations, but <i>come on! </i>these are not exactly cultural differences that cannot be overcome. Me and my husband agree on way more things than we disagree on and we have generally respectfully decided to avoid discussing certain topics that we can't see eye to eye on. Regardless of history between Russians and Estonians and apart from politics meddling in, we’re not at all that different and we are quite capable of peacefully co-existing in Estonia. But every time I read about some girl finding herself a dark eyed handsome Muslim boyfriend during a vacation in a country like Saudi Arabia, Turkey or Morocco, I wonder if she really understands what she is getting herself into. Now there's a cultural clash waiting to happen!<br />
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Islam actually has a pretty well defined set of rules and regulations to live by and women, though maybe more homebound with children and with a bigger load of household chores thereof, are actually still quite protected. A man has obligations when it comes to how he treats his wife, how he behaves with his family and how he lives his life altogether. And a proper Muslim man will follow those rules to the best of his abilities. It doesn’t make him a religious nut or a raging extremist, its just a way of life, a code of conduct if you will. And therein lies a catch. The Qu'ran forbids a Muslim man from marrying a non-Muslim woman (except Christian and Jewish women who are true believers). But a man who is shopping for a wife in the beach resort or in the internet is by definition not a devout Muslim and therefore also not following the teachings of Islam <b><span style="font-size: large;">*</span></b>. And a woman marrying a guy like that has absolutely no guarantees that she will not be mistreated or disrespected and a man like that will have no moral compass to set his behavior by, except his own understanding of right and wrong. And that understanding may not be anywhere near to the woman's understanding. <i>CLASH!</i><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">*</span></b> The Prophet of Islam, Muhammad (saw) said:<br />
<i>Whoever marries a woman for her glory, Allah will not increase his, but will bring him humiliation; whoever marries her for her wealth, Allah will not increase his, but place him in poverty; whoever marries her for ancestral claims, Allah will not increase his, but in meanness; whoever marries a woman for nothing but to cast down his eyes, guard his private parts, and to establish a relationship, Allah will bless him through her and vice versa. </i><br />
(Al-Targhib wa al-Tarhib)<br />
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<i>Note: This article is part of the Lonely Planet Blogsherpa Travel Blog Carnival #6 "Encounters", hosted by Camden Luxford from <a href="http://glenniacampbell.typepad.com/"></a></i><i><a href="http://brinkofsomethingelse.com/">The Brink Of Something Else</a>. Follow the link here to see</i><i> more photos and stories about</i><i> "<a href="http://brinkofsomethingelse.com/2010/07/encounters-lonely-planet-blogsherpa-carnival-6/">Encounters: portraits of the inspiring, unforgettable or downright strange people you've met on your travels</a>" from some of the world’s best travel bloggers. </i><br />
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</em></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-40102768356856333142010-05-21T15:19:00.003+03:002010-05-28T04:54:10.409+03:00Thirsty tourists on a beer run<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A little Moroccan story # 1<br />
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Morocco is an Islamic country and since Islam forbids alcohol, it’s available only in some bars , restaurants and supermarkets, aimed mostly at tourists or fallen Muslims with weak character.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was a particularly hot June back when me and Ylle were visting Fes, so we decided to go to a supermarket to get some cold beers. Fes has only two big supermarkets, everything else are just small vendor booths on the streets. These booths sell only the very essential stuff like basic groceries and other household supplies. Definitely NO alcohol. We thought we would walk a little and we asked Nabil (the <i>riad's</i> manager) for directions. „Yes, yes, the supermarket is very close“ he said, „Just start walking here, cross the first intersection, few minutes later you cross another and then yet another, turn right after the intersection with a sharp looking statues in the middle, walk a bit more and there you go“. OK, seemed easy enough. In reality it was about an hour of walking in the scorching heat, we geniuses also forgot to take water with us. And those intersections were like kilometers apart, not few minutes! But we were determined to see it to the end and so we toughed it out. Later it turned out that Nabil was giving directions and estimated time as a scooter driver, not as a pedestrian. I can very well believe that it would take him on the scooter only 10 minutes, instead of an hour that we walked. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgegu-PETdyKAMVEFt9ubT9_7yaxpdxwbklqYOW0az78Aueszu1v2l42KBEt_rILr8OLvknGotgl-XKBLA6tbAR0sbLJuIfqoEIzYpL5t8zv4Ldo9aVHgW4fgImSL584Bjh0itJgNSA37Q/s1600/beer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgegu-PETdyKAMVEFt9ubT9_7yaxpdxwbklqYOW0az78Aueszu1v2l42KBEt_rILr8OLvknGotgl-XKBLA6tbAR0sbLJuIfqoEIzYpL5t8zv4Ldo9aVHgW4fgImSL584Bjh0itJgNSA37Q/s400/beer.JPG" width="288" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally we got to the supermarket, went to the special alcohol section and bought our beers. In Morocco they sells those cute little light beers, about 33cl a bottle (a pilsner called "Spéciale Flag"). You can drink a whole bunch of them without noticing that your knees are starting to rock. Me and Ylle called them lady-beers, they were just so „bite-size“ :). I don’t usually even like beer that much, but those lady ones were p-r-e-t-t-y tasty. So, we bought our beers and since there were no taxis around, decided to walk back as well. On the way we got of course hot and thirsty again, so we opened some beers and enjoyed ourselves. Passing people did watch us funny, but we barely even noticed them. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, looking back, i swear, we were damn lucky we didn’t get our asses kicked. It was so incredibly rude to consume alcohol on the streets of such a conservative islamic city like Fes, more so because we were women, uncovered and not accompanied by a man. It was only our 2nd or 3rd day in Morocco, we were total ignorant idiots, the thought didn't even enter our empty heads that maybe we are being exactly those tourists that we usually point a condescending finger at. I'd like to think by now i already know better :).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is actually interesting that though Morocco being an Islamic country morally forbids alcohol, it's actually quite widely used and specially popular among younger generation. In Estonia you have to be at least 18 to be allowed to buy and consume alcohol and drinking on the street in public is not allowed at all. Ironically, in Morocco, you can buy the alcohol from the age of 16 already and as far as i know there isn't a law that would make it punishable offense to drink it on the public street, yet while doing so, you would break a whole bunch of Islamic community laws stemming from Koran and the teachings of the prophets.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So cheers! Or <i>terviseks</i> (in Estonian)! But while in Morocco, it's safest to stick to a mint tea.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-18824977080346063092010-05-18T00:22:00.002+03:002010-05-18T00:26:50.321+03:00Beavis and Butt-head go to hammam<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
This is a small story about visiting a hammam in Fes. Hammam is a sauna / public bath-house and along with the communal bakery, fountain, madrasa (school) and a mosque, it's one of the five traditional elements found in every Moroccan neighborhood. Traditionally private homes in Morocco didn’t have bathrooms, nowadays it's already changing of course. At the same time, majority of unrenovated houses in <i>medina </i>still have no washing facilities, so visiting hammam is nowadays both a habit and still a necessity. Hammam was also a place for social gatherings, specially for women otherwise burdened at home with household work and children. I imagine that the social function of hammam is still very much alive. The rumor is that hammam is also a prime spot for mothers for shopping future daughter-in-laws. Hammams are strictly gender separate – more fancier establishments specialize on men or women, smaller hammams have divided schedules, usually mornings for women and evenings for men. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fA4tFvab12L4R_8sGBXQNrbqVaGDsogXoZxsz6gah_vjgbe7h0-Qk3rZRS4MXMAJPY5sE4KveJ5wkT7uRJyBN7LNWNSt9uCiwAFMxt9Dv0P7JpCpS5S49nqUGVnVngA0ZN0M1307_vc/s1600/0107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fA4tFvab12L4R_8sGBXQNrbqVaGDsogXoZxsz6gah_vjgbe7h0-Qk3rZRS4MXMAJPY5sE4KveJ5wkT7uRJyBN7LNWNSt9uCiwAFMxt9Dv0P7JpCpS5S49nqUGVnVngA0ZN0M1307_vc/s400/0107.JPG" width="247" /></a>This little story happened few years ago when me and Ylle visited Fes the first time. Coming from a country with a strong sauna culture, visiting hammam didn’t seem like anything specially exotic. So we thought we’d push it up a notch and go to a very very local place, somewhere deep in the <i>medina</i>. We didn’t want to have a tourist experience, we wanted to see how it is for the local women. We asked our <i>riad</i>’s guide Muahsin to take us to one of the nearby hammams. <br />
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The hammam Muahsin took us to was run by this big and strong Berber lady, she handled the money, people and everything else. First obstacle was of course the language barrier though truth be told, what’s there to discuss? It’s a sauna, we’re dirty and we came to wash. OK, when we got that part settled, it was time to undress. No problem, we’re all women here, just some whiter than others. We didn’t get any special attention until we started undressing. Our lacy colorful strings were very amusing for Moroccan women, some of them looked at us with this face mixed with surprise and pity: white tourists and can’t even afford themselves a proper ass-covering underwear? :). When we were about to drop our panties the Berber lady nearly jumped out of her skin to stop us. Turned out that in hammam you keep your privates very private. <br />
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When we had undressed ourselves to the appropriate degree, the Berber lady took us by the hand like children and lead us towards the washing area. I usually wear pretty strong glasses and when she saw that i’m blind as a chicken without them, she handled me very carefully. Our small walk through the dungeon like corridors and rooms to the washing area was actually pretty interesting. Ever heard the Tarzan howl? Well, Berber howling is a bit like that, they sort of ululate with all their might while moving their tongue very quickly from one side of the mouth to the other. The result is very loud and sudden sound and let me tell you, when you’re in your appropriate undies toddling over the wet tiles without knowing or even properly seeing where you’re being taken to, a thought of decapitation or scalping comes to mind while listening to that Berber war cry! <br />
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After walking through different rooms we reached to a big low washing room. This hammam was an old and tired building. From the inside it looked like an old Soviet sauna - lot’s of broken tiles, somewhat dirty and dark. The washing room was full of women crouching on the floor, sitting on small benches or on pieces of plastic. There were some children running around and the mood was very social elevated. Even the blind me could see how everybody turned to look when we walked in. Even if you couldn’t make out a lighter skin in the low-lit room, you could definitely see two blond heads. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijALS2TGAdjv7QqbLGlYGTMMmsCui0tEfHIouKMm5HVsT4qDwfoDRkPZeTf185uacSsdMjMSt2cf0D58TcG_GQQtOJeDi97IStETELNP5WdYEKLFojqzpYVkldTRBDzV7qtn-VXaSuAKs/s1600/0335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijALS2TGAdjv7QqbLGlYGTMMmsCui0tEfHIouKMm5HVsT4qDwfoDRkPZeTf185uacSsdMjMSt2cf0D58TcG_GQQtOJeDi97IStETELNP5WdYEKLFojqzpYVkldTRBDzV7qtn-VXaSuAKs/s400/0335.JPG" width="400" /></a>It seemed that everybody brings their own bench or a plastic bag to sit on, but turned out we didn’t have to worry about that. Two little benches were immediately organized and our washing could begin. Hammam’s ticket is very cheap and that’s why the locals use it so actively, even the poorer people. Ticket is around 5-15DH and for that money you have to do all the work yourself. If you pay extra, you get your water buckets brought to you, you’re helped with washing and you will also get a massage. I guess we had somehow paid for an extra service, because the Berber lady quickly lugged huge buckets of cold and hot water in front of us. We started to wash ourselves and about 10 minutes later we were all done and ready to leave. A quick look around told us that we’re way ahead of the schedule, some women were watching us rather weirdly. OK, no problem, we thought, we can wash ourselves once more, just to fit in. This turned into about 6 cycles of washing and we still finished way before others did. Those women were really scrubbing themselves, i mean <i>hard</i>, my skin started to feel soar after the 3rd cycle already. The Berber lady, at first observing us in silence, decided to put a stop to it, step in and teach us how to wash ourselves properly. First victim – Ylle. They have these special scrubbing brushes for washing hair. First time i saw one, i thought this is something i’d use for washing pots and pans at home. So, the Berber lady grabbed one of those, stuck it into Ylle’s hair and pulled. I think people on the streets could also hear her scream. I watched and felt suddenly very protective about my hair. At first i laughed because regardless of Ylle’s personal injuries it was still very funny, but when the Berber lady turned her attention to me, i could feel how my hair follicles were shrinking deeper into my scalp. Anticipating loads of pain, i covered my head with my hands, while shaking it frantically and backing away against the wall. Luckily the Berber lady understood my subtle body language and let me off the hook. Next step in hammam’s washing process is scrubbing your skin to exfoliate. The Berber lady was rifling through our bags to see where are our special black scratchy gloves that Moroccan women use for exfoliating. Of course we didn’t have any. So she took one of Ylle’s washing gloves instead. This glove, you see, is very nice if you also soap it first, not so much anymore when somebody’s trying to rub your skin off dry. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdeCwQxWyTmq7O504BvASJBkh7V1lLa1C-MtLXDQjoR7UpPn5JdrVj0LC12TdfR4zOUJI6_4Y1pr4rApR4JgTh3-Iuwhoo6e89D87A_EzriDR4e_73wYWU55JtknW4Cn5s7JnVMmgAMqo/s1600/0294.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdeCwQxWyTmq7O504BvASJBkh7V1lLa1C-MtLXDQjoR7UpPn5JdrVj0LC12TdfR4zOUJI6_4Y1pr4rApR4JgTh3-Iuwhoo6e89D87A_EzriDR4e_73wYWU55JtknW4Cn5s7JnVMmgAMqo/s400/0294.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>That Berber lady was a mean strong woman. Just as everybody else she was also naked except underpants. She was wearing one of those tight men’s boxers with Dolce & Gabbana logo in the front and a big whole on the backside. After scrubbing us thoroughly she signaled Ylle to step up for a massage. She directed Ylle to lie face down on some questionable piece of plastic on the floor, got on top of her and started massaging. When it was my turn i understood why Ylle had been occasionally squeaking weirdly, the woman had fingers of steel! No, strike that – fingers of whatever metal is the hardest nowadays! I thought she was going to dislocate most of my joints and i literally pushed my fist into my mouth not to weep. I hate massages, i always have, there’s something really annoying about random people squeezing me. But due to my back problems i’ve had my share of them, so i know what a hard massage means. And she was taking it to a whole new level - like trying to squeeze the living juices out of me right there and then. I remember lying on the floor, trying to focus on anything other than the pain she was inflicting on me. First i tried to concentrate on the sounds, but that generic Arabic chatter didn’t really distract me enough. Then i started busying my pain-stricken mind with observing the surroundings. I remember watching as the soapy water was running on the floor towards the drain, creating small rivers with bubbles, hair and other muck mixed into it. Luckily my weak eyes couldn’t distinguish all the details :). <br />
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When the Berber lady was done massaging, she proceeded to stretching. I don’t remember the exact procedure, but it ended up with my face shoved tight against her ample bosom. It might sound nasty, but at that moment i remember getting flashbacks into my childhood when me and my grandmother went to sauna together and she was washing me in her lap. The whole situation was so absurd that it made me giggle violently. I must’ve seemed like a lunatic to the Berber lady.<br />
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The Berber lady had a habit of suddenly showing up and pouring a bucket of water over me or Ylle. Usually it was cold water and i’m not sure until now what purpose did it serve. Maybe she just liked the high pitched shrieks we produced when unexpectedly confronted with a 40 liters of cold water. Luckily she favored Ylle much more than me, so i escaped the biggest chunk of her gracious attention. <br />
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When we were finally finished with our washing, we headed back to the dressing room. The Berber lady and a handful of other women came with us and sat down right next to us to openly stare at our every move while commenting in Arabic to each other. We started getting our stuff together and soon discovered, under the watchful eye of our audience, a crucial mistake in our hammam plan. Since we assumed that Moroccan hammam is like Estonian sauna, meaning fully naked, we didn’t really have extra clothes with us. That meant no dry pair of underwear either :). But we couldn't also just dress on top of the wet underwear .. All that was very funny to our audience, they definitely got their money's worth that day. <br />
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Finally when we were ready to leave and headed for the door, the Berber lady with all her 160 kg got up and blocked it for us. She was explaining something which we didn't understand at all. We figured that we couldn't be in trouble because her face was kind and friendly. Finally it somehow dawned on us that Muahsin, who brought us to the hammam, must've told her to keep us there until he came and picked us up. I guess he thought we would get lost in <i>medina </i>trying to find our way back to the <i>riad</i>. We of course disagreed and as soon as the Berber lady's attention faded for a second, we quickly slipped passed her and ran up the stairs, giggling like insane school-girls on crack. And of course we found our way back to the <i>riad</i>, it was only 10 minutes away. <i>Ye have a little faith, Muahsin!</i> About 15 minutes after we arrived in the <i>riad</i>, Muahsin also ran in, breathless and afraid. I guess he went to "collect" us and got scared when we weren't there. <br />
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All in all it was a pretty surreal experience though we totally had a blast. Most of the time we were joking and laughing, snickering and giggling, the local women must have thought we were somewhat unstable. If you are touchy about hygiene and chickenhearted about strange situations, then maybe visiting a local hammam isn't for you. But you can always opt for an upscale spa house where floors are covered with rose petals and a fragrant scent of jasmine is flowing about. But i think i will speak for both Ylle and me when i say that visiting that particular hammam was definitely a fun experience, a quirky look into a local not-so-very-public culture.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUv1mBnmc3CTbP2gaor1qWtZdeU5CwOZVAyPQBt9xgPxE2rTu4NVCedyMpoFWfF9mQMpaTHPMe0pWuLC8x5eDZJqPBntoFmeemnMsm4Z3mbRW2XK2TMD5cOtlmT6Fv10vsvdlO5lRXY0/s1600/0315.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbUv1mBnmc3CTbP2gaor1qWtZdeU5CwOZVAyPQBt9xgPxE2rTu4NVCedyMpoFWfF9mQMpaTHPMe0pWuLC8x5eDZJqPBntoFmeemnMsm4Z3mbRW2XK2TMD5cOtlmT6Fv10vsvdlO5lRXY0/s400/0315.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Me and Ylle</div><br />
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</div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-79049051309636258652010-05-11T22:56:00.006+03:002010-07-26T21:06:50.500+03:00Fatiha and her beautiful family<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><em><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs-mqEkWQgrA9B_P25IdT9i4DylDnMRXA9PXajCetu1jvINSpOinw1AyccDIO5svJ2b_6uLHPebPMvdvgv7-ogH6Lru5D5wrvboLY2QNZTOIeA8Oy7L49ToijDm2n2EHrCAQhOspmM7AA/s1600/2010-LP-featured-blogger-2009-115x30.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs-mqEkWQgrA9B_P25IdT9i4DylDnMRXA9PXajCetu1jvINSpOinw1AyccDIO5svJ2b_6uLHPebPMvdvgv7-ogH6Lru5D5wrvboLY2QNZTOIeA8Oy7L49ToijDm2n2EHrCAQhOspmM7AA/s320/2010-LP-featured-blogger-2009-115x30.png" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To start things off, a little overdue announcement: </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Very popular travel guide <a href="http://www.lonelyplanet.com/">Lonely Planet</a> has selected this blog <a href="http://sshiksa.blogspot.com/">Destination Anywhere</a> to a special list of featured blogs on their website. It's actually pretty cool, now both my photos and stories of my travels & adventures are on Lonelyplanet.com, shown next to related content for other travelers to enjoy and benefit from.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Every time i’ve visited Fes, i’ve stayed in the <a href="http://sshiksa.blogspot.com/2010/04/riad-revisited.html"><i>same riad</i></a>. You already read about <i>riad'</i>s the bellboy Muahsin a few posts back, now i’d like to write about the <i>riad</i>’s cook & cleaning lady Fatiha. She is lovely and prepares a wonderful breakfast, but that’s not what i wanted to share with you. Today i wanted to tell you about her beautiful family. <br />
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I first met Fatiha when we visited Fes with my friend Kaidi back in October 2008. She was managing the <i>riad</i>'s domestic side, keeping the house spotless and preparing our breakfasts. Fatiha speaks only Arabic, so we couldn’t really converse, but she had her daughters with her at work and i entertained them and myself by snapping photos of both the kids and Fatiha herself. They posed for me sweetly and seemed to take pleasure in being photographed. When i got back home, i made big A4 prints from those photos and bound them in a nice photo album. When visiting Fes this time around, i took the album with me and gave it to Fatiha. At first she looked puzzled, she turned the closed album around in the her hand, obviously a bit confused as why i gave it to her and looked at me with an odd expression. I gestured her to open it and when she did, a big smile came over her face. She was slowly flipping through the pages and watching big glossy photos of her beautiful girls. She said something to Muahsin who was nearby and he translated to me that Fatiha would like to invite me to lunch at her home. Of course i said yes, how very interesting chance to catch a glimpse to a very private life of an average Moroccan family. <br />
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Around lunch time she came to <i>riad</i> again to pick me up. We walked quietly, every once in a while exchanging glances and little smiles until we reached her home. Her house was about 10 minutes walk, just a few steps from the noisy market street by Blue Gates. The house itself was a pretty typical quirky house in the Fes's <i>medina</i>, small and dusty, tightly squeezed between the other houses on the street. The family itself lived in a small two room apartment up the very narrow and steep staircase.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Her family was much bigger then i had expected. Turned out she had 4 girls and one son + a husband. They were all waiting at home, the album had obviously become a highlight of their day. Children were all huddled together and carefully turning pages while chattering excitedly and pointing with finger to each other photos. There was a certain gleam of sadness in the eyes of those who's photos were not in the album. <br />
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I was a bit worried about my skills of pantomiming for hours and hours in the row, but it turned out that the son Mohammed spoke pretty decent English and was also very enthusiastic about talking to me, clearly taking great pride in being the only one in the family able to do that. So i was able to talk after all, Mohammed was translating everything to the others and vice versa. Languages are still amazing things, it’s just incredible how they unite and sometimes also divide people, depending on how much you paid attention back in school :). <br />
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The center of the home was definitely the TV, it was beautified with artificial flowers and doilies. Nobody seemed to pay much attention to it the whole time i was there, but it was turned on nonetheless and every once in a while somebody would go and change the channel or make the volume louder. There was very little furniture in the living room, just a big table for eating, couch , few chairs and a cupboard with the TV. The other, bigger room was obviously for sleeping, it was full of carpets on the floor and bedcloths piled up in the corner. They all probably slept on the floor on the carpets and during the day the bedcloth were just folded away. I caught myself thinking about those juicy cockroaches again who no doubt were roaming around the apartment in the night and mostly on the floors. The kitchen was very small and seemed to have only a stove in it, no fridge or other household appliances.You know how they say about photographers - it's not the camera, it's the guy behind it that makes great photos. Well, i guess real cooks can also do miracles without a fridge or a blender.<br />
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Mohammed explained that since it was Friday, we were going to be eating cous-cous. Soon enough the older girls started setting the table. First they brought out small bowls with some unknown berries that were absolutely delicious. Reminded me berries that grew around my grandmother's house and which i always feasted on when i was spending my summers there. Next course was cookies. Since i don’t care much for the sweet stuff, specially dry cookies, it took some pretending and self-control to eat a few and make a very good face while doing so. Then the juice and tea was served and small plates with fresh salad. I remember wondering how much of it was their ordinary normal lunch routine and how much was added specially for the guest. Moroccans are famous for being warm and generous with their guests, i wouldn't be surprised if they usually went straight to the main course. When the whole family was seated, the big plate of cous-cous was brought on the table. Everybody got a piece of bread which in Morocco is used instead of a fork or spoon. You take a piece of bread and use it either by scooping up the food with it or sort of smashing the food with the bread and then putting the bread with smashed food stuck on it to your mouth. I was of course supplied a fork, but i must proudly report that after living a month in Morocco i’d become very handy with the bread. My favourite food in Morocco is beef tajine (casserole) and it’s actually much easier to eat with the bread than with a fork. In any case, i think i scored some extra points by not using the fork :). <br />
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While eating from a big communal dish you should only stick to the food that's right in front of you. It’s considered rude to dive after a piece of meat in front of somebody else or grab some food across the plate from the other side. The cous-cous was very tasty, it was fragrant and gentle, mostly with vegetables and just a bit of meat. Fatiha, who was sitting next to me, was continuously ushering pieces of meat in front of me, so i ended up having to eat most of the meat in the dish, because refusing would’ve been even more rude. Some of the family members ate with bread, others with fingers. I have no moral qualms about eating with bread instead of cutlery, but using one's fingers is definitely not for me. That is something i last did in the kindergarten and therefore it somehow feels .. wrong/weird. It just seems so messy business, maybe even dirty, though the person’s hands could be freshly scrubbed and very clean. Some preconceptions are just rooted so deep that it would feel like few thousand steps back in my personal development if i'd started to eat with hands. Watching people eating with hands in Morocco always makes me think about the toilet hygiene where they use the left hand instead of toilet paper and though they wash the hands after that, it still seems unclean somehow. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Fatiha’s husband was a quiet and serious man. Not at all the pushy merchant type one is used to seeing on the street. When he had had time to look through the album, he made a point of asking Mohammed to translate and thank me for the gift. He said that i would be this family’s friend forever and always welcome. My skepticism bells went off of course, thinking something in the lines of: „Riiiight. We’ll be <i>bestest</i> of pals, won't we?“ and my somewhat paranoid nature didn’t even entertain the thought that he may not be working an angle here. But i smiled kindly and kept my nasty presumptive thoughts to myself. By the end of my stay it was quite clear that he had actually meant it, from everything he did and said (which was little) was no way to deduct any other conclusion. Maybe his words were a bit overly dramatic, but the idea was the same.<br />
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After lunch we were attempting to converse some more with Mohammed translating and me frantically trying to remember to keep my sentences short and concise. I had my camera with me and i ended up taking more photos - both of those who were not featured in the album in the first time around and of the whole family together. Unfortunately it seems i have lost the small slip of paper where Mohammed wrote their home address so i could mail them the new photos as well. But i guess it might’ve been for the better, it’s quite possible a big parcel of photos would not even reach to it’s destination, being that the house locates somewhere in <i>medina</i> with quite possibly no official address. I've also heard that Moroccan postal system, while erratic and slow, is also a bit .. shall we say <i>greedy</i> - they often make you pay to get your packages and those payments can be times and times higher than the packages themselves are worth. And i didn't get that vibe from Fatiha and her family that they have too much cash to spare. So i guess i'’m just going to have to take the photos myself when i return to Fes. Hopefully soon. Maybe in the autumn? Anybody wanna join?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<b>Back in October 2008:</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<i>-- </i><br />
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<i>Note: This article is part of the Lonely Planet Blogsherpa Travel Blog Carnival #5 "Kids Around the World", hosted by Glennia Campbell of <a href="http://glenniacampbell.typepad.com/">http://glenniacampbell.typepad.com</a></i><i>. Click on the following link to see</i><i> more photos and stories about </i><a href="http://glenniacampbell.typepad.com/silenti/2010/07/blogsherpa-blog-carnival-kids-around-the-world.html"><i>"Kids Around the World"</i><i></i></a><i> from some of the world’s best travel bloggers. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<em><br />
</em></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-39490598775135860962010-04-21T00:58:00.007+03:002010-04-21T01:26:29.886+03:00Cockroaches of Fes<div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
In many ways Fes of Morocco is like Oaxaca of Mexico. They have a similar non-mainstream atmosphere - just as Oaxaca isn’t as bustling and sizzling as Mexico City, Fes also isn’t quite as exciting and colorful as Marrakech. They both also have cockroaches the size of tennis balls. OK, not tennis balls, but they are pretty puffy. The only difference is that when Oaxaca ones are arrogant bastards who climb on people when they feel like it, then Fes’s ones are somewhat little fluffy chickens. Of course me and Ylle didn’t know that, so when we first visited Fes, we were confronted already on the first evening with a specially juicy specimen, who was standing in front of our bedroom door, wiggling it’s antennae and looking positively disgusting. Quoting here Gandalf the Grey: “<em>You shall not pass!”</em> seems appropriate :). I’m not afraid of mice and rats, but I can scream the most girlish way when confronted by cockroach of any size. And mostly because they are just so r-e-v-o-l-t-i-n-g. So of course me and Ylle were being proper girls and squeaked for help. Nabil (the <em>riad</em>'s manager) came, lifted it up with his two fingers and carried it outside. We were blood-thirsty and demanded for him to kill it (<em>"Squash it! Squash it!"</em>), but Nabil looked at us and said with uncharacteristic wisdom: "Why kill it? It also wants to live". As soon as he put it down on the street, the thing turned around and ran back into the house. In any case, we slept the next 4 days with the lights on and kept tramping our feet each time we entered the bathroom. Tramping of the feet scares off Estonian cockroaches, but it turned out to be a wasted effort on Moroccan ones - they are genetically cowards already. They were supposed to live mostly down in the sewers and you don't see them in the house that much. They do seem to like bathrooms though. I remember one particularly disgusting incident when i was under the shower and reached out for a shampoo and right before my fingers touched the bottle i realized that on the account of lacking my -6 dioptre glasses this weird black splotch on the bottle could only be .. a cockroach! <em>RUN!</em><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqLEyL4b5S_R1TuoDx4TvqySM0yuslLEXto4vrFJNksF-JhqWHYX3-giFCUYbsx0Cgosd6aae0zdDCcIUEecXwIshquxiag_CfcaiBpuXrLWouAR3E7_JD-Epely_JyA3Pvh33i4vPaHI/s1600/CIMG7140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqLEyL4b5S_R1TuoDx4TvqySM0yuslLEXto4vrFJNksF-JhqWHYX3-giFCUYbsx0Cgosd6aae0zdDCcIUEecXwIshquxiag_CfcaiBpuXrLWouAR3E7_JD-Epely_JyA3Pvh33i4vPaHI/s400/CIMG7140.JPG" width="300" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>(c) Kaidi Peiker</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One morning I came downstairs and the whole floor was full of cockroaches sunbathing on their backs, with their little legs stretched up in the air. Turned out they were dead of course, Nabil had exterminated them because some two flaky Estonian chicks were having a nervous breakdown upstairs and were cranking up the electric bill. I put a coin next to one of the bugs to make a comparative photo and almost dropped the camera, when the thing suddenly jerked, twitching it’s leg in the last dying breath. Creeeepy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Exterminating cockroaches is told to be quite useless in Fes - even if you get rid of yours, half your neighbour’s colony will move in pretty soon. My first encounter with Moroccan brand of cockroaches was in June and i thought they were absolutely humongous. The next time i saw them was in October – believe me, they had grown considerably. I don't even want to know how will they look in December. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Someone once told me that there are no cockroaches in Marrakech. I don't really know if it's true, but if that's really the case, then that Dream-<em>riad</em> of mine that i'm going to buy one day in Morocco is going to be in Marrakech after all.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq42Km2BpGWfkfaxkHdUB64f9_47J_jKdYd0r7NfErvvEVTfD-HSDuyjsy7XCPRdO2R8jC8VJ3WagaUiysSOFiXVe1MSaCyFHfhVRkwN8i5RIkAvLN0KlKRtxiJ6nYY9wjdXKUob4DC0k/s1600/0336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq42Km2BpGWfkfaxkHdUB64f9_47J_jKdYd0r7NfErvvEVTfD-HSDuyjsy7XCPRdO2R8jC8VJ3WagaUiysSOFiXVe1MSaCyFHfhVRkwN8i5RIkAvLN0KlKRtxiJ6nYY9wjdXKUob4DC0k/s400/0336.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-34767217612637955342010-04-17T22:36:00.005+03:002010-04-17T23:24:08.787+03:00The story of Muahsin<div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidurlegqiwtQWsgMNhu3X3L21Kh8ijd42r1CohRcnpBQ5CDzYLrE4jCncjgtZh-XoWFK6K89Phr_Ch9NeXgGYOxtSgIHNkNxGGcyI5OcKLf_mYxhdqPOC-2YgjWvTuMKJZ0IVK086yQUM/s1600/0340.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidurlegqiwtQWsgMNhu3X3L21Kh8ijd42r1CohRcnpBQ5CDzYLrE4jCncjgtZh-XoWFK6K89Phr_Ch9NeXgGYOxtSgIHNkNxGGcyI5OcKLf_mYxhdqPOC-2YgjWvTuMKJZ0IVK086yQUM/s400/0340.JPG" width="262" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So, after i had breakfast in the <em>riad</em>, Muahsin arrived. Muahsin is a <em>riad</em>’s .. bellboy, sort of. He helps around the house, runs all kinds of errands, goes food shopping if needed and so on. He also sometimes acts as a guide for people staying in the <em>riad. </em>Since his English is quite modest he can only show you where to go, for additional information about sights and places, one should really hire an official guide. Official guides in Fes are strictly licensed, they wear special nametags and are very knowledgable about history and local culture, or so i’m told. It’s forbidden for a usual person to supplement his income by being a guide for tourists. I’ve heard that punishments can be very harsh. But people still do it, it can be easy money if you find the right tourist. I guess forbidding locals to freelance as guides is for protection - both for the quality of the service and for the tourists themselves. If you’re interested in history and architecture for example, i doubt a random guy off the street can tell you much about it. He is also much more likely to drag you to his cousin’s leather shop, or even to potentially dangerous situations/places. Then again, i’m sure official guides have their little tricks as well - favorite shops or restaurants they might happily recommend etc. In any case, first time when me and Ylle were visiting Fes, we asked Muahsin to show us some nice places in the <em>medina</em>. Like tanneries, local markets and such. So we would all go walking in the <em>medina</em>, Muahsin would walk about 30m ahead of us and we would follow him. The deal was that if anybody was going to ask questions, we'd be like "We don't know him, we're just walking around on our own". Sometimes we lost sight of him and took the wrong turn and end up in a very wrong place somewhere, but he'd always find us very quickly and lead us back to the path of righteousness :).</div></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsPzMeIDq7sQ2Ejm7STnSxO7XV3c85vLoy5dL1rS2G9vQWqUI87MZuuaEMXf3y9bbu8hqNe8rhk2AgMAxxKDNjX9aYscpihdKjBtI7EhBEDESttkcx9HJGX12W1aJMSNTi6WHsCiZ68k/s1600/0185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsPzMeIDq7sQ2Ejm7STnSxO7XV3c85vLoy5dL1rS2G9vQWqUI87MZuuaEMXf3y9bbu8hqNe8rhk2AgMAxxKDNjX9aYscpihdKjBtI7EhBEDESttkcx9HJGX12W1aJMSNTi6WHsCiZ68k/s400/0185.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a>When we went to visit the tanneries, he first gave us both a bundle of fresh peppermints. (<< Ylle sniffing her little peppermint bush). Tannery is a place where they process raw animal skins and because of the raw materials and chemicals used the stench can be absolutely foul, so the fresh peppermint was a nice touch. I ended up chewing the leaves and breathing through my mouth, rather then trying to hide the stench by sniffing the peppermint plants close up. Tanneries are actually very health damaging places to work in, some workers spend their days waist-deep in the dye-pits full of harsh chemicals which usually cause permanent health issues. The pay is rather low and most of the workers are from quite poor background. At the same time, Fes is quite known for it’s quality soft leather and streets around tanneries are full of small shops all selling leather goods/clothes. I’m told that leather clothes in Fes are very reasonably priced (after bargaining of course), but I’ve no idea whatsoever what is reasonable price in this case. I’ve never bought a single piece of leather clothing from Morocco. Actually, now that I think about it – I’ve never bought a single piece of leather clothing in my whole life, how sad is that? I did buy a hippie-looking leather bag for about 200DH in Marrakech and although it’s a nice bag, leather is soft and seems durable, it’s trouble is that it tends to stain my clothes when I wear it too long. Makes me think that i probably wouldn't dare to buy a leather jacket for a conciderably more money and then stress about it possibly leaving residue. </div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">Tannery photo-stream:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-v9FQEmjs4fGw4N-_biV_yHM3-ocv4rv34jE43ILsHd68dHAjq8luSodZK5njKe7v-hUDvIQuXNzhxc_8P702IVfXvS1CcXj9rqrH6aCRJ9S_YxQF1VZlLFhyphenhyphenGl9GAsHYtunR9KHuGc/s1600/0191.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-v9FQEmjs4fGw4N-_biV_yHM3-ocv4rv34jE43ILsHd68dHAjq8luSodZK5njKe7v-hUDvIQuXNzhxc_8P702IVfXvS1CcXj9rqrH6aCRJ9S_YxQF1VZlLFhyphenhyphenGl9GAsHYtunR9KHuGc/s400/0191.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Ylle with a donkey laden with raw cowhides, Muahsin on the background</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7tdzlDe0_77FcLXy4AJrZgFSBgL8X9PZKtqnleHAfaS_rRIB51siIHHQCtQqhEiaGAMcjJLY8sbLYLoTldkgT6tzR99M7MqjLnsnW1pZLZjRYQtWkXPsz76YvzAVagl38Xo57Rxbvrp8/s1600/0166.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7tdzlDe0_77FcLXy4AJrZgFSBgL8X9PZKtqnleHAfaS_rRIB51siIHHQCtQqhEiaGAMcjJLY8sbLYLoTldkgT6tzR99M7MqjLnsnW1pZLZjRYQtWkXPsz76YvzAVagl38Xo57Rxbvrp8/s400/0166.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj91SqGBRKB_CCRefolaPrvMirOc3tXF3sJNhY-4KrUh_66q_WIZeclvAZrf8TTZBo0Dhd-xK8NfxvHW9LjtnfhfomquC2ZYhZK7D0akTCqMLdfEkjNSQXa24k2kFJmmiVKrQPVFNbCg5Q/s1600/0172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj91SqGBRKB_CCRefolaPrvMirOc3tXF3sJNhY-4KrUh_66q_WIZeclvAZrf8TTZBo0Dhd-xK8NfxvHW9LjtnfhfomquC2ZYhZK7D0akTCqMLdfEkjNSQXa24k2kFJmmiVKrQPVFNbCg5Q/s400/0172.JPG" width="266" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Raw hides drying in the sun before being colored</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIkDjM_slazFzlKxCpW0asPrLyfFZX43TILGBcaDwX_0qaoI4dK2pQ02rNs6Q1BbRMZWg4oce_c4o-3b7QhVE38hBq987f3PkiSxsYLaj5vTB_5HtOGd5xrh8FDerXZhCB9vPfxOehBkI/s1600/0170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIkDjM_slazFzlKxCpW0asPrLyfFZX43TILGBcaDwX_0qaoI4dK2pQ02rNs6Q1BbRMZWg4oce_c4o-3b7QhVE38hBq987f3PkiSxsYLaj5vTB_5HtOGd5xrh8FDerXZhCB9vPfxOehBkI/s400/0170.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Raw hides drying on the rack. Dye-pits</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCjPbW6wpuAiSgnd5QpXibG0mPsto8tlIKl-DmAT5rEXVQqxaKX_YhL0hfpLwbCRUiAaMz7EX-TP1_yiluXA9LS34TnQc4IP-_-47WKLNgk8OYRg_3v6Hi_nJKfC8TsGIsMHRx26E42k/s1600/_MG_9309.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCjPbW6wpuAiSgnd5QpXibG0mPsto8tlIKl-DmAT5rEXVQqxaKX_YhL0hfpLwbCRUiAaMz7EX-TP1_yiluXA9LS34TnQc4IP-_-47WKLNgk8OYRg_3v6Hi_nJKfC8TsGIsMHRx26E42k/s400/_MG_9309.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">During our visit the dye-pits were very monochromatic, usually they are filled with all kinds of different chemical dyes and are quite colorful to photograph</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiin93MuzpcTxWwXIEuja_LXJmx7xUJywAXbN4K0dR4F091CgrD15qgX-lF1AJ-lcMuzOwbGqnGXcQIRMh-1vYmx3TlT-B6UtqmWakOMdQ044k76brBLihMCyh0tEMo3HZUq9u_-zwiEDA/s1600/0184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiin93MuzpcTxWwXIEuja_LXJmx7xUJywAXbN4K0dR4F091CgrD15qgX-lF1AJ-lcMuzOwbGqnGXcQIRMh-1vYmx3TlT-B6UtqmWakOMdQ044k76brBLihMCyh0tEMo3HZUq9u_-zwiEDA/s400/0184.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tannery worker</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRwiLAtqIDRt4UcnMTGeTK-v0bx9SH2IHQupmQ9IkUua5yZjc2PiyDApU-0rm6cqZMlipvTawgIaTOBBmtFChyphenhyphenc6RvE_-jpUxZ2G4tgQAqegkjiBAMrkzuUk448w59IHkrYzbKqV8P9S8/s1600/0188.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRwiLAtqIDRt4UcnMTGeTK-v0bx9SH2IHQupmQ9IkUua5yZjc2PiyDApU-0rm6cqZMlipvTawgIaTOBBmtFChyphenhyphenc6RvE_-jpUxZ2G4tgQAqegkjiBAMrkzuUk448w59IHkrYzbKqV8P9S8/s400/0188.JPG" width="266" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTTnrZ-bLYeL5fMW4kcdsG5k3mVuZ4E0STJ64cyxhxqQLb2UmbydqzEuy03IeazgMl6oHYLdw5KotLVVVsq_O-UnXqReOrfqZ11T2EoSfjOHZHUttAFrevQ_HjVMA6TKmf-5wUQH-aTww/s1600/0173.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTTnrZ-bLYeL5fMW4kcdsG5k3mVuZ4E0STJ64cyxhxqQLb2UmbydqzEuy03IeazgMl6oHYLdw5KotLVVVsq_O-UnXqReOrfqZ11T2EoSfjOHZHUttAFrevQ_HjVMA6TKmf-5wUQH-aTww/s400/0173.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Colored hides drying in the sun</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5CXMBSmjgLz4vB4E8cIWyjAcsXIZMieFRh-53c1COF0HcXZ1FnxSh8nWAXjrNbYAASqcatnvf9bmRdXkzQ9hOyMNUQaIMRCzKIrbL4ooY8ZFtPp4FiKoYQ_gv6VdA67yhltWdGWJ-Fc/s1600/0176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5CXMBSmjgLz4vB4E8cIWyjAcsXIZMieFRh-53c1COF0HcXZ1FnxSh8nWAXjrNbYAASqcatnvf9bmRdXkzQ9hOyMNUQaIMRCzKIrbL4ooY8ZFtPp4FiKoYQ_gv6VdA67yhltWdGWJ-Fc/s400/0176.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3BtOYSXJP8aUD9UjKtDL31LX15ToSlSaE1WY4CTN9dvRfqSgXcBZmTFYukoNjXil0FIQ-MHXpOA6_LlR769G6utagHLtN3qfstiu7FSsCvb8nU06Rm2FDtehH-ABzQ4vTiCtrgF-4ME/s1600/0177.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3BtOYSXJP8aUD9UjKtDL31LX15ToSlSaE1WY4CTN9dvRfqSgXcBZmTFYukoNjXil0FIQ-MHXpOA6_LlR769G6utagHLtN3qfstiu7FSsCvb8nU06Rm2FDtehH-ABzQ4vTiCtrgF-4ME/s400/0177.JPG" width="266" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tannery worker</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPYQT2VoWrGyzY0KS4XjVu5RIIqEVQvvisUxWov9AB16nnHPwLumy6rG7tFk-OaoZjRQRMGDVCfL3mQoaQYmVvEyguKzQZU32fWP-1l6YlmbeZOtA_zkiA7OVB4l25l_l12P43nW75pxg/s1600/0193.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPYQT2VoWrGyzY0KS4XjVu5RIIqEVQvvisUxWov9AB16nnHPwLumy6rG7tFk-OaoZjRQRMGDVCfL3mQoaQYmVvEyguKzQZU32fWP-1l6YlmbeZOtA_zkiA7OVB4l25l_l12P43nW75pxg/s400/0193.JPG" width="266" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A guy laying out colored skins to dry</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2O1RMXSdnkm-lPY_4Kt2LI4XWt_OYTt8UR9vc_IVkfX24_wyPNTfDsT4_FGYyUAIBUd7Jlg1ZGTOzbZQQaShtWrlxSIZ5niemg-xQKfUTlH5WFcK0g_PDsULKMUegMm-2kBCOWxui5U/s1600/0195.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2O1RMXSdnkm-lPY_4Kt2LI4XWt_OYTt8UR9vc_IVkfX24_wyPNTfDsT4_FGYyUAIBUd7Jlg1ZGTOzbZQQaShtWrlxSIZ5niemg-xQKfUTlH5WFcK0g_PDsULKMUegMm-2kBCOWxui5U/s400/0195.JPG" width="266" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUyfYRwZyoYzQMtuqHi9pT3sLux-SyOFSoLrNYBJV5l7wmMS13BgR0I3BDtaryR053xIKetUaxR608U-AU1EPIs1vD6ta60YJfyjXuWKRuIaTU5QR6hducVhzn89hrieSgtAGp_d14gk/s1600/0199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUyfYRwZyoYzQMtuqHi9pT3sLux-SyOFSoLrNYBJV5l7wmMS13BgR0I3BDtaryR053xIKetUaxR608U-AU1EPIs1vD6ta60YJfyjXuWKRuIaTU5QR6hducVhzn89hrieSgtAGp_d14gk/s400/0199.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Pieces of leather already cut into shape for future products</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDLLIrsoAm_VALKRooheGN_75ciASNlvh7J_SBpLMUgPdssCSOppLufi3QtzhESu3stOveDxVgWyYhuZAW3lneS76IDH1aI044wzBSPfTLgYWyaV3wXCY28Tv3izgw2EvlrTKC8PS6gjU/s1600/_MG_9303.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDLLIrsoAm_VALKRooheGN_75ciASNlvh7J_SBpLMUgPdssCSOppLufi3QtzhESu3stOveDxVgWyYhuZAW3lneS76IDH1aI044wzBSPfTLgYWyaV3wXCY28Tv3izgw2EvlrTKC8PS6gjU/s400/_MG_9303.JPG" width="266" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Me and Ylle told Muahsin from the beginning that we are not interested in shopping, that he shouldn't take us to any kinds of shops. So he didn’t, instead he took us to a local "bar" (can you even call something a "bar" if alcohol is not served?) somewhere deep in the <em>medina</em> and bought us tea. The bar itself wasn’t much to look at, a very local place with tired looking pool tables and dirty furniture. But it’s not like we were brought there to show us the establishment, the whole visit served a purpose of showing us off to his friends. It was kind of amusing to observe, he definitely seemed to score point for having two blond girls with him: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi51lBbGBywBcvbCotyegiwiG21919uEqcFJ4xI8XKgVOi4V9mp_m08xIvA2f2duyFvfvFRrwVYRE9KeTnkmb0WSmpCtZJx2k1VUA9ZOcoM1bzigYTsU0g17ouB7ytXL3yMw6QlEEza6as/s1600/_MG_8610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi51lBbGBywBcvbCotyegiwiG21919uEqcFJ4xI8XKgVOi4V9mp_m08xIvA2f2duyFvfvFRrwVYRE9KeTnkmb0WSmpCtZJx2k1VUA9ZOcoM1bzigYTsU0g17ouB7ytXL3yMw6QlEEza6as/s400/_MG_8610.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Muahsin with a friend</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5GZsd0fscCygez6-LFS9AqeNUNIUxlHk4St3npg_LsGXiFlcz8AQuM7CYsepeiH6F7lcH2NMAF6YmVmW9zjXDXpxkSIWCzcyMRPKazHvO9PgbWRU7krQFBE2CIc6DeRzBUjCa4RnyxRc/s1600/0259.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5GZsd0fscCygez6-LFS9AqeNUNIUxlHk4St3npg_LsGXiFlcz8AQuM7CYsepeiH6F7lcH2NMAF6YmVmW9zjXDXpxkSIWCzcyMRPKazHvO9PgbWRU7krQFBE2CIc6DeRzBUjCa4RnyxRc/s400/0259.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOLAKiTjC7tFVrLDNxpmhCBAaAt-tEl7I_EHj6jFGioI-cg1NNPkncSEUFnVf82yNGyxBoMszjBLyWrCu87EvMKX1OTyNM_dSMXF6efYmjEmGhr0NTJWOCli1KnsZIo_VuxGsAgIN-DY/s1600/0260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOLAKiTjC7tFVrLDNxpmhCBAaAt-tEl7I_EHj6jFGioI-cg1NNPkncSEUFnVf82yNGyxBoMszjBLyWrCu87EvMKX1OTyNM_dSMXF6efYmjEmGhr0NTJWOCli1KnsZIo_VuxGsAgIN-DY/s400/0260.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8AND26iAqzrgCKqcc3T66qTqOmHqxAkPswMG_e11nUKfyXlljd_yOhEPGU0CnOICl6o9xUFmio9AjwXFad41dNmDWHHx6zBpQKF0LU-EG1gGhrZ16-Gn9sDe-nSw3IqQTXcM2s_LMK6Y/s1600/0263.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8AND26iAqzrgCKqcc3T66qTqOmHqxAkPswMG_e11nUKfyXlljd_yOhEPGU0CnOICl6o9xUFmio9AjwXFad41dNmDWHHx6zBpQKF0LU-EG1gGhrZ16-Gn9sDe-nSw3IqQTXcM2s_LMK6Y/s400/0263.JPG" width="266" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Ylle sitting and keeping a watchful eye out</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
So, when visiting Fes this time, it was very nice to meet Muahsin again. He is very eager and seems to be a genuinely kind person. There’s a certain flare of innocence and naiveté about him,</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5QLc6-uMmgg_a-tugK4uY8TmfYwTDj1Fl7sxfLKOryqtxblef8E5884FmQH_8yhlP0b2O2FwZCXFbvUcGfl-sOXmbRo76vhpS74KrGcFkpK73mlu8UKenCT2W9m_gBkuzsVTw1qvALE/s1600/0266.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5QLc6-uMmgg_a-tugK4uY8TmfYwTDj1Fl7sxfLKOryqtxblef8E5884FmQH_8yhlP0b2O2FwZCXFbvUcGfl-sOXmbRo76vhpS74KrGcFkpK73mlu8UKenCT2W9m_gBkuzsVTw1qvALE/s400/0266.JPG" width="266" wt="true" /></a>specially when he shows you his precious photo album of friends and family or takes you to visit his home. He displays also a complete lack of interest in flirting which is just <em>you cannot imagine</em> how refreshing. I don’t even know if he thinks the <em>riad</em> guests are out of his league, or it’s strictly forbidden for him, or his too shy, or maybe he just finds us all Europeans dirt ugly, but whatever it is, it makes it very easy to spend time with him. I think he’s about 25-30 years old, but because he’s rather small and modest, it’s easy to think he’s younger. He is single, but i don't even know if it's perfectly normal in Morocco for a man in his age or is he rather an odd one out. He speaks English enough to converse, but far from very fluent conversation. I usually keep forgetting that i should speak slower and use simpler words. I remember once i had to ask Muahsin to organize a taxi for us. The conversation went something like that: „Muahsin, my man, do you think you could do us a tiny favour and get us a some wheels, around three would be super. How do you think, can you wing it?“ Muahsin /thinking/: „WTF?“. Of course he didn’t understand. But Ylle had it down cold: „Muahsin! Taxi, today, three o’clock. Thank you!“ /big smile/. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This time however Muahsin was not well. As much as i could gather from his modest medical English, he had been in a motorcycle accident, broken his legs and spent a month in the hospital afterwards. All that happened already few months ago, he was now walking around with crutches. But nontheless, he wanted to go walking in <em>medina</em> so we headed out, very slowly and carefully. We visited that good old local bar again to score some points for him, dropped off some photo prints of his friends that i had taken on my previous visit, went to the food market etc. I should’ve known better, because although slowly and carefully, we covered a lot of ground that day and his legs started really hurting in the night. Me and the <em>riad</em>'s last minute guest Richard were sitting in the <em>riad</em> kitchen, blabbering until the wee hours of the morning, when Muahsin came in and said that he couldn’t sleep. You could see from his face already that the guy was in major pain and he didn’t have anything to relieve it with. I gave him all my ibuprofen pills that i had left in my little medicine bag and warned him to use them cautiously. He is such a frail man, specially after being in a hospital for a long time, last thing i wanted was him to overdose on my pills. Later in the morning he said that the pills really helped and his legs didn't hurt anymore. He also said that he doesn’t have any painkillers at home which made me wonder later if he doesn’t know that ibuprofen-type pills are available as over-the-counter drugs in pharmacies or he just couldn’t afford them. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78ie_7bqmvi3gq1WxFPWG8Jqn0iTZwwjlVKkOCC5a4crNzS-4f0nUVhJ4Frm11qXFquq5jog650rlA0JpFIdlNDU0nLjBqpbVH-mfND5gOT1BQ6xGmi5rcR4asPsxpowqxo3nWAhrvNM/s1600/muahsin03.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78ie_7bqmvi3gq1WxFPWG8Jqn0iTZwwjlVKkOCC5a4crNzS-4f0nUVhJ4Frm11qXFquq5jog650rlA0JpFIdlNDU0nLjBqpbVH-mfND5gOT1BQ6xGmi5rcR4asPsxpowqxo3nWAhrvNM/s400/muahsin03.JPG" width="267" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Muahsin</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Buh2JpfL6oA2RmdfSS5E2dzACtXsiO96JuTwMHFEWdjpT7s58dtGo-TvQid47YJ_ShDkLVIO6GnjFidMdmF7PrMd_rvMu7LLG39jGwe6Ki3fYLqyimoehYNppYf3Z_7x9GcDzFqKc_M/s1600/muahsin_karim_ragne.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Buh2JpfL6oA2RmdfSS5E2dzACtXsiO96JuTwMHFEWdjpT7s58dtGo-TvQid47YJ_ShDkLVIO6GnjFidMdmF7PrMd_rvMu7LLG39jGwe6Ki3fYLqyimoehYNppYf3Z_7x9GcDzFqKc_M/s400/muahsin_karim_ragne.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Muahsin, Karim and me in the <em>riad</em>'s lounge</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-6412477102086302732010-04-15T17:36:00.003+03:002010-04-17T23:24:14.562+03:00The riad revisited<div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of my Estonian friends has a beautiful <em>riad</em> in Fes, i always stay there when i visit the city. No different this time. When i arrived in the train station and took a taxi to the old city, it dawned on me that nobody really knows that was coming so it would be somewhat inconvenient if the house was empty and no one’s there to open the door. So i was pretty relieved when my fearful knock on the door was quickly answered. My friend herself lives in Estonia and the <em>riad</em> is managed by a local guy. At the time of my visit that guy was in London, but he had left two lovely non-English speaking chaps in charge. Two rather young chaps. And what do teenagers do when adults are away? They party of course! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The local youth was coming and going all day long and by evening the place was packed with them. They were mostly about 15-18 years old with few older men to boot. The older ones must’ve been making beer-runs to Marjane (local supermarket that sells alcohol) and thus earned their right to join the party. I spent the bigger part of my first day outside the house anyway, so it didn’t really bother me that there was a lot of foot traffic. My 3rd floor room windows opened to the <em>riad</em>’s inner courtyard so later in the evening i spent some time sitting by the window and observing the interesting social life of local teens, all on display down on the ground floor. Since Moroccan houses are not built with too much sound isolation in mind, i could hear the loud beat even with my iPod on. My only interaction with the youth was in every few hours when i went downstairs to prepare myself a pot of tea. But when some chick, who’d obviously had one beer too many, was getting in my face down in the kitchen for God only knows what reason, i started getting annoyed. Since i was the only guest in the <em>riad</em> and gone most of the day, they probably felt quite comfortable roaming around the house and doing what they wanted. But now that it was getting late aready, i felt that i was still a paying customer and at some point i would actually want to go to sleep, so it was time to call it a night. I don't really like Lebanese pop music quite that much to put up with it all night long while bunch of teenagers downstairs are drinking beer by carts. So a bit before midnight i told them to pack it up and move along, the party was over. It was hard to get my message across, since the only common language we had was an invented-on-the-spot sign language, but when the two young non-English speaking chaps realized what i was asking them to do, they eventually took some action and within half an hour cleared the house. Hehe, i felt like such a party pooper for breaking up the disco and i was definitely not the most popular person in the building at that moment. I could hear some unhappy girls protesting up to my very 3rd floor. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMJ0HuaQsW0XVgumOWwik7RqKffywvvveBJ6TM6boKyMhn8BElMg_CdKKqYbMqYOk8WSHxK8CyFsXJMLWhxCEnjo8ZStto7CCKm99Fyb2UeFdclN1Ob0ccs0ps0ia8iObxnmFwVVWcRTw/s1600/karim01.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMJ0HuaQsW0XVgumOWwik7RqKffywvvveBJ6TM6boKyMhn8BElMg_CdKKqYbMqYOk8WSHxK8CyFsXJMLWhxCEnjo8ZStto7CCKm99Fyb2UeFdclN1Ob0ccs0ps0ia8iObxnmFwVVWcRTw/s400/karim01.JPG" width="267" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">The next day the older non-English speaking chap had dissapeared and i only saw the younger one until the end on my stay. His name was Karim (<em>on the photo >></em>) and he seemed to feel quite guilty for the party the night before, because he was super attentive and tried to be helpful in any way possible. He looked terribly young, at most 17-18, later it turned out that he is actually 20 years old and already married. How crazy is that? I know that Islam encourages marriages, on certain cases even demands it, but definitely not from 20 years old guy who judging by the beer party the nightbefore is not even particularly observant Muslim. His wife as i understood was Moroccan who went to live in France. Very complicated.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It felt nice sleeping in a private house again with a big cozy bedroom and a personal bathroom. As much as i enjoyed Marrakech, living in a box had it’s downsides. And living in a box with weird neighbours had even bigger downsides. I remember, one evening, back in Marrakech in my budget hotel room, i was getting ready to go to sleep when somebody knocked on my door. I open it and a fat middle-age Arabic man with a cigarette dangling from his half-missing teeth says to me: „You come to my room now, yes?“. I was too stunned to slam the door in his face, instead i was polite and said "no thanks". Jesus, it makes me laugh just thinking about it. Most Arabic men really do think that Western women are sluts, obviously.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizEmuDGZwmZF4KmK-xWgYnb2nJ-UQ2XFkI4iA2jmhyphenhyphen6cr6xZ5bSsynliqE79HHewAMIb8035M8Aoc_PNOoc9bKUyu8VtsaKzlmf0QWJhaw47wmaNZg-3KyKcQCjwa8l_6ZPZ5qZYEzo6w/s1600/_MG_8443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizEmuDGZwmZF4KmK-xWgYnb2nJ-UQ2XFkI4iA2jmhyphenhyphen6cr6xZ5bSsynliqE79HHewAMIb8035M8Aoc_PNOoc9bKUyu8VtsaKzlmf0QWJhaw47wmaNZg-3KyKcQCjwa8l_6ZPZ5qZYEzo6w/s400/_MG_8443.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I just love <em>riad</em> breakfasts, they vary a bit depending on the house and the cook of course, but generally a typical <em>riad</em> breakfast is one massive carbohydrates attack wrapped in the cozy protective layer of fatty acids. That said, it’s still very delicious. Freshly made croissants, bread, doughnuts and pancakes with butter, extra virgin olive oil, honey, strawberry jam, cream cheese and fresh olives. All that with hot peppermint tea, sweet coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice. Couldn’t imagine eating like that every day and still fitting into my clothes a week later, but for a few days during the trip, how can you say no?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Most Moroccan houses have a rooftop terrace. It may not look anything special, but it’s a good place to get some sun and if you’re a tourist – maybe enjoy a cold beer. The first time me and Ylle visited the <em>riad</em>, we could actually sunbath on the roof. Other houses were too low to see what was going on our roof. And now, a mere year later, the nearby <em>riad</em> developments have progressed so far that there are hardly any places on the roof left without someone having a good view to it. A lot of those <em>riads</em> that are popping up here and there are future hotels, often quite high end. But i imagine owning a spacious private residence somewhere in <em>medina</em> would be a pretty nice way to live as well. Just the other day i was walking by a nearby house, the doors were open, builders were walking in and out of them. I took a quick peek in - it was the most gorgeous house i've ever seen and it wasn't even finished yet. Scaffolds were everywhere, building materials scattered around the place and so on. But even in it's raw and undecorated form, it was just superb. Of course from outside it all looked like a random rather unkept house, tightly squeezed between the other houses in <em>medina</em>. By just looking at the facade, you can't really guess how big is the house or what kind of people are living in there. Morocco is all about inner wealth. Moroccans, specially the older generation, believe in the concept of Evil Eye - that somebody who is jealous or envious can cast a bad spell on them or bring bad luck just with a negative look. But what you can't see, you also can't envy. Logical. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Photos of my friend's riad: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Hck-x4TJ2ftOzpBCDK80uLH2iTefODtugTKNXvjBpJlKLTYnn_d8gCXzDAR1viCKpFJAZ9cZKpnrYy5FnaNFByrJGdZrgVCsxnMWSysQYhmfeehvDaquzdqXKHSausMKU62AGrTxFyA/s1600/0011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Hck-x4TJ2ftOzpBCDK80uLH2iTefODtugTKNXvjBpJlKLTYnn_d8gCXzDAR1viCKpFJAZ9cZKpnrYy5FnaNFByrJGdZrgVCsxnMWSysQYhmfeehvDaquzdqXKHSausMKU62AGrTxFyA/s400/0011.JPG" width="266" wt="true" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Kitchen</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My bedroom. Aside from the wide-angle shot, it really was big!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-15269870546361690632010-03-17T14:52:00.000+02:002010-04-17T23:28:08.954+03:00Fes: first impressions<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCN5UtVN_yAFsXBVdwPghiyL9Wl7Zs3uvM6tRGNAXk4dsjY5-oKHKaotUdOwWyXJYXiqzlmQ7xLDn4UyWbrqSVMDwe-Gj13dNuvxRe5ze7lpZ7PpYiQ2SshKEKctv0J4XqYFTHQzZOXQ0/s1600-h/0380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCN5UtVN_yAFsXBVdwPghiyL9Wl7Zs3uvM6tRGNAXk4dsjY5-oKHKaotUdOwWyXJYXiqzlmQ7xLDn4UyWbrqSVMDwe-Gj13dNuvxRe5ze7lpZ7PpYiQ2SshKEKctv0J4XqYFTHQzZOXQ0/s400/0380.JPG" vt="true" width="266" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">Fes (alternative spelling <em>Fez</em>) is by far my favourite city in Morocco. While i do love the white-washed walls of Chefchaouen or the windy waves of Essaouira, Fes has kind of a special place in my heart. Probably it’s because Fes was the first city in Morocco that i visited. Or maybe it’s because Fes has the coolest and craziest <em>medina</em> (old town) where it’s totally intoxicating to get lost in. Fes’s <em>medina</em> is the world’s biggest and best preserved medieval town in all Maghreb (Arabic world). While Marrakech’s <em>medina</em> is full of motorollers and bikers, the streets in Fes are so narrow that nothing wider that an occasional donkey doesn’t fit there. This <em>medina</em> is like a living organism, it changes every day. Some years back they were trying to map the <em>medina</em>, but new walls, houses, passages were being built every day while some others were torn down or shut, so by the time the mapping reached from one side to another, some of the streets weren’t no longer there and new ones were created. So as far as i know, there’s no proper map of <em>medina</em>, not like it’s really necessary anyway. It’s totally wicked to go walking for a half a day, starting from side, taking random turns and getting swept away to the heart of it. You pass some really local and interesting neighbourhoods which are burried so deep in the maze that even the most extensive tourist walking tour would never cover them. I’m sure there are areas where i wouldn’t want to find myself after sundown, but i’ve never felt unsafe in <em>medina</em> during the day, it’s just local people going about their lives. The deeper you get, the less attention, they just don’t care. There’s no tourist shops, no souks, nobody tries to sell you anything, you walk in peace. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu4HbZ-6Yl0akiBeZIz9CDyrp6nEeXSCnSt9VNGdtczMQjeW9RRRq047QAciJKgR7CG6iUFsXJe5lFx1rlCdONIJDxrOSSf1GudHeVvMb-qYcqGXINTG2nDvtTorNT_MgbU-IY6RRYHHo/s1600-h/0203.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu4HbZ-6Yl0akiBeZIz9CDyrp6nEeXSCnSt9VNGdtczMQjeW9RRRq047QAciJKgR7CG6iUFsXJe5lFx1rlCdONIJDxrOSSf1GudHeVvMb-qYcqGXINTG2nDvtTorNT_MgbU-IY6RRYHHo/s400/0203.JPG" vt="true" width="266" /></a>One of the beauties of Fes is fewer tourists. Of course there are some, but nothing like Marrakech, which is downright infested. In Fes’s <em>medina</em> you can encounter tourists mostly on an outer rim where majority of riads locate, but it seems that they almost never go to deeper areas. A lot of foreigners i’ve talked to just don’t dare to walk too far, they’re afraid to be away from the streets with names and roads with cars. Understandably it might be scary to suddenly depend only off the help and kindness of locals, specially if there's a sizable language barrier. When you’re walking in <em>medina</em> and you notice less and less tourists around you, it’s time to turn back (if you’re spooked that is). You can also ask to be pointed to the „Blue Gate“, which is one the most known landmarks in the old town. For few dirhams kids will run along with you and show you out of the maze. Or you can do like i do – you walk and walk. <em>Medina</em> is like a bowl, the deeper part of it is lower than the outside parts. So all you have to do when you want get back out, is climb higher. You’re bound to reach some edge sooner or later. It usually takes me about 3-4 hours, but i also take it very slow – photographing, trying to talk to locals, eating in some local joint etc. When you re-surface and you don’t recognize the place, just grab a random taxi and tell him to take you to some landmark or establishment you do recognize or orient by. It shouldn’t cost you more than 10-20 DH. The only catch is to figure out on which side of the road you should stand before flagging one down. I’ve had few times a situation that i’m hailing a taxi, a car stops, i ask the driver to take me to the Blue Gate, they say i’m standing on the wrong side of the road and before i can say anything else, they drive away. Nobody hasn’t so far thought about turning the car around and picking me up anyway :).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARHFFK45yDn8N2Qqsx70-9bNEerfCcyixuVJ7ZJntSXcj2l9zNVltPhv1S-fVGTHEgztEy1gZy3P8M6ebYeNGcV4kdBJkVxooTaz6iQwJaD4EQJi-w1baH0jrGAs-iSnxdm3Nw07Vpvw/s1600-h/0234.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARHFFK45yDn8N2Qqsx70-9bNEerfCcyixuVJ7ZJntSXcj2l9zNVltPhv1S-fVGTHEgztEy1gZy3P8M6ebYeNGcV4kdBJkVxooTaz6iQwJaD4EQJi-w1baH0jrGAs-iSnxdm3Nw07Vpvw/s400/0234.JPG" vt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fes is much more conservative city than Marrakech or Essaouira. More tourists means more freedoms. Fes isn't as fun, dazzling or exciting as Marrakech. It's a historical city of education and old culture. Fes still has it’s imperial aura accompanied by stiffer lifestyle. Being respectful towards local people and their customs will get you further than flaunting a new miny skirt or a tank top, specially if you want to avoid the excessive attention from local men. You don’t have to wear a jellaba, rules for tourists are of course more liberal, but respect for local culture is still the basis of everything. In the old town - you won’t easily find a local woman wearing something that leaves her knees or elbows bare. Cafeterias are for men, women and children gather in the park. Taxi drivers are about 70% more honest. If you are a (young) woman, you’re bound to get few passing marriage proposals from guys trying out their luck and so on. Fes just IS different. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">I remember me and Ylle's first visit to Fes. We were sitting on a park bench with the rest of the locals. Suddenly an old hooded man comes and stands in front of us. And though we were decently dressed and behaving extremely low-key, you just cannot imagine the look on that guy’s face – it was the mixture of utter disapproval and condemnation. He just stood there, silently staring down at us for a good 20 seconds or so. And all this time he was annoyingly tapping the ground with his cane. Everything would’ve been quite unmemorable, except the tip of the cane was needle sharp and it really felt that he is pondering if to strike us and banish us for good. And then just like that he turned away and left. We saw him later once more on some street, this time we knowingly kept out of his cane reach. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg85qKCRc7fHq9hx5FzskXaPuxidpU1kGByecFbFTDrLW1-hAfhB4vheCFzmNICSx1tjWC49OHtQ4diOfslO_pAcfT89_EBLEmq3g12Jf_p-SNPCCIdYQCfXu63Hb7FUZzmNVvDZK0tjCo/s1600-h/0954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg85qKCRc7fHq9hx5FzskXaPuxidpU1kGByecFbFTDrLW1-hAfhB4vheCFzmNICSx1tjWC49OHtQ4diOfslO_pAcfT89_EBLEmq3g12Jf_p-SNPCCIdYQCfXu63Hb7FUZzmNVvDZK0tjCo/s400/0954.JPG" vt="true" width="266" /></a>I've heard a lot of warnings about touts and hustlers in Fes. Before my first visit i read that around the Blue Gate you will be bombarded with agression and sales-pitch. Walking in <em>medina</em> will be torture because of all the people pressing themselves to be your guides, offering to tale you to a "very good carpet shop" or to an excursion to the tanneries. It leads me to think that some people are very easily persuaded and even more easily scammed. Because i think that Fes is musch calmer and mellower than Marrakech. Fes is like a comatosed brother of an ADD symptomatic Marrakech on sugar rush.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">Funnily, the very first lesson in "being blond is bad for budget" i got exactly in Fes. Me and Ylle took a taxi from the airport, agreed upon a price and drove to the city. When we arrived, we didn’t have the exact money, so we paid with bigger bills. The driver could of course smell the rosy scent of European innocence on us, eager and wide-eyed as we were, so he decided not to give us the change back and told us some BS about “entering the medina” tax. It reminded us both India right away – you always had to give the shop guys, waiters, taxi drivers etc the very exact money, otherwise you would spend the next 10 minutes trying to get your change back. It became very annoying and unpleasant after about 5th time. So we were both like: “Great, India all over again”, but at least for me, this was the only occasion when somebody muscled me into paying more. Or maybe I just grew a pair after that lesson and it showed. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
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cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKF0GiK-lg9_d8dcCCm-qrzv0tU5hBwmsJgW5vZv1GbZ5Pn60KVgIu4DztPD6dW1KUmZck_ySLg1mTE9HKlxohhVe-fZ2v8bk6J6GIC0xOVaR7RNMoQ7qegLfHEiOQQk5_wu0cjnzndYY/s400/0165.JPG" vt="true" width="266" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDt_hk3o6kVSVtwNX8gB0t2iASw3uJdCN8SyijqQp-CN7Ps_MR3A15F7aEMzwe8Ohxw6a4LtsV29MNJiSJJrs3PP7r4JtahMMbYrJ2_ZgmOMK8zaCgbl6oJRhrpeJQ32MVGA6vPXsFrqA/s1600-h/0361.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDt_hk3o6kVSVtwNX8gB0t2iASw3uJdCN8SyijqQp-CN7Ps_MR3A15F7aEMzwe8Ohxw6a4LtsV29MNJiSJJrs3PP7r4JtahMMbYrJ2_ZgmOMK8zaCgbl6oJRhrpeJQ32MVGA6vPXsFrqA/s400/0361.JPG" vt="true" width="266" /></a></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-1295727776263058192010-03-15T01:55:00.005+02:002010-04-17T23:28:08.956+03:00Fes at my fingertips<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Ok, it's time to move on. Next stop - my favourite city Fes. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6R4Vqrbc1fv963vhWy3fMwnSHw_l3ekhMEtVqhDyXIL2IuIczB8O24enQU4IymWhGztmNkz4Wpc2F6IcNMvMCcCXhHwKSCm8mDsnc1yQmmkwyVsl5WWIatxdqinATNXzu59wzJrKDrA/s1600-h/_MG_8302.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6R4Vqrbc1fv963vhWy3fMwnSHw_l3ekhMEtVqhDyXIL2IuIczB8O24enQU4IymWhGztmNkz4Wpc2F6IcNMvMCcCXhHwKSCm8mDsnc1yQmmkwyVsl5WWIatxdqinATNXzu59wzJrKDrA/s400/_MG_8302.JPG" vt="true" width="400" /></a>I’ve taken the Marrakech-Fes train 4 times already, it’s always been consistantly late. The official travel time is 7 hours, but in reality it’s more like 8-9, depending on your luck. I usually buy the ticket to the 1st class compartment, with 7-9 hour train ride you learn to appreciate the lack of excessive foot traffic. 1st class compartments are for 6 people, the ticket is around 270DH, if i’m not mistaken. If you want to sit next to the window, specify when buying a ticket, seats are numbered. There are trains to Fes in every few hours. Most comfortable is to choose of course an evening train, you can sleep the bigger part of the trip. On the other hand, a day train allows you to enjoy the <em>sometimes-boring-sometimes-interesting</em> views of passing landscape:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyRSLGzVvJsJHfv3cXw3UVmMkdpLs94eGXmAQHqdpSoaEXFUajuqbxQ8RT7zsRooZI9WKRYdHdhfKy3HvnNPDX_M-qb_NiTIaxkwjkPLWzCGWPPZqAySAmEyjx9ktMKze42Aqn74MTmM/s1600-h/_MG_8415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyRSLGzVvJsJHfv3cXw3UVmMkdpLs94eGXmAQHqdpSoaEXFUajuqbxQ8RT7zsRooZI9WKRYdHdhfKy3HvnNPDX_M-qb_NiTIaxkwjkPLWzCGWPPZqAySAmEyjx9ktMKze42Aqn74MTmM/s400/_MG_8415.JPG" vt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYbhgUfOeesEKZ0yTyrVCSBgYYzkwlJcpNwBhlYkuNpW31qmLoMkfokaCVg4iyAYkPQQq1pbvTJN1c1kTce49RjUmooXsVkXZ7YBb6ZhmnSaopdZJVZQ95Tq4M3FMcfUWxQTsnL18st40/s1600-h/_MG_8416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihCnoq8-KDKQCRieXMZ4I9MLsMWDtQ11T_ZgKiPRMJ2PpuBPim3vl0fuijk5Dk8lrdYUAufZOmbBl-tWFESF7_KFVnSAuA6zpupBlFRMNkc_G_59j66FF55S6zI6DVSEF1vGaLT3b4PRY/s1600-h/0538.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihCnoq8-KDKQCRieXMZ4I9MLsMWDtQ11T_ZgKiPRMJ2PpuBPim3vl0fuijk5Dk8lrdYUAufZOmbBl-tWFESF7_KFVnSAuA6zpupBlFRMNkc_G_59j66FF55S6zI6DVSEF1vGaLT3b4PRY/s400/0538.JPG" vt="true" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7zJQNWsMfN6evII0alfFLj4Q9tNIlxuOXWCVDHa706X9bdOyA8Zn_Uz8yzywB8gQ0JuO4r0YYkRslgZFqNCAXrnknNYrmFecZoFbI_98Vhz33N5bXHwsBO7AesVPmi7UB1Y0Gcu4Hqk/s1600-h/0539.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7zJQNWsMfN6evII0alfFLj4Q9tNIlxuOXWCVDHa706X9bdOyA8Zn_Uz8yzywB8gQ0JuO4r0YYkRslgZFqNCAXrnknNYrmFecZoFbI_98Vhz33N5bXHwsBO7AesVPmi7UB1Y0Gcu4Hqk/s400/0539.jpg" vt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This time i shared a compartment with a French family. They were lugging around some serious gear. By the time i got to the compartment, they had hawked all the overhead luggage compartments with their bulky 8 suitcases, leaving me no choice but to put my backpack on the floor by my feet. They then spent the majority of the trip whining to each other how my bag doesn’t let them stretch their legs. Luckily they got off in Rabat. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7V6yIPrNAAWBRjVZnIrAid94sNchs2RghHGTISLEMohCS4THuZMOE7XsTqnIVnkDRPgsA7180xbjVuJ4giMWKIyH90b0IAj9quRuyTEmL6G_Vr9bHdwvr6BnPEdYS0aN9uNzjRzbghfc/s1600-h/_MG_0954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7V6yIPrNAAWBRjVZnIrAid94sNchs2RghHGTISLEMohCS4THuZMOE7XsTqnIVnkDRPgsA7180xbjVuJ4giMWKIyH90b0IAj9quRuyTEmL6G_Vr9bHdwvr6BnPEdYS0aN9uNzjRzbghfc/s400/_MG_0954.JPG" vt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">The 1st class compartment has 6 seats, 3 on each side. So when you’re alone in the compartment, you can easily sleep almost at full length. The trouble is, that when a blonde girl is alone in the compartment, it attracts all kinds of unwanted helpers and companions. Every once in a while a guy would come in and sit, usually trying to make casual chit-chat. Sometimes there was a real language barrier but usually a pretend one - me talking back in Estonian: „Vabandage, aga ma ei oska inglise, prantsuse ega ka araabia keelt“. If there’s a choice between talking to the 40+ men or trying to catch some sleep, the decision isn’t hard. In any case, all those sudden visits always end the same way – the conductor comes in, checks the guy’s ticket, tells him that this is not his compartment and kicks him out. Muahaha!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">In 2008 when Ylle and me made this trip, we took an evening train. And since the compartment was empty, we went to sleep, each on either side. At some point enters a guy. We don’t know if he has a ticket or not, so Ylle zips up her legs so he could sit. The gentleman kindly offers Ylle that he can hold Ylle’s legs on his lap :). Right, of course. Soon enough, the conductor made his rounds again and threw him out of the compartment, but the similar scheme repeated few times more later. The compartments don’t have curtains, that would take care of the unwanted attention problem. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">A fair warning about AC: train compartments are also heavily air conditioned. Sometimes you can choose the AC speed yourself, older trains don’t have that option. All in all, it can be very cold in the compartment and i remember very well when me and Ylle were huddling under our towels, because we didn’t have anything substantially warmer with us. 8 hours of huddling can get you pretty sick by the end of your trip, so be prepared.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">Train station in Fes is a shed, the new one is being built. It’s going to be one unearthly beautiful building once it’s completed, i’ll tell you that. When you arrive in the train station, taking a taxi is pretty much your only option. Fes has metered taxis and they are cheap, so go forth and have no fear, my fellow travelers.<br />
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</div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-21073478538853585172010-03-13T00:34:00.043+02:002010-04-17T23:28:08.959+03:00Monsieur Sofi, part 3<div align="justify"><strong><br /><br />As a sidenote:</strong><br /><br />Found out an interesting thing today. Turns out that Gmail has a bit of a bug, when it comes to displaying my blog posts. All of you Gmail users, who have subscribed to get updates of my blog on your e-mail, you seem to be getting a very butchered version. For some reason or other, Gmail displays only the beginning part of the post and omits the rest. And since i tend to have long long posts with lot’s of photos, you miss out quite a lot. In the last post for example Gmail left out about 2/3 of it. Anyway, so far i’ve noticed this anomaly only in Gmail, it might be temporary or then again maybe some other mail clients have the same issues, in any case – be warned! And be advised to click on the blog link in the future.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Riad Douzi in Marrakech <em>medina</em></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1mohXXw-iQAk_0i75Kps-mZiS2w-Wt4Idct_af01AClO68xQxQIOngjE37avlP20SOJcDTe5Ic91O0vcCXQ4yfJLVJwA1atp53jxr3zJ0iBmYXpy1l4dSovDLTHYYzQC48GcgWhv2Tg/s1600-h/_MG_7923.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447890125171702946" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1mohXXw-iQAk_0i75Kps-mZiS2w-Wt4Idct_af01AClO68xQxQIOngjE37avlP20SOJcDTe5Ic91O0vcCXQ4yfJLVJwA1atp53jxr3zJ0iBmYXpy1l4dSovDLTHYYzQC48GcgWhv2Tg/s400/_MG_7923.JPG" /></a>After being few days in Essaouira we returned to Marrakech for one last day together in our beautiful <em>riad</em> in the <em>medina</em>. We seemed to be the only people in the <em>riad</em>, so it was very quiet and relaxing. We chatted a bit with the <em>riad</em>’s manager Zaza, had some tea, caught some sun on the rooftop terrace and generally enjoyed our time. Afterwards Jevgeni stayed in to spend some quality moments with his iPhone and i went for a shopping tour. So far on my trip i hadn’t been able to buy any souvenirs or other unnecessary yet desired items, unless i wanted to also buy a cart to drag my bursting bag around. But since Jevgeni was about to return to Estonia with pretty much an empty suitcase, i took advantage of the situation and went out for shopping. I bought a berber tajine, spices, some dishes and lot’s of slippers. All those friends and relatives who’ve been forced to listen to my rantings about what a wonderful place Morocco is will now get a chance to prance around in soft Moroccan leather slippers (babouches). I actually found a very nice shop with huge choice and very reasonable prices due to my arrival just in the nick of time before closing and big quantity of slippers i wanted to buy. Never before or after have i been able to haggle good quality leather slippers down to ~ 50-60 DH a pair. Slippers are definately „the thing“ to bring from Morocco. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Fx2K_JIDk7ysjD0E2jx2prAJavN6PwSlFBNPkGWRlpPVXAiGw9KLwGu2CysCb4kTOuSyRQ6kchHAUEm_GcpeVysd2XFiEWfLHk1PWUQ7coJ_zyZm5gkLDSoVbHyGki-fuS_-IJ3Gsew/s1600-h/_MG_9468.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447890112668071522" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Fx2K_JIDk7ysjD0E2jx2prAJavN6PwSlFBNPkGWRlpPVXAiGw9KLwGu2CysCb4kTOuSyRQ6kchHAUEm_GcpeVysd2XFiEWfLHk1PWUQ7coJ_zyZm5gkLDSoVbHyGki-fuS_-IJ3Gsew/s400/_MG_9468.JPG" /></a>They are small and lightweight, good for maintaining reasonable luggage size. They're also soft and comfortable, often with hand stitched patterns or symbolic shapes pressed into the leather. In any case, wonderful to wear and speaking from experience – very appreciated Moroccan souvenirs.<br /><br />The next morning very early i sent Jevgeni to the airport and watched sadly how he dissapeared through the security gates. I do love traveling alone, but it probably would be emotionally easier to do if i didn’t see friends or family meanwhile. After i returned to the <em>riad</em> i had to start packing up my stuff again, because i was relocating back to my <em>cupboard</em>-hotel by Djemaa el-Fna. I had about 4 hours before 12am check-out, so i took it slow. At some point i went to the rooftop terrace to spend some quality time with myself and a nail-polish. While i was painting my nails, the manager Zaza came by and we chatted for a while. When he heard that my husband had just left, his whole approach kind of changed. He suddenly became very interested in helping me paint my nails and offered to at least hold my hand while i’m painting them. /???/ What do you answer to that? I had a strong wish to be a bit nasty and ask if he’d like to jump right to helping me shave? But then i thought he probably wouldn’t spot the irony in my voice, better safe than sorry. Then he mentioned casually that there is at least one free room in the house and he could let me stay there few nights for free, if i wanted to. I thought about it for a moment and decided i’d rather sleep on an empty Djemaa el-Fna square than in this beautiful <em>riad</em> under his watchful eye. He was really pushy with his offers to accompany me back to my hotel and help me with my backpack. I finally got him off my back when i promised that i might come back in the evening for a cup of tea. Never was going to happen of course. As soon as my nails dried, i grabbed my stuff, went downstairs and immediately had a hard scrubbing shower. Are there really women who find guys like him charming? Maybe it’s me, but words like „sleazy“ and „yuck“ came to mind.<br /><br />Meanwhile there was a bit of a drama unwrapping itself in the house. The cleaning lady was annoyed that i took so long time checking out and threw a fit to Zaza. I could hear some rather emotional arguing from my quarters and when i looked out of the window, she was gesturing towards me pretty violently with a brush in one and a bottle of Mr. Proper in the other hand. OK, she’s probably busy getting back to her 8 kids and is now forced to wait after me, but my stuff was still laying all around the room and it was going to take me at least an hour to pack everything up. When i finally finished, it was around 11 am and the house was already quiet. I slipped out quickly before Zaza would show up again.<br /><br />Apart from the over-enthusiastic manager and emotional cleaning lady, i would still recommend the place. The rooms were beautiful and clean, house cozy and breakfast very delicious. We also saw some other rooms in the house, they were differently decorated, but also very comfortable and lovely. The location is a bit tricky and i’m not going to even attempt to try and give directions. What i can say is that it was right next to the <em>medina’s</em> Spice market (browse your Marrakech guidebooks, i’m sure Spice market is mentioned). And i think you could also pre-arrange a guide from the <em>riad</em> or something like that.<br /><br /><strong>RIAD DOUZI</strong><br />123 derb Aarjan, Rahba Lakdima, Marrakech<br />+212(0)526127963<br /><a href="mailto:riaddouzi@hotmail.fr" target="_blank">riaddouzi@hotmail.fr</a><br /><br />I booked it through the hostelsworld.com and in April the room fee was about 60 dollars/night (with breakfast).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgspQRvclZhjFvwlhSnHzRutdO7-VRTUY4rd-4AzmtBubiyReA004WRWb98qLyvK2TIdITHyX9nGyco8bQCVWcK-TiwyHLDdWRESPHr4D2IwDYIEjSjq0YuBMNpYe_xh1uG2v6O2GUsovQ/s1600-h/_MG_7943.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447892182423291618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgspQRvclZhjFvwlhSnHzRutdO7-VRTUY4rd-4AzmtBubiyReA004WRWb98qLyvK2TIdITHyX9nGyco8bQCVWcK-TiwyHLDdWRESPHr4D2IwDYIEjSjq0YuBMNpYe_xh1uG2v6O2GUsovQ/s400/_MG_7943.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Riad Douzi locates on a small side street, pretty hard to find. Also not much to look at from outside. But as the old saying goes - never judge a book by it's covers</em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzV7ovIPffLH3Jn4wwX_BnYmUDyGXyPi3V7u6AxRlHu4XHdYgRF6lqFMnJQzZyjtk5qDr9Udq9Xej_dxe2a0C_Eaigu909l56x3a1_Ea5VvBCWDxQJcaxIPwpl6FSwtxFMd-eG-VydjQM/s1600-h/_MG_7938.JPG"><br /><br /><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447892047681199650" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzV7ovIPffLH3Jn4wwX_BnYmUDyGXyPi3V7u6AxRlHu4XHdYgRF6lqFMnJQzZyjtk5qDr9Udq9Xej_dxe2a0C_Eaigu909l56x3a1_Ea5VvBCWDxQJcaxIPwpl6FSwtxFMd-eG-VydjQM/s400/_MG_7938.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4x615nddRxwqgFP1lA6OCa6yXXmBfvdu6037vklPiU7thU46R3xPAXkJ3iPx7sEpOZZnEfSXz-hW4WF8XVMXvZgMmHYpAzYcaypv-1WfxUTyUCm-NRWR1Xjl3g0kX9j0Po5ZKf9q-u1M/s1600-h/_MG_7934.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447892044392219858" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4x615nddRxwqgFP1lA6OCa6yXXmBfvdu6037vklPiU7thU46R3xPAXkJ3iPx7sEpOZZnEfSXz-hW4WF8XVMXvZgMmHYpAzYcaypv-1WfxUTyUCm-NRWR1Xjl3g0kX9j0Po5ZKf9q-u1M/s400/_MG_7934.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Corridor at the entrance<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJMCqhZn58a0wEDYl0UeEvpoXPbL8fSW9a1o_Vd_d29SZ1vyFRDx6PAi7J3h6GN5L5woGTffUgRXAXfEG8ZgUbOyKcHNWZga-U0jSP__-HEowBeMfyWdcYsBc8s-dp5oRnvpEZZa_bUk/s1600-h/_MG_7921.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447892044959519906" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJMCqhZn58a0wEDYl0UeEvpoXPbL8fSW9a1o_Vd_d29SZ1vyFRDx6PAi7J3h6GN5L5woGTffUgRXAXfEG8ZgUbOyKcHNWZga-U0jSP__-HEowBeMfyWdcYsBc8s-dp5oRnvpEZZa_bUk/s400/_MG_7921.JPG" /></a></div><div align="justify"><em>A view to the inner courtyard from the second floor</em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kgaA6_VQmkSldHV47dbmUOn1laEKVjwMi4ZDwo6w2j_DBhqxpKMToFPq_SKupJoCevM5BojNMPycSdnWnJx6LeL5z17cf0_tFgQl0AP91IkDwpLGDiYG-LqjPlCFdzje1XM4T0KeYl4/s1600-h/_MG_7916.JPG"><br /><br /><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 272px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447892040065642322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kgaA6_VQmkSldHV47dbmUOn1laEKVjwMi4ZDwo6w2j_DBhqxpKMToFPq_SKupJoCevM5BojNMPycSdnWnJx6LeL5z17cf0_tFgQl0AP91IkDwpLGDiYG-LqjPlCFdzje1XM4T0KeYl4/s400/_MG_7916.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Door to one of the bedrooms/apartments<br /></em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHi93KRzqcs6AAeFE9JJ42ugdJk7cOmvnhGchXpwkC6tqoSf00iFgqsmanMD62rq-0NR7tBf5EmqB_gZ-8tRWrSImhVq6gubbSBMmQW-ZgJ1WiXGe3oSQ9JOtBxKH4dzM9C9xS8EHSPQ/s1600-h/_MG_7856.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447892031866238018" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHi93KRzqcs6AAeFE9JJ42ugdJk7cOmvnhGchXpwkC6tqoSf00iFgqsmanMD62rq-0NR7tBf5EmqB_gZ-8tRWrSImhVq6gubbSBMmQW-ZgJ1WiXGe3oSQ9JOtBxKH4dzM9C9xS8EHSPQ/s400/_MG_7856.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Our apartments's living room area<br /></em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9b2Tk6kSnzqjkWH8kVBEA0gqDGrgPx3Pb_3yU5LFYnx13UjsGRxlBH-Eh2pQRfQDBNQHqY__tn7I7P24Swhfi0p0gYcYIpdG5rwu1HVAqClT8f_G20AxhyaeBCaCFuk6mc2GJdKYpjzI/s1600-h/_MG_7890.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447891693871438210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9b2Tk6kSnzqjkWH8kVBEA0gqDGrgPx3Pb_3yU5LFYnx13UjsGRxlBH-Eh2pQRfQDBNQHqY__tn7I7P24Swhfi0p0gYcYIpdG5rwu1HVAqClT8f_G20AxhyaeBCaCFuk6mc2GJdKYpjzI/s400/_MG_7890.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFYM-_BlFYxBSvuMGucAnfv-LC5HR7PP5wXkGUoS7HhL93d7VFy03ZJXHwC3L8HrB5QZqFXnbb1MjFcKb4jA9sh7Q2ZjjdtU2m44tVz7heS2RGdlaV_lm_ubOc3a0MW1LRoLVSAzVTfYo/s1600-h/_MG_7871.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447891688945484322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFYM-_BlFYxBSvuMGucAnfv-LC5HR7PP5wXkGUoS7HhL93d7VFy03ZJXHwC3L8HrB5QZqFXnbb1MjFcKb4jA9sh7Q2ZjjdtU2m44tVz7heS2RGdlaV_lm_ubOc3a0MW1LRoLVSAzVTfYo/s400/_MG_7871.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Bedroom<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC-rsfdj3-8TUXt3MndwUSaphX1GgCv7YF0IRmYyh_b3vSCfBy-WM7y4_HR8AY16q363I_GSffxDBxhyphenhyphenQfGAGxUBBBZ_PtHQZ2kSOsI3uaAx_qfjkJpfNDmo-QHlBvLrcX1Le9bbMefu4/s1600-h/_MG_7898.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447891684871529090" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC-rsfdj3-8TUXt3MndwUSaphX1GgCv7YF0IRmYyh_b3vSCfBy-WM7y4_HR8AY16q363I_GSffxDBxhyphenhyphenQfGAGxUBBBZ_PtHQZ2kSOsI3uaAx_qfjkJpfNDmo-QHlBvLrcX1Le9bbMefu4/s400/_MG_7898.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizkyThIEWVzg2P_qpG6BR4tYqAd1p3TjCxI2PxqC7fUvsXYcDSpCx9cr-VMEGY8ULYYAwTtZ8MmxcYo20xLEdSPY8yNfFzUTbNqKlIfBBeKKAPKjup6wuZN1jeIBgupcT44MTn-Rgi6A/s1600-h/_MG_7925.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447891675019806866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizkyThIEWVzg2P_qpG6BR4tYqAd1p3TjCxI2PxqC7fUvsXYcDSpCx9cr-VMEGY8ULYYAwTtZ8MmxcYo20xLEdSPY8yNfFzUTbNqKlIfBBeKKAPKjup6wuZN1jeIBgupcT44MTn-Rgi6A/s400/_MG_7925.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Rooftop terrace<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjemiyn6y-QjchEkaEL5Wi1StW047gOp7J3u-ue8TfPmJLrxACPhWRfwT42GlEif7ggaXHK4YfmDSCrqcp_eUkz-UwA1w6MB4HS0bnM5E0MSCiSB5RtrsEwFrWlsoh4gDmCNLt_Jtt6u3w/s1600-h/_MG_7931sm.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 267px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447891669497312770" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjemiyn6y-QjchEkaEL5Wi1StW047gOp7J3u-ue8TfPmJLrxACPhWRfwT42GlEif7ggaXHK4YfmDSCrqcp_eUkz-UwA1w6MB4HS0bnM5E0MSCiSB5RtrsEwFrWlsoh4gDmCNLt_Jtt6u3w/s400/_MG_7931sm.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Zaza</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Hotel De La Paix in Marrakech<br /></strong><br />When i arrived back to my old hotel again, i was informed that my room was occupied and i have to sleep the first night in an other room. I actually felt slightly annoyed :). My new room didn’t have nearly as good of a view than the old one had and the mirror was crooked!<br /><br />As mentioned in earlier posts, the hotel locates just few minutes off the Djemaa el-Fna. And since i have only good things to say about this modest but solid establishment, i will try to give some directions how to find it in the crazy roller-coaster of Moroccan central city:<br /><br />Starting point: Koutubia Minaret. When you stand next to Koutubia Minaret, turn your back to it facing Djemaa el-Fna square. If you start walking towards the center of the square on your right are the the super smelly donkey/horse carriages, parked at the side of the entrance road. When you walk further, you will pass a Post Maroc building on your right. Immediately after that comes another big building with faded sign of Bank al-Maghreb on it. Turn right after the bank building and you will find yourself on a lively shopping street. Take the very first turn to the left and you will be on a small shaded side street. Walk down the street and about 20 m ahead, right in front of you is the Hotel De La Paix. Google gives the address as 46, Quartier Sidi Bouloukat, Marrakech; can’t vouch for it, but i guess it must be true.<br /><br /><div><div>If i'm not mistaken the hotel has 3 floors + the roof terrace. The first and second floors are pretty dark and gloomy, but the 3rd floor is bright and lit, just like you can see on the photos. I think my room number was 16, ask for it - it was a pretty decent room!<br /><br />I recommend Hotel De La Paix mostly because it’s clean and reasonably quiet, laundry service is a good addition. In the April, when i was there, it was almost empty and those few people that were there, were all Arabic. If you want to meet partying teens from Australia, that’s not the place, but if you’re like me – prefer peace and quiet when it comes to sleeping in the night, then you should like it enough. Though, i must admit – i do sleep with ear-plugs, so i can’t really vouch for the silence at night.<br /><br />I wrote more about picking a budget hotel in Marrakech and describing my first emotions about Hotel De La Paix in some of the earlier posts already - so if anybody wants more details, i will refer you to <a href="http://sshiksa.blogspot.com/2009/05/home-sweet-home.html">Home sweet home</a> and <a href="http://sshiksa.blogspot.com/2009/05/relax-woman.html">Relax, (wo)man</a> blog entires.<br /><br />I specially like the doormen system the hotel has. Somebody is always at the „front desk“, seems 24/7. During my stay there were two guys in rotating shifts. That means nobody could just „get in“ and as a single girl i definitely didn’t have to worry about unwanted visitors from the street. Being the only white female tourist in the building, i kind of stood out, so me and doormen we quickly became on the first name basis. You have to leave your key to the front desk when you go out, that was a bit uncomfortable for me in the beginning.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1c9sfMtTLRzBvew00WwLvf7rpHn_ncWWtrBxNsf9mWbl1fSnSGR8CWqtSI0aHbBS40LVpFJ_kIzINq7WhIUfIRJ6PNSonP8XUcyuOfvIpOrDbh_0QVrTtOIs9qn6l-eH7F5-iR7igxb8/s1600-h/abdul02.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 267px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448128164935750226" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1c9sfMtTLRzBvew00WwLvf7rpHn_ncWWtrBxNsf9mWbl1fSnSGR8CWqtSI0aHbBS40LVpFJ_kIzINq7WhIUfIRJ6PNSonP8XUcyuOfvIpOrDbh_0QVrTtOIs9qn6l-eH7F5-iR7igxb8/s400/abdul02.JPG" /></a>Hotel De La Paix had two doormen, Abdul and Sayid. Sayid was kind of a „typical-Moroccan“ - slightly sleazy and prone to casual touches, but Abdul (<em>on the picture -></em>) was different. When i first came to stay in the hotel, he was polite and friendly, but kept his distance. He spoke a bit of English, but we actually discovered that we could cover more ground in Spanish. Before Jevgeni came to visit, we'd had few random conversations and i think a lunch together once. After Jevgeni had come and gone, Abdul’s attitude towards me changed completely – he became very protective and brotherly, always asking if i’m doing ok and do i need something. Like he was watching after me - a poor little girl who’s husband left her in the big bad Morocco :). He was actually the one who helped me buy myself a new mobile phone when my old one got stolen. And i brought him those delicious coconut cookies in return. By the end we had already developed our own lingo - he would shout over the street „Rosalinda!“ and i would answer „Pedro!“ or something like that; and Sayid, the other doorman, would look puzzled and ask: „She is Sofi .. , no?“<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPea6ST00AYniL8rpsZRImcS-Vj6XL6DMtAKzSi7J-aEnenKbCKWQXthzeQ-jYCUdXhaiVS-wXFzbkIxr5MW0qlofYma_OynjAomLjf8z05dygVl4WKZHDsC93KW-befqh7OjAOTnHwM/s1600-h/_MG_8273.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448131902574015778" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPea6ST00AYniL8rpsZRImcS-Vj6XL6DMtAKzSi7J-aEnenKbCKWQXthzeQ-jYCUdXhaiVS-wXFzbkIxr5MW0qlofYma_OynjAomLjf8z05dygVl4WKZHDsC93KW-befqh7OjAOTnHwM/s400/_MG_8273.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Inner courtyard of the hotel<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh35ethMldN8aZKA3YztrjugPYqXrFbxTuoWQXLFsIgH7nRzecuouwcdU7C9Fs1ywELJ3klVKUpGY6ojdiwawmAtGfApWroph0FKSaEQtCEqUmCGDzP2db0NGtBmrYcVK5ua99_mFm5Tpk/s1600-h/_MG_8298.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448131894733498130" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh35ethMldN8aZKA3YztrjugPYqXrFbxTuoWQXLFsIgH7nRzecuouwcdU7C9Fs1ywELJ3klVKUpGY6ojdiwawmAtGfApWroph0FKSaEQtCEqUmCGDzP2db0NGtBmrYcVK5ua99_mFm5Tpk/s400/_MG_8298.JPG" /></a><br /><em>My humble room<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaE11yHXrf8E0ULVuYfZUwhmRiyZjkhe40nnrEaPZBf9qaI69RGCzGep1jzYisMuV-ItPMEAltpodVAX-FesYNuy4Fqhmb-2VCRZc4h1Q3CgjwPALolaP2lTMQ_l5dOogwQEZ50htMS6A/s1600-h/_MG_8295.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448131740180070866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaE11yHXrf8E0ULVuYfZUwhmRiyZjkhe40nnrEaPZBf9qaI69RGCzGep1jzYisMuV-ItPMEAltpodVAX-FesYNuy4Fqhmb-2VCRZc4h1Q3CgjwPALolaP2lTMQ_l5dOogwQEZ50htMS6A/s400/_MG_8295.JPG" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGmWSLJSTx8G5XaYd6kTLtjhcUDWpNdTzexQr92KsCATGV2UJVj9yfLxkRWCJJHHedLUcHsFFEiq8BsINaCCobpOBeQoqYKT10yWIIRPRUo7tGGYvbmQ4nzqDelfBuDi2rRknjD7ZJBA/s1600-h/_MG_8287.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448131728065286434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGmWSLJSTx8G5XaYd6kTLtjhcUDWpNdTzexQr92KsCATGV2UJVj9yfLxkRWCJJHHedLUcHsFFEiq8BsINaCCobpOBeQoqYKT10yWIIRPRUo7tGGYvbmQ4nzqDelfBuDi2rRknjD7ZJBA/s400/_MG_8287.JPG" /></a><br /><em>My very own sink. You can't actually imagine how comfortable it is to have a personal sink in the room instead of one only in the public wc/bathroom</em><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZwntcpHHuV3SZgiAxfCvVlIECYiiyEDe5omaXekBu9r7_Y7KFv6l-MJAj8sfpFmQmF879j9eatd31Aa5eULKTznlWAVa7co5hnB9gfg96HbumJ8oTRxV9NTA850K4oSjD678L62zg2mE/s1600-h/_MG_8279.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448131726695490946" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZwntcpHHuV3SZgiAxfCvVlIECYiiyEDe5omaXekBu9r7_Y7KFv6l-MJAj8sfpFmQmF879j9eatd31Aa5eULKTznlWAVa7co5hnB9gfg96HbumJ8oTRxV9NTA850K4oSjD678L62zg2mE/s400/_MG_8279.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidwdE3vxCiJAw-bSPYa0eUseD0ACZ0uyfBncDmO6y2qyWqkkfVFtumNH6HRkD33kZdoyjC43rm8q5jMq08SLu9eYFP_vVI7EsyKbKlTtfSXiKf6MBUxM2jS0seryxMkLoU16rXPAzYkfQ/s1600-h/_MG_8289.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448131720350259890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidwdE3vxCiJAw-bSPYa0eUseD0ACZ0uyfBncDmO6y2qyWqkkfVFtumNH6HRkD33kZdoyjC43rm8q5jMq08SLu9eYFP_vVI7EsyKbKlTtfSXiKf6MBUxM2jS0seryxMkLoU16rXPAzYkfQ/s400/_MG_8289.JPG" /></a><br /><em>The cleaning ladies changed bedsheets and cleaned the floor in every few days<br /></em><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghl-ldo4IhHFg0AYo6ZWrCfYIpgImyqHIi_pG5DsewrRjCT9C2s6AlZjxP2-GnCH1jDWg-pWXOQTt81e5VA7DG7m9wwpDRmV0t_78TNy_DAdXwXCQ9Ef2JurTjFN4zUGauHxoXRC9PmMw/s1600-h/_MG_7524.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448131715701036722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghl-ldo4IhHFg0AYo6ZWrCfYIpgImyqHIi_pG5DsewrRjCT9C2s6AlZjxP2-GnCH1jDWg-pWXOQTt81e5VA7DG7m9wwpDRmV0t_78TNy_DAdXwXCQ9Ef2JurTjFN4zUGauHxoXRC9PmMw/s400/_MG_7524.JPG" /></a><br /><em>View from the rooftop of my hotel. The bright lights at the background are from the Djemaa el-Fna nightly food market<br /><br /></em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY3cpzgu5YCBAdWkb8GrTtz_RprczBHHD9Gd9g4nrS6hC7Fw1zeXSr4oi4qjCjhtJneZSFOrE8dM7_uSkQu2Ap94uAt_Y9xu9ElkfFk-86ViK0Hsk6ZFST_WHC4OXarAqQXO0mbMJCA-8/s1600-h/_MG_8229.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 387px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448128157020730338" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY3cpzgu5YCBAdWkb8GrTtz_RprczBHHD9Gd9g4nrS6hC7Fw1zeXSr4oi4qjCjhtJneZSFOrE8dM7_uSkQu2Ap94uAt_Y9xu9ElkfFk-86ViK0Hsk6ZFST_WHC4OXarAqQXO0mbMJCA-8/s400/_MG_8229.JPG" /></a>The other <em>turned-out-to-be-quite-a-charming-guy</em> was Ahmed (on the picture ->) from my favourite foodstall number 4 on Djemaa el-Fna nightly market. While other vendors were very eager to shake hands with me or pat me on the shoulder when i came to eat in the evenings, then all i got from Ahmed was a foggy smirk, on the best days. But by the end of 2nd week the situation had already developed into a full blown smile, so you could count all the missing teeth and stuff. Now he always gives me the best french fries, as opposed to the old and stale ones sitting on the display bowl. Those he seems to reserve specially for French tourists.<br /></div></div></div></div></div></div><br /><div align="justify">When Jevgeni left Morocco and i went back to my eating habits at the foodstall number 4, Ahmed looked at me with puzzled face and asked one evening: "Monsieur Sofi .. ?" </div><br /><div align="justify"><br /><br /></div></div><br /></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-57792117886708634942010-03-11T17:53:00.047+02:002010-04-17T23:28:08.961+03:00Monsieur Sofi, part 2<br /><br /><div><strong>Essaouira<br /></strong><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrNGcdUiiCigmrfJHdDyVRe07ru6v76P4sDcINPCFQXhqc_dN1Aps3Q0k_LJPf_xVD_U4Sx9ZNUrIP0n93luDDLTyPCpqT0P9gS3U2wUGWuaP9jALPmvOZo823f2a8nXqlHr4tczHjhy0/s1600-h/_MG_2599.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 266px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447407439519743842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrNGcdUiiCigmrfJHdDyVRe07ru6v76P4sDcINPCFQXhqc_dN1Aps3Q0k_LJPf_xVD_U4Sx9ZNUrIP0n93luDDLTyPCpqT0P9gS3U2wUGWuaP9jALPmvOZo823f2a8nXqlHr4tczHjhy0/s400/_MG_2599.JPG" /></a>Essaouira is a small city by the Atlantic Ocean. It’s called the Windy City, mostly due to the .. you guessed it .. wind :). It really is pretty breezy there but it’s also quite lovely. It’s supposed to be a heaven of reggae and gnawa musicians, hash smokers, capoeira practitioners, freeloaders, surfers and anybody else who appreciates the laid-back atmosphere of that little coastal paradise. Every year in June there's a world famous Gnawa music festival in Essaouira, it draws a huge audience from all over the world.<br /><br />Near Essaouira is a Sidi Kaouki beach - wide open sandy space and Atlantic Ocean as far as the eye can see. Very relaxing place to be. Me and Kaidi visited Sidi Kaouki in October 2008, it was our first time to dabble our feet in Atlantic Ocean. We actually planned to take a quick dip in the ocean - we walked very far from the houses and camel riders in hopes of becoming very tiny dots on the horizon, so we could strip and go swimming. We almost succeeded until some random guys noticed us and came happily over to chat with us. Talk about dissapointment, though i guess we should be thankful – the water was very cold in October, our little stunt probably would’ve gotten us sick afterwards.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ4VwekpYLQyH_lQzc_olAMiInUiY-7ipEVTJUsteBZZSfr7WQ0ZjWWHJuu2aYyiRNQr-Ge3ouhFOxg7A_aStie1Gl_B52vr_dGrPAQFLCrweKnIZ7_bbzjLfvNC6wdMBDyiFX7VdrKqw/s1600-h/1040.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447414427813060146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ4VwekpYLQyH_lQzc_olAMiInUiY-7ipEVTJUsteBZZSfr7WQ0ZjWWHJuu2aYyiRNQr-Ge3ouhFOxg7A_aStie1Gl_B52vr_dGrPAQFLCrweKnIZ7_bbzjLfvNC6wdMBDyiFX7VdrKqw/s400/1040.JPG" /></a><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><em>Me and Kaidi on Sidi Kaouki beach in October 2008<br /></em><br />Essaouira is about 2,5 hour bus-ride from Marrakech. So far on all my trips to Essaouira i’ve used Supratours buses, their terminal is right next to the Marrakech train station. I don’t remember the exact ticket price, but i think it was somewhere around 60-70 DH/one way. If i’m not mistaken, they didn’t sell return tickets up front, you could only buy one way ticket. If you arrive to Essaouira, take few minutes and buy your return ticket right away, their buses are somehow always specially sold out for the route back. Anyway, as mentioned, it’s a few hour bus-ride to Essaouira, officially. In reality it depends on how are the roads, the traffic etc. They also make one pit stop along the way. You can use the toilet, buy snacks, even have a meal, the stop is about 20 minutes. I usually don’t get worked up about unhygienic food in Morocco, it kind of comes with the territory, but i must admit that the most disgusting experience i’ve ever had in Morocco was exactly in the pit stop cafeteria on our way to Essaouira with Jevgeni. We ordered two teas and were about half way through sipping them, when Jevgeni noticed that there is something funny floating in his tea. It turned out that the peppermint leaves used for the teas had small maggots on them, which were kind of boiled alive with the hot water added and were now floating about in the glass, juicy and cooked. So, if you MUST eat in that cafeteria, buy Coca-Cola :).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ak5true3nmvY8UO7DMaJp7_CBkd5D-oNCD_1ttMzx2TNfaJKBIjgj-WBXZL8Z89ECeczkOjUL6gGtVq1b5QhMBBF0Fsc199BY01_zBme44ZibnA9QXs_d412Vnye9KFUm5bhnWR5mJM/s1600-h/_MG_0107.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447418394549213122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ak5true3nmvY8UO7DMaJp7_CBkd5D-oNCD_1ttMzx2TNfaJKBIjgj-WBXZL8Z89ECeczkOjUL6gGtVq1b5QhMBBF0Fsc199BY01_zBme44ZibnA9QXs_d412Vnye9KFUm5bhnWR5mJM/s400/_MG_0107.JPG" /></a>Essaouira’s <em>medina</em> is small and surrounded by big city walls, not too many chances to get seriously lost. There are lot’s of tourists and haggling is very important. At the same time, vendors are not really as cut-throat as for example in Marrakech. Most of them seem to be willing to lower their prices only up to some point and that’s it, as far as they’re concerned, you can walk out of the shop and they’re not going to run after you. When you go shopping, step into secluded courtyards and streets off the main shopping road – there are small handicraft or design shops which even if they’re not cheap, sell more interesting stuff than the vendors on the main road. Essaouira is generally cheaper place to shop than Marrakech. Take for example ceramics - most of the ceramics sold in Essaouira is from a small nearby city called Safi (when you turn the ceramic piece over, you can see "Safi" inscription at the bottom). <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSU6IgtsMYMmaOyPY95Xgn1Rj0xphcqHE881jRdudKRCOgolmg6b2IlAPSAEc4guOBwpLMzkGcqr5xs9QabHQshZ6xoTsL_igWD033vr8I-tw701rUEdU3F0IS6mYr32cw-y8XHFJD5Ik/s1600-h/0942.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 266px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447417247078903458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSU6IgtsMYMmaOyPY95Xgn1Rj0xphcqHE881jRdudKRCOgolmg6b2IlAPSAEc4guOBwpLMzkGcqr5xs9QabHQshZ6xoTsL_igWD033vr8I-tw701rUEdU3F0IS6mYr32cw-y8XHFJD5Ik/s400/0942.JPG" /></a>In Marrakech the prices tend to be higher. Essaouira is also a good place to buy Argan oil products - indigenous to that part of Morocco only. Argan oil is used in cosmetics, food, medicine etc. I have no idea how does the Argan cooking oil tastes, but there is a small little shop in Essaouira <em>medina</em> that sells special kind of lemon fragrant Argan oil soaps. I couldn't give you directions even if my life depended on it. I found it once very accidentally and i know the rough area where it locates, but each time i go looking for it, i usually end up making random circles in the neighbourhood until i stumble on that shop. Another widely available consumer group is Thuya wood products. You see them sold on every street - brown polished looking boxes, bowls, pins, gameboards and so on. The prices vary from very cheap to not so cheap. If you want to support the local artisanal groups, buy your stuff from designated shops - then your money goes straight to the artist/craftsman not to the middle man. At the same time, the prices on those shops are a bit higher. Also, if you want to invest into let's say a beautiful thya wood jewellery box or some precision work like that, don't buy the cheapest stuff you can find. It's a given that quality will be noticeably worse, but the thuya wood is also a live material, it expands or dries a little depending on the climate and cheaper products tend to break or bend more.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpUBvfZZ0D0G8sYjaQ_SwLxkgRX1niQX4vHYL7s38jQjaXdnCFHhevAQEQMY86bPnGqHMgqqPvJOg9hgchsygGwrfH4NOnVoAtl6juxXWGI8B5NqxY_b08kyoVsuDN_Ag39dGy-zH0Zk/s1600-h/_MG_0106.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447416600954971682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpUBvfZZ0D0G8sYjaQ_SwLxkgRX1niQX4vHYL7s38jQjaXdnCFHhevAQEQMY86bPnGqHMgqqPvJOg9hgchsygGwrfH4NOnVoAtl6juxXWGI8B5NqxY_b08kyoVsuDN_Ag39dGy-zH0Zk/s400/_MG_0106.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOafLQ0It3LifrySMJ8Ei2BvdctrJzaHu4XOOTW61uOXgZJ8-Iat4jV7SoqOZYxlj8_l86S5Xbnkc55wQRgWo0U42BGUskLr38FdnnOK2bEIyOhy8aI6M-IAZ6a4jPhVeoqS-zIqI15Fs/s1600-h/_MG_0117.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447416603051711058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOafLQ0It3LifrySMJ8Ei2BvdctrJzaHu4XOOTW61uOXgZJ8-Iat4jV7SoqOZYxlj8_l86S5Xbnkc55wQRgWo0U42BGUskLr38FdnnOK2bEIyOhy8aI6M-IAZ6a4jPhVeoqS-zIqI15Fs/s400/_MG_0117.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTmoI9wZpEXMw9AKr4Hj7PAFELYiGwNeIqA0v2Od9JPUHr7S-_dcWGLqMK-ZYXNMANra-z11sGMwkVvPqqlx3wwQyGi2cD7PC-MaU8HJkawyjUtVq10YveoH3Q0nCr1wITAKo3FgshPyU/s1600-h/0879.JPG"><br /><br /><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 202px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447416595852314322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTmoI9wZpEXMw9AKr4Hj7PAFELYiGwNeIqA0v2Od9JPUHr7S-_dcWGLqMK-ZYXNMANra-z11sGMwkVvPqqlx3wwQyGi2cD7PC-MaU8HJkawyjUtVq10YveoH3Q0nCr1wITAKo3FgshPyU/s400/0879.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyf20OcNMAe6ahHed5Yj0yxzcY5Huw3NUyXPjHPJW1Ex3-GIlRbSIcvmXQgdHGk6c_0uFKkhfhS4-h8nzgwvW5Z-48t7O72G4TTzyPQzZCr4KOiMJpoVDbwcIDTucjbZci0QYa28jpzxQ/s1600-h/_MG_0588.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 282px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447419209568351810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyf20OcNMAe6ahHed5Yj0yxzcY5Huw3NUyXPjHPJW1Ex3-GIlRbSIcvmXQgdHGk6c_0uFKkhfhS4-h8nzgwvW5Z-48t7O72G4TTzyPQzZCr4KOiMJpoVDbwcIDTucjbZci0QYa28jpzxQ/s400/_MG_0588.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Colorful Safi ceramics<br /></em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIUesgx1su6GUkfgy7Nt5WRU9_KO2RgUyi3jBobvtFd5nj_1OZ0SA3xB5wEEDPV9X6JkNDb1YaRBrX2Voozkus_1TO9pssFs7pvodgU2kZ6H8V8x2Ggj1MIermT11Eme72BOOxjO9SVHo/s1600-h/_MG_3278.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447419222788108690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIUesgx1su6GUkfgy7Nt5WRU9_KO2RgUyi3jBobvtFd5nj_1OZ0SA3xB5wEEDPV9X6JkNDb1YaRBrX2Voozkus_1TO9pssFs7pvodgU2kZ6H8V8x2Ggj1MIermT11Eme72BOOxjO9SVHo/s400/_MG_3278.JPG" /></a><br /><em>If in India shop-guys offer you masala chai, then in Morocco it's peppermint tea (Ibrahim)<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4lb2eVFfmTc8-NSg7iNLgQTqwS8u-s7gqP9qMrcBhkuH3EJEVP2fW-W0dC2B-1NBYRpbF5LCzI1izMSrsK-BtUti8Kw7LToo67lMZM5yX4ilvxaqCes7ayfb2Ic2uXGdO4mnzp4CPkA/s1600-h/_MG_0639.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447419217117963586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4lb2eVFfmTc8-NSg7iNLgQTqwS8u-s7gqP9qMrcBhkuH3EJEVP2fW-W0dC2B-1NBYRpbF5LCzI1izMSrsK-BtUti8Kw7LToo67lMZM5yX4ilvxaqCes7ayfb2Ic2uXGdO4mnzp4CPkA/s400/_MG_0639.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Shop guy showing us a leather puff. We couldn't agree on the price, so we smiled and walked out of the shop. He came out after us and said that he really would want to sell us the puff, but the price is just too low - his family would die of hunger! He waited until we walked to the end of the street and then screamed: "ok ok!". It really pays off not to be that interested in the product in the first place, so that you are willing to just walk away without any regret.<br /></em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPXzehix34d-0zUjvUQDRoId3H3AlD_GGGKXtLBk3dLZ-t9uzqX3x3NwNdrm6lMUrcUD7e1aioFj0yqZGoDCBf1UJx0QeGTcOBzm-e5PeWpxeywfyg8lK3gUGpGJ4Xkwr0ZjMZPXBmU_k/s1600-h/0930.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447436990172978610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPXzehix34d-0zUjvUQDRoId3H3AlD_GGGKXtLBk3dLZ-t9uzqX3x3NwNdrm6lMUrcUD7e1aioFj0yqZGoDCBf1UJx0QeGTcOBzm-e5PeWpxeywfyg8lK3gUGpGJ4Xkwr0ZjMZPXBmU_k/s400/0930.JPG" /></a><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSQkpjvO8YwKryu6qXEoPMujHbTTX3pTGmvl-ylBqq_uYNnNdbi3vYiFc12CTp4L6sAQa69j9pFQQqWxE4U6GccISVpi18pPwhQoO-dppW9Y3Tr3NYEiIfAHmT6BvHrGsGJKYMCcy-eY0/s1600-h/0988.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447436982152810930" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSQkpjvO8YwKryu6qXEoPMujHbTTX3pTGmvl-ylBqq_uYNnNdbi3vYiFc12CTp4L6sAQa69j9pFQQqWxE4U6GccISVpi18pPwhQoO-dppW9Y3Tr3NYEiIfAHmT6BvHrGsGJKYMCcy-eY0/s400/0988.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><br />Me and Jevgeni stayed in Essaouira for two nights. We walked around, ate good food, enjoyed nice weather and celebrated Jevgeni’s birthday in our <em>riad</em>. I even ordered a surprise birthday cake, which was very huge and tasted like a transfat sugar bomb. The <em>riad</em> we were staying in is a small family operated place called Dar Afram. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeMFi2wd73Ih7BOHcmt88xUt_Ydgl3o0MHpuzj8Z31pvk7o2n5coChXmwkxFd4q5Gz3mofER5IUKeOQf77Z3m4ZmvgLk-kLucjXdIbg9woKe7EBSJWNSTkIgRE2hF7K4h1EzhqgLcsnU/s1600-h/_MG_7790.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447424044598585282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeMFi2wd73Ih7BOHcmt88xUt_Ydgl3o0MHpuzj8Z31pvk7o2n5coChXmwkxFd4q5Gz3mofER5IUKeOQf77Z3m4ZmvgLk-kLucjXdIbg9woKe7EBSJWNSTkIgRE2hF7K4h1EzhqgLcsnU/s400/_MG_7790.JPG" /></a>I’ve stayed there every time i’ve visited Essaouira and i quite enjoy it. The atmosphere is very relaxed, probably because it’s run by Australian guy Tarik and we all know that Australians are one relaxed and chilled-out bunch. Tarik’s father Abdul is Moroccan, mother Australian, so the guy looks 100% local without the pesky language barrier :). Since Abdul is a musician and Tarik is also handy with a guitar, there’s often jammin’ going on in the <em>riad</em>. The place also seems to attract musically talented guests which is very good for having live music every evening. </div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKTFSYhhlXHkp4ZznJY7dreArQHMqRzPTjdMomrxpwztT0Ec_oiEoJSQzhxe6i8wLvxo5sXuXy3fJdEf3U-g4KzY3OlKd8Gi5XDAMGSHokV-p9mERzUZHTRnzPxxx43NtRbQaDgDAHHuk/s1600-h/_MG_7781.JPG"><em><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447426153044772866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKTFSYhhlXHkp4ZznJY7dreArQHMqRzPTjdMomrxpwztT0Ec_oiEoJSQzhxe6i8wLvxo5sXuXy3fJdEf3U-g4KzY3OlKd8Gi5XDAMGSHokV-p9mERzUZHTRnzPxxx43NtRbQaDgDAHHuk/s400/_MG_7781.JPG" /></em></a><br /><em>Celebrating Jevgeni's birthday</em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloG4a5h1w81cGMyYrpaYXSni3OutykyASrtqsPBlVlCxRwhTApywQ1o_Q-Ffn-gq__3QapKBjBmaqh_C3f23BeLIByov5-t5V4GO0uKBfrAsAfkyL9rxnVwk8x-0kHPyPsfBcTNK78ik/s1600-h/0906.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447435199670595234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloG4a5h1w81cGMyYrpaYXSni3OutykyASrtqsPBlVlCxRwhTApywQ1o_Q-Ffn-gq__3QapKBjBmaqh_C3f23BeLIByov5-t5V4GO0uKBfrAsAfkyL9rxnVwk8x-0kHPyPsfBcTNK78ik/s400/0906.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Tarik</em><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4F7JVk4DrZfKGy3EYwZHygPdmPLGF5T7IhjyRgmCscOiA9-XBNNCsQfwH3x9zKomegWiz3es_7rGPNGk5Fhk6Xa22AgO71oqc6rVqdkbCXkmVBL-ecIFc1karye1rrE6YdVsltqGT0LI/s1600-h/0996.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447426147132763970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4F7JVk4DrZfKGy3EYwZHygPdmPLGF5T7IhjyRgmCscOiA9-XBNNCsQfwH3x9zKomegWiz3es_7rGPNGk5Fhk6Xa22AgO71oqc6rVqdkbCXkmVBL-ecIFc1karye1rrE6YdVsltqGT0LI/s400/0996.JPG" /></a></div><em>Thijs from Netherlands, October 2008. He was one of those musically talented guests<br /></em><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTHL_5j3RdDy3UxwHZrpKY_wJAls10KLBJJeYOBJxog7tq-a-oUZyKwRk21PKUkUiwFU3KkW53tO4f2IlHEPyXdsVKlBG51M97d_E5wTRPeZ4nLJnLXi6jtetXsuuP0DVbIFu_5IiO0C0/s1600-h/1004.JPG"></a><br />Dar Afram has about 6 rooms, all with shared bathrooms. Also a roof terrace on two different levels. On the ground floor is a lounge and kitchen area. It's reasonably quiet place, they seem to tone down music after midnight. The <em>riad</em> locates in the historical <em>medina</em>, only a few minute walk to the city walls and main shopping streets, about 10 minute walk to the Supratours bus station (that's an important detail, because you're going to have to carry your luggage yourself since the <em>medina</em> is car free). </div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs8hliUtYmavphvFDqvCLTExZPvYjTusTRxtkJD0l74qmxikPGuaAq-ILp-vOq3DBbjajYDKyvd7HzLuCxgo2SOWJdzKxP7n64jK1ms51xofScqy3uIwWi8jtiqqinPXI5hZrIa0vvU5E/s1600-h/0855.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 260px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447435187612603746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs8hliUtYmavphvFDqvCLTExZPvYjTusTRxtkJD0l74qmxikPGuaAq-ILp-vOq3DBbjajYDKyvd7HzLuCxgo2SOWJdzKxP7n64jK1ms51xofScqy3uIwWi8jtiqqinPXI5hZrIa0vvU5E/s400/0855.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcXSGRtN5cwLX_2MuipW_RB6XNNUYvWQGkl1bfCmNyNW-59PnTDw4GtKAJaoRIpvw42enYg9anbcDhGHRe8KBtrInDASmLt2kBU3of3muwmYnbGryAEl8jQi7aXGih4-fDc37K-CQSC1E/s1600-h/0859.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447435189842739602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcXSGRtN5cwLX_2MuipW_RB6XNNUYvWQGkl1bfCmNyNW-59PnTDw4GtKAJaoRIpvw42enYg9anbcDhGHRe8KBtrInDASmLt2kBU3of3muwmYnbGryAEl8jQi7aXGih4-fDc37K-CQSC1E/s400/0859.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK_OHAksG59LSm0W3CX-EUeu0dL9Z_bCPNWzVwwBA1RN2g5YQK-HFLOrE4kuLdumFyKEXfUagQ5smNDcE63EQNfGDEAqxBDRM2tlX8ZnVp8mHEd1petwgvWyyUBDFqMeng9yQ4CEAnbTo/s1600-h/0867.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447435193073753810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK_OHAksG59LSm0W3CX-EUeu0dL9Z_bCPNWzVwwBA1RN2g5YQK-HFLOrE4kuLdumFyKEXfUagQ5smNDcE63EQNfGDEAqxBDRM2tlX8ZnVp8mHEd1petwgvWyyUBDFqMeng9yQ4CEAnbTo/s400/0867.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1PwN9gTrHlodW8KStpk_rfAbObs8G3Jhz1UH-AAz6iu93Q-wn5FCpB7SFGq01BG0QkFw5-XheDwK5-ZoqDgvs8i9-qPriaR1TfDCtPazVJaePkbTESizCSBG_aKMUeJVVgdlDVgS6-0/s1600-h/0869.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447435192511419746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1PwN9gTrHlodW8KStpk_rfAbObs8G3Jhz1UH-AAz6iu93Q-wn5FCpB7SFGq01BG0QkFw5-XheDwK5-ZoqDgvs8i9-qPriaR1TfDCtPazVJaePkbTESizCSBG_aKMUeJVVgdlDVgS6-0/s400/0869.JPG" /></a><br /><em>One of the double rooms<br /><br /></em>For booking write Tarik directly: <a href="mailto:tazzatarik@hotmail.com">tazzatarik@hotmail.com</a></div></div><div><a href="http://darafram.com/">http://darafram.com/</a></div><br /><div>The room fee includes a complimentary Moroccan breakfast (orange juice, tea, coffe, bread, jam, olive oil etc), dinner costs extra (i think it was around 100DH). As much as i like the <em>riad</em> and Tarik, can’t say i recommend the cooking. I’ve tried it on 3-4 different occasions, it’s good enough, but nothing special.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAAZ7vBJWJx55gDWXlysm34QQGNDteOCxUsNQk3YhylEUkQCToMZvZlZFWcgvuzsFk-tDjl_8xstEwyOG5Sctg-RAH3kaM1-hpnbEWcAMFXnITonwLXBT4l5wN8-VMETshNUMSsj__CYE/s1600-h/1004.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447428669359515586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAAZ7vBJWJx55gDWXlysm34QQGNDteOCxUsNQk3YhylEUkQCToMZvZlZFWcgvuzsFk-tDjl_8xstEwyOG5Sctg-RAH3kaM1-hpnbEWcAMFXnITonwLXBT4l5wN8-VMETshNUMSsj__CYE/s400/1004.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Tarik and riad's dinner - fish tajine<br /><br /></em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIp73xILYxCmZydG-clxzmIhnvZq2RzfgYILAeMkQ-BYA5fxMGCgdu-jlefNSjVRPDg6UnzVmzok6kOx8lSxQBiBr0gQiFXgPAAA_xguotFiSNZTMwaE5i8NJy59cjzlc8vzuZb_IHdk/s1600-h/0893.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447428220631876658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIp73xILYxCmZydG-clxzmIhnvZq2RzfgYILAeMkQ-BYA5fxMGCgdu-jlefNSjVRPDg6UnzVmzok6kOx8lSxQBiBr0gQiFXgPAAA_xguotFiSNZTMwaE5i8NJy59cjzlc8vzuZb_IHdk/s400/0893.JPG" /></a>If you’re in Essaouira, it’s almost a compulsary to try the fresh seafood down at the harbour. There are various seafood vendors, you just point at what you’d like to try and they’ll cook it for you. Do be careful about the price though, it’s pretty steep. Those few times i’ve eaten there it’s been about 150-200DH, so negotiate beforehand.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR3LIWDOKfkZWnvYrfjgQfNhTiI78KP8uFRz_Tx0YG8eD-iWAuizi5nFXU64_mLwntqIjnaR5ReQhPlDqwqOQWvdjL3xz0saY7BgMrVHJPvZGQZzOJpjWg6ztdmVNxE_WLCGED15ULVrw/s1600-h/0889.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447428664696332050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR3LIWDOKfkZWnvYrfjgQfNhTiI78KP8uFRz_Tx0YG8eD-iWAuizi5nFXU64_mLwntqIjnaR5ReQhPlDqwqOQWvdjL3xz0saY7BgMrVHJPvZGQZzOJpjWg6ztdmVNxE_WLCGED15ULVrw/s400/0889.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Fresh seafood vendors at the harbour</em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtYRubDGRa7vCfQ-30JmzNXQc75dNKDWW_FTFTT-4ebYK35jMINwKi4Fh5jHRec_Sq-4rU1G6sSUO9mcVAu9Mme_K-UZCUb-I0KfsJ0UNBaYLeuYsLVf3FU8qcGNyB2lkA_TuH7TAcAQ/s1600-h/0883.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447428661794225842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtYRubDGRa7vCfQ-30JmzNXQc75dNKDWW_FTFTT-4ebYK35jMINwKi4Fh5jHRec_Sq-4rU1G6sSUO9mcVAu9Mme_K-UZCUb-I0KfsJ0UNBaYLeuYsLVf3FU8qcGNyB2lkA_TuH7TAcAQ/s400/0883.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Essaouira harbour with it's blue fishing boats and gridlock traffic</em><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFeq9h9npn5gfjbGThy0BDPtZMLgAhXabwE63oCH1Yxk0JpkTTKx5bwC4oRhFqSg1SdTeqx-vfYlkRXE592xN0SWSpjikgj9GTw56q5dO0yM_x6r6rKw6XvWYKU0_CUW3BmbrD4iNfwX4/s1600-h/IMG_0567.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447440114558242514" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFeq9h9npn5gfjbGThy0BDPtZMLgAhXabwE63oCH1Yxk0JpkTTKx5bwC4oRhFqSg1SdTeqx-vfYlkRXE592xN0SWSpjikgj9GTw56q5dO0yM_x6r6rKw6XvWYKU0_CUW3BmbrD4iNfwX4/s400/IMG_0567.jpg" /></a>One day we were walking around in <em>medina</em>, trying to find a non-tourist eating place. We ended up finding an absolutely superb local place which offered excellent fish and tajines. On the first day we just got some freshly grilled fish and shrimps, because tajines had ended already. But we made a deal to come back the next day and pre-ordered our tajines. So, the day later we get there and the owner informes us that sorry, he has already sold our food to somebody else. We were like „ee .. wtf?“. It was a slice of his Moroccan humor of course, our tajines were happily steaming on the stove. The day before when i said i would like a beef tajine and Jevgeni wanted chicken, we imagined they’re going to be standard little portions. What we got was loads and loads of peppermint tea, olives, fresh salad, bread and two biggest tajines you’ll ever see served for one person in a restaurant. Trust me, the photos don’t do them any justice. And boy, were they tasty. I couldn’t even finish mine, it was just so huge. We made a small mistake of not fixing the price beforehand, so the final bill came to 120DH for two (with a bit of haggling). Since it was an eating place meant for locals, the price was definitely not something that the locals would be charged, but considering the quality/quantity of the food, it was actually pretty cheap. I whole heartedly recommend the place.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIUmcm5HyiK9TcqQ0OUZP8KT66Dwo8DppOTqCSKm9s7yPZ6jGpIKM9isv99IIWSiE1-Mrg4tc94hb-6sp1jGeY9x8Kc05gQqujXffHnRKPMjrm-BmKPoABd9wAHSdA5iDIhIVnEdfCUjc/s1600-h/IMG_0570.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447440822123371298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIUmcm5HyiK9TcqQ0OUZP8KT66Dwo8DppOTqCSKm9s7yPZ6jGpIKM9isv99IIWSiE1-Mrg4tc94hb-6sp1jGeY9x8Kc05gQqujXffHnRKPMjrm-BmKPoABd9wAHSdA5iDIhIVnEdfCUjc/s400/IMG_0570.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSV0swO9WwixSMe9iZjsYex9fDg4ostQUmkT2Ks4i7pkDDDzUYRwVhO2N_k5PCPW9oxMdrb9d6lHcAAApcMtEjE4gAkL2PI3F_8t63rOmFPs3n63MyIpGoKR3pCF4Xl46qx-isVut3xN8/s1600-h/IMG_0574.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447440828600593682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSV0swO9WwixSMe9iZjsYex9fDg4ostQUmkT2Ks4i7pkDDDzUYRwVhO2N_k5PCPW9oxMdrb9d6lHcAAApcMtEjE4gAkL2PI3F_8t63rOmFPs3n63MyIpGoKR3pCF4Xl46qx-isVut3xN8/s400/IMG_0574.jpg" /></a><br /><em>Owner of the place drinking tea with us</em><br /><br />It's hard to describe where it locates. Let's say you're standing in the harbour, by the fresh seafood vendors and you turn your back to them. In front of you is a big empty square and then the buildings start. A bit ahead on your right are the city walls and somewhere there is a door or gate you can go through. Once you pass that door, you will find yourself on a pretty wide street that turns into a shopping street as you walk further. In the beginning of the street they sell clothes, household stuff etc, but once you walk down on it, it slowly converges into food market. While you are walking on the street, you will go through many gates along the way. If you pass the 4th gate since you started walking from the harbour, then about 70 metres in on the right side between different vendors is an entrance to this eating place. It had a hand-painted sign by the door - tajine, kettle and logo of Coca-Cola. That's the best i can do when it comes to directions.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvZof2udf-ZheG5yl7m82eW0g9Cpgdcj38ZTE-My3yEAE_0biSnNBR0JqQfNcKlrMbPVief6BHbDkM-D6_aztxwQe6HFv2C5DDRAomgT7vqsUh0hO6Sa_QN1JIvnR5niPdVxnh42dx5A/s1600-h/IMG_0565.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447442852918274146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvZof2udf-ZheG5yl7m82eW0g9Cpgdcj38ZTE-My3yEAE_0biSnNBR0JqQfNcKlrMbPVief6BHbDkM-D6_aztxwQe6HFv2C5DDRAomgT7vqsUh0hO6Sa_QN1JIvnR5niPdVxnh42dx5A/s400/IMG_0565.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpmY_ljIcA6a6Cw2I9Y63eiOD0RkbECOdzE0HJchbZgDeLwwmrJsFBwb3AuS93tlyhg_T7dY5-r82XnZXZdRRkqmT4YkDM7CCH1iYZ-0e0QyMUfWGDHyohNYuwt7zzCR01cVSrEig1dOM/s1600-h/1015.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447436994387013474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpmY_ljIcA6a6Cw2I9Y63eiOD0RkbECOdzE0HJchbZgDeLwwmrJsFBwb3AuS93tlyhg_T7dY5-r82XnZXZdRRkqmT4YkDM7CCH1iYZ-0e0QyMUfWGDHyohNYuwt7zzCR01cVSrEig1dOM/s400/1015.JPG" /></a><br /><em>Coast of Atlantic Ocean at sundown<br /><br /><br /></em></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-85948625297561255522010-03-06T03:20:00.017+02:002010-04-17T23:28:08.963+03:00Monsieur Sofi, part 1<div align="justify"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOJchf7YQ157GPdmiNKeJplGbxvIaRYP84vMLZ37ZkPwVJvrW0qZ3xQIi2Pqq0UWDAns4r7V3r5LQoQ0bqTl6hIgUygqwqyxTjWPQBRWQ6zsxnZrRamx3_abTlrXICvYFSOCMWOk1itAs/s1600-h/0321.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 266px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445334113062035138" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOJchf7YQ157GPdmiNKeJplGbxvIaRYP84vMLZ37ZkPwVJvrW0qZ3xQIi2Pqq0UWDAns4r7V3r5LQoQ0bqTl6hIgUygqwqyxTjWPQBRWQ6zsxnZrRamx3_abTlrXICvYFSOCMWOk1itAs/s400/0321.JPG" /></a></div><div align="justify">I am so very happy that my husband is flying in tomorrow to visit me in Morocco. He’s never been to Morocco before and finally i get to make the introductions. Sadly he only comes for 5 days, but we’re just going to have to make the most of it.<br /><br />So far i’ve lived in a very modest hotel, but now i booked for us for the days Jevgeni is in Marrakech a fancy <em>riad</em>, so he’d get to see the more ethnic part of Morocco. The <em>riad</em> locates in <em>medina</em> and it’s website gave only a cryptic address to find it by. Everybody who’s ever been to <em>medina</em> knows that finding something by the address only can be near impossible, specially when you are not fluent in Arabic. There just aren’t many streetsigns and if there are any, they are mostly in Arabic. So i took up a mission to find that <em>riad</em> before Jevgeni arrives. And i’m very glad i did that, because it took me about 3 hours of making infinite circles in <em>medina</em> trying to understand directions the Moroccans were kindly giving me in Arabic. I can’t imagine how a person who is arriving in the late evening is supposed to find the place when the nearby souq-streets have packed their business up and the streets become almost instinct by 11 pm, not to mention rather gloomy and dark.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfl1SZZx7jq4iozR_Ep7EF37CvJ-iaH6rrdOKdblA5VO4EkCLybZEsF3OvOs-9A0jb97KfZu1Q20DvAxXPrS2x6s7McLMSINl0Xs_b-02QUselkK1hpD1HpCayJiHVANlc0Va1Kufvi_k/s1600-h/0493.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 273px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445337909572244578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfl1SZZx7jq4iozR_Ep7EF37CvJ-iaH6rrdOKdblA5VO4EkCLybZEsF3OvOs-9A0jb97KfZu1Q20DvAxXPrS2x6s7McLMSINl0Xs_b-02QUselkK1hpD1HpCayJiHVANlc0Va1Kufvi_k/s400/0493.JPG" /></a>When i finally did find the place the guy managing it named Medy, though cute and charming, could not speak nor understand a single word in English. It was quite interesting to meet a person who is working in the tourism business and does not understand you even a bit. It made me realize how limited my pantomiming skills really are. Medy could only speak French and Arabic, but luckily by the time me and Jevgeni were checking in there was another guy (Zaza) working who’s English was way better.<br /><br />I also had an obsession that i wanted to meet Jevgeni in airport wearing a <em>jellaba</em>. <em>Jellaba</em> is a local traditional long robe, worn both by men and women. Men have it usually very simple, women play more with colors and fabric. I spent couple of days searching for the one i liked and laughing at the prices shopping guys were quoting me. Seriously, do i look naive enough that i’m going to dish out 1200DH for a machine-made commonwear <em>jellaba</em>? But i guess i can’t blame them for trying their luck, there are plenty of tourists who will pay that price and more. But if you smile and tell them not to give you a tourist price, the price drops to 800DH, and if you add that you live Marrakech and is he joking with that price, the price drops to 600DH. If you chuckle and walk out of the shop, he lowers it to at least 400DH. And after a bit of haggling, you might even get it for 300-350DH, which by all locals i’ve asked from is a good price (for a blondie :)).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPf6lIdYzLdUhPOPTFeep0U7pXhhAGA8_vjTwCLEfP81X5a-RgBTK-VeVQQA4HAaAYLTsUwD9cNqJzQqE3HJmhNQeKYYkvcQ7UZaegl_iN99D7s1leT3bl8lod1fTnFpw1J_G61_BFCeY/s1600-h/IMG_0502.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 300px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445330060439764386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPf6lIdYzLdUhPOPTFeep0U7pXhhAGA8_vjTwCLEfP81X5a-RgBTK-VeVQQA4HAaAYLTsUwD9cNqJzQqE3HJmhNQeKYYkvcQ7UZaegl_iN99D7s1leT3bl8lod1fTnFpw1J_G61_BFCeY/s400/IMG_0502.jpg" /></a>So i got myself a simple <em>jellaba</em>, bought couple of scarves and practised for two hours how to tie a scarf properly so it would cover my hair but not fall on my eyes in 10 minutes. Now i was ready to meet Jevgeni.<br /><br />Very very early one morning i was standing in the airport and waiting for Jevgeni’s flight to come in. I felt like on an important exam, nervous and very anxious, blood pressure rising and butterlies in the stomach. The fact that i was wearing a <em>jellaba</em> did not add to my comfort.<br /><br />On my way to airport absolutely nobody paid any attention to me. Few people did watch funny, but for the most i was just another local woman in a robe. At the same time i personally felt terribly uncomfortable. I can understand when a Moroccan woman who is used to wearing a <em>jellaba</em> can feel herself naked and exposed when wearing fitted jeans or skirt but somehow i felt exactly the same way. Though <em>jellaba</em> is essentially a shapeless bag, i felt exposed and very very uncomfortable. Like a wolf wearing a sheep-skin and trying to pass itself off as one. Fake, very fake.<br /><br />Jevgeni was of course the last person coming off the plane, i already had time to get worried that maybe he missed the flight or they sent him back to Germany. Finally he came out of the Arrival’s Area and walked almost passed me. I blinked first, i just couldn’t stand there with a serious face and pretend not to know him. So i smiled at him. Oh, it was so lovely to meet him over such a long time! He embodies everything that is safe, homy, cozy and familiar. Add to that him being my most important person and i fully understand why butterflies were having a rave in my stomach.<br /><br />When we were walking to my hotel, i was suddenly aware of people watching us and not in a kind, approving way. Then i realized that from far it looked like a Moroccan girl is walking holding hands with a white guy. So we took few steps apart and walked the rest of the way separately.<br /><br /><em>Me in a simple red jellaba:<br /></em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAy7UybQh4nKOTVkdpF1MUVkoh8Cs3okXu6G1aC27-o4vHqpwHHwYKFc3M_HslN2CRYV-YhkWmYe_NLrMk3Sn6BbgYV_wl4nyyFnCi1oJGomdsodr4QVB0_Y4RQlJBYXLHW4vJBqNlpcQ/s1600-h/IMG_0516.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445330668838632802" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAy7UybQh4nKOTVkdpF1MUVkoh8Cs3okXu6G1aC27-o4vHqpwHHwYKFc3M_HslN2CRYV-YhkWmYe_NLrMk3Sn6BbgYV_wl4nyyFnCi1oJGomdsodr4QVB0_Y4RQlJBYXLHW4vJBqNlpcQ/s400/IMG_0516.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_QWYI0KbnThsrjnLwmFmlR9hVN5pPLI1JtzBUTLdPEgxzZomgDLruIH_XENm1Q7-PmrlYiQKq_FRjdljqWhKwVzetHd9Bbol07-rTz9FLAZ30mvF0-AlfptOMIHeJE8KTvU7wnV7jGA/s1600-h/IMG_0511.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445330662718550034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_QWYI0KbnThsrjnLwmFmlR9hVN5pPLI1JtzBUTLdPEgxzZomgDLruIH_XENm1Q7-PmrlYiQKq_FRjdljqWhKwVzetHd9Bbol07-rTz9FLAZ30mvF0-AlfptOMIHeJE8KTvU7wnV7jGA/s400/IMG_0511.jpg" /></a><br /><br />When Jevgeni saw my hotel room he poisonously stated that i live in a cupboard. Well, it might be a cupboard, but it’s my personal cupboard, the whole 10 m2 of it. With my personal bed and table and chair and sink. And the whole two windows – one for the courtyard and one for the streetview. Two windows is luxury even in the better establishments. And did i mention that i have a big mirror on the wall? How cool is that?<br /><br />We gathered my stuff and for few days i relocated out of my cupboard. Since I’d found our <em>riad</em> already few days before, it was only a quick walk. The room i had booked – double bedroom – turned out to be an apartment with a bedroom, living room area and a bathroom. The breakfast was included in the price and as usually, it was served on the rooftop.<br /><br />In the evening i took Jevgeni to eat in my favourite foodstall number 4. My temporary cooking-friends at the foodstall no. 4 had curious faces on when i suddenly turned up with some white guy, holding hands. i tried to introduce Jevgeni to them as my husband, but they didn’t seem to understand. It was only when i pointed at our wedding rings, that the light dawned on Milod’s face: „Ah! Monsieur Sofi!“ :)<br /><br />Curiously enough, Jevgeni got „cheated“ 3 times already in the first few hours of walking about. In one of the cases, we were sitting in Cafe France on Djemaa el-Fna, drinking tea. I go there from time to time, so i know what the prices are. After we were finished, Jevgeni went inside to pay for the teas and although i told him the price was 12DH, the waiter still charged him twice as much. So when he came back with less money, i went inside to look for the waiter. The guy knows me by face already and when he saw me coming, he started searching for the missing money to give me. He didn’t even bother to argue with me or tell me that he doesn’t know what i’m talking about .. etc. I found it very funny, i guess Jevgeni had a wafting „just-off-the-plane“ scent on. Luckily it wore off soon.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzid5-USdSe5EeeEF2OpT4rqD-ikYEPF-Lev-wAsHEMDs9awyH5cSgHaCGzxpACP2EzPOs1OoV5m5PpTr-PSabV7VcEn48uzSDQXLsI-RyJl1qAais-RQ7ArzG2LP6upp0-hZj3b21g4/s1600-h/0279.JPG"><br /><br /><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445335091476917714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzid5-USdSe5EeeEF2OpT4rqD-ikYEPF-Lev-wAsHEMDs9awyH5cSgHaCGzxpACP2EzPOs1OoV5m5PpTr-PSabV7VcEn48uzSDQXLsI-RyJl1qAais-RQ7ArzG2LP6upp0-hZj3b21g4/s400/0279.JPG" /></a><br /><br /></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-88705075896250965982010-03-03T22:41:00.019+02:002010-04-17T23:28:08.965+03:00„The answer to life, Universe and everything“ (link)<div align="justify"><br />There is nothing better than big ripe oranges squeezed into a fresh invigorating juice in front of your very eyes. During those weeks i’ve spent in Marrakech, i’ve practically lived off that stuff. Djemaa el-Fna square is full of vendors selling that juicy goodness. A glass of orange juice (about 250ml) costs 3DH (less than 5 EEK). At first i was going to random vendors and bought the juice by glasses, but then i started buying my juice to-go, into an empty 0,5l water bottle. This is when the troubles started. Some vendors charge you for 2 glasses, but some claim that one bottle is 3 or even 4 glasses. It’s not really a big financial loss, it’s more a matter of principle – i don’t like to get blatantly ripped off, no matter how small the sums are. And if it happens about 3 times a day, i get cranky.<br /><br />One day i went to a random vendor again (cart number 40) and though i know that one small plastic bottle of juice costs 6DH, you have to confirm the price beforehand anyway, or later it might be up for a lively discussion. So i showed him the bottle and asked how much. He looked at me, sized me up for a second and then said 12DH (twice the normal price). I blinked and then bursted into laughing, which made him very pissed and he started cursing at me. I walked straight to the next vendor who having witnessed our little price disagreement with the previous guy, was more than happy to fill my bottle for 6DH + give me a half a glass for free. All this time the other vendor was still screaming and cursing at me in Arabic. So this is how i found „my“ juice guy (cart number 42) and to save my energy i only go to him now. Abdul gives me freshly squeezed juice, not the one diluted with ice and water, plus a complimentary half a glass for free to drink while he’s preparing my bottle. No hassle, no trouble. Every time i go to him i have to pass the vendor number 40, who somehow still remembers me and usually is still cursing at me. One of my Moroccan friends once translated what he was saying and it was something in the lines of: „<em>curseword! curseword! curseword</em>! i’m the first in line, you have to come to me first! <em>curseword! curseword!“</em> Lately he has learned some English words and few times when i’ve passed him, he points at me with a finger and says with his creepiest voice: „You!“. Recently i walked by him again to get my juice and he smiled his crooked smile and squeeked „I love you!“. Talk about progressive marketing! :) Ha-ha!<br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDGVPh7_Tb3Z87k2vcV7M-eXbcumw26IyN8GGooWkrJQ4llGr2LObQdsNEscqh5Uw6-r6AsaYz3d3vQHNkSMF-ROQjrD0Dm9u_IUpnvZsfS7m6igFJ_CgXAbMAYbZfXket4_aWqMCQy8g/s1600-h/0766.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444520780254079618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDGVPh7_Tb3Z87k2vcV7M-eXbcumw26IyN8GGooWkrJQ4llGr2LObQdsNEscqh5Uw6-r6AsaYz3d3vQHNkSMF-ROQjrD0Dm9u_IUpnvZsfS7m6igFJ_CgXAbMAYbZfXket4_aWqMCQy8g/s320/0766.JPG" /></a> Kaidi posing with an orange juice vendor on Djemaa el-Fna, October 2008<br /><div align="justify"><br /></div></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-15531228183291798802010-03-03T21:51:00.021+02:002010-04-17T23:28:08.967+03:00The mother of all gaps<div align="justify"><br />
Some of you might have noticed that i haven't posted anything for quite some time already. Yeah, there's been a bit of a gap .. That's because i've been lazy, i really have. After returning to Estonia, there always seemed more pressing things to do and truth be told, i'm very bad at blogging in the first place - it takes me an enormous amount of time to submit a post. It's like submitting an exam paper for me, i feel jitters before publishing every post. I write it, then i review it, search & choose photos for it, re-read the text once more etc. Plus i usually get side-tracked by things like "<em>ok, now all i have left is to find a good photo of orange vendors on Djemaa el-Fna square, i'm definitely going to recommend drinking the fresh orange juice regardless of the health-risks! .. mmh, i wonder what's the most common health issue you can get from drinking contaminated juice in Morocco? if i'm not mistaken hepatitis A is transfered via contaminated food and water, in any case, wikipedia should know! ok, let's see .. jep, so it is. interesting .. mmh, i wonder .. if i'm vaccinated against hep A, what's the likelihood of still catching it? it can't have 100% protection, or can it? ..</em> " and so on and so on. After two hours of surfing the web i will find out that there is still a tiny remote chance of catching hepatitis A even if you're vaccinated; and no closer to getting my post published :). So it was that i kept putting off blogging, assuring myself that though i'm busy at the moment, i will definitely write something next week etc.<br />
<br />
Some of you have even taken the trouble of e-mailing and asking for more stories, so here they are - last remaining posts of Morocco:<br />
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</div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-37199908756543539402009-07-23T13:25:00.026+03:002010-04-17T23:28:08.969+03:00Guelizing in Marrakech<div align="justify"><br /><br />If you get tired of hustling and bustling life of <i>medina</i>, head out to Gueliz, the new and fancy <span style="font-size:0;"></span>part of the town. Gueliz is the opposite of <i>medina</i> – modern and relaxed, less people and more open spaces. If your budget allows you can relax in some of the super trendy restaurants or cafes. But if your budget is not as kind, you can stroll the endless avenues, read a book in some gorgeous park or just walk around and enjoy the weather. No worries if you get lost, just ask a random person for “main square” or <span lang="ET"><em>Djemaa el-Fna</em> and they will point you to the right direction. Or grab a taxi back, it will most likely cost you around 10-20 DH (provided that the taxi driver isn’t giving you a city tour). </span></div><div><div><div><br /><div align="justify"><span lang="ET"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBTwqiIeKcJ8wA8p3EMyye_fvrk6H1ds4TDQ-cEeCszhTwm8_F8IeyGdRPLkJ1eGA2QbjB6VIPcNQNUTUpfIukskoYyBCiqsM68EJyzqRJhg0syCtYj8ntMt6VH1hNtdKi6gtZHXxVK88/s1600-h/_MG_8089.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 400px; float: left; height: 267px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361606630548230322" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBTwqiIeKcJ8wA8p3EMyye_fvrk6H1ds4TDQ-cEeCszhTwm8_F8IeyGdRPLkJ1eGA2QbjB6VIPcNQNUTUpfIukskoYyBCiqsM68EJyzqRJhg0syCtYj8ntMt6VH1hNtdKi6gtZHXxVK88/s400/_MG_8089.JPG" border="0" /></a>Majorelle Gardens is a nice place to visit also, admission is 30 DH. It’s filled with rare plants, birds and vivid colors. There is also an</span> Islamic Art Museum of Marrakech on the garden grounds. The garden itself is<span lang="ET"> like a chill colorful haven in that city of heat and crowd. Most of the visitors are tourists, but not the obnoxious XXL T-shirt wearing fat American kind. You can sit on one of the benches and read a book all day long if you want to, you're not going to get hastled like in public gardens. They also have a cafeteria on the premises, but i found it greatly over-priced. The garden was much smaller than i expected, but quite relaxed and nice nonetheless.<br /><br /></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8o4dPx3dAXjkyGOTeB60r_X0JIxRo5ci6qbW9MHv8brOe3EMZpJFIbqI8Vf10DXM-F12sVyJIGryY3PIRpvJlZx4Yd3bFLO_ZiAi68MblPxEfg4sNycSStLhzmb8aJJzg53ByPGDIczg/s1600-h/_MG_8094.JPG"><img style="width: 267px; height: 400px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361606723638355330" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8o4dPx3dAXjkyGOTeB60r_X0JIxRo5ci6qbW9MHv8brOe3EMZpJFIbqI8Vf10DXM-F12sVyJIGryY3PIRpvJlZx4Yd3bFLO_ZiAi68MblPxEfg4sNycSStLhzmb8aJJzg53ByPGDIczg/s400/_MG_8094.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJHQ8H5r5xEKfuKBsPaObJ_Kzcl6BhM8XmZ_D1MMZkaGhMkYIjQ6k1GaTaFvVSE2AjOyfF8mmAZeF9y5US19I7khPFUvcx476iYytVF1zewmcBtmXqp9E6q143lgnP6t3zJgYmIAhKSqA/s1600-h/_MG_8065.JPG"><img style="width: 267px; height: 400px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361605305353257458" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJHQ8H5r5xEKfuKBsPaObJ_Kzcl6BhM8XmZ_D1MMZkaGhMkYIjQ6k1GaTaFvVSE2AjOyfF8mmAZeF9y5US19I7khPFUvcx476iYytVF1zewmcBtmXqp9E6q143lgnP6t3zJgYmIAhKSqA/s400/_MG_8065.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjviO7jmGIv7Z8SMsimWxqWqXEanUqG2cm7XhC8zqdXajrUwcJJIeGLqNGb22tqUTTCaufgtwiefrSBHrUvV2CVUzvIQOivDxgEkd58gzqe7bPU_AqhCC6WOicQV_CfOckprZN7igmSemQ/s1600-h/_MG_8058.JPG"><br /><img style="width: 267px; height: 400px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361605300741346818" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjviO7jmGIv7Z8SMsimWxqWqXEanUqG2cm7XhC8zqdXajrUwcJJIeGLqNGb22tqUTTCaufgtwiefrSBHrUvV2CVUzvIQOivDxgEkd58gzqe7bPU_AqhCC6WOicQV_CfOckprZN7igmSemQ/s400/_MG_8058.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJIBpBo1ZXxmDwaDu-xLtvrHMT5FNe2GwG480FGeiPg0DxlIDP2k6fiZMIR0BSikpqBGk9Fd4bxsBVAHhvhpOZ1cfwfIta8MYEJ2882XJvHrIw8TkorH6hDjPJPoByt6ogkHhM62bKfIk/s1600-h/_MG_8047.JPG"><img style="width: 400px; height: 267px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361605443972482546" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJIBpBo1ZXxmDwaDu-xLtvrHMT5FNe2GwG480FGeiPg0DxlIDP2k6fiZMIR0BSikpqBGk9Fd4bxsBVAHhvhpOZ1cfwfIta8MYEJ2882XJvHrIw8TkorH6hDjPJPoByt6ogkHhM62bKfIk/s400/_MG_8047.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><span lang="ET"><br />On the note on recommending things i'd also like to mention that Cafe de la Poste has very good mojitos, though with matching prices.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;">Every time i go walking in Gueliz something funny or absurd happens. Last time a guy followed me over 3 hours on his bicycle. In the beginning he drove next to me, but when i got tired of it and told him to fuck off, he crossed the street and continued his mission from there. At first his persistence was slightly creepy, but i quickly got used to with him tailing me and he became just a background noise. When i reached back to <i>medina,</i> where my hotel is, i took extra care of getting rid of him. Whatever his motivation was for following me, i didn’t really want him to camp out in front of my hotel or something.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1fDHVQHBQxQdWpdbHs5thgqe8K0O2Sa52KDWtfjd0vQXQuCOt3CNjrG7Rv27GPaLjoa2KpZ0PkfIFKNsbEQ9m_kW6fh4N4Oy-cuw_ZJODyLjAZ7tF9ap8u1nhrxtEfJEvN-cJfj5ego/s1600-h/_MG_7716.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 400px; float: right; height: 267px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361608068332235922" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1fDHVQHBQxQdWpdbHs5thgqe8K0O2Sa52KDWtfjd0vQXQuCOt3CNjrG7Rv27GPaLjoa2KpZ0PkfIFKNsbEQ9m_kW6fh4N4Oy-cuw_ZJODyLjAZ7tF9ap8u1nhrxtEfJEvN-cJfj5ego/s400/_MG_7716.JPG" border="0" /></a>At the end of the Avenue Mohammed VI (on older maps it’s named Avenue de France) there is sort of an empty grass field with some bushes. People use it for picnics or other gatherings. There are also 4-5 football courts and every evening some teams are kicking each others asses. I found this place one evening quite accidently, but now I go there regularly to see them play. It’s actually a great entertainment because some of the teams play very well. The best time to go is around 6 pm, the match usually ends a bit after sunset.<br /><br /></div></div><div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWD7u_zljnHDtctQ-fjMP-3WDMA-NeJ92SVPDSYECC7fQj9AxcXy8m8RxNPNlpjIgHD408JHoMgvz1cYqDkhdpujIPKydmHxVWW71plW8HRzBKBhJnKYo6h7SPRoT6OjoWAARNTXPVaPo/s1600-h/_MG_7593.JPG"><img style="width: 400px; height: 267px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361608736024880146" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWD7u_zljnHDtctQ-fjMP-3WDMA-NeJ92SVPDSYECC7fQj9AxcXy8m8RxNPNlpjIgHD408JHoMgvz1cYqDkhdpujIPKydmHxVWW71plW8HRzBKBhJnKYo6h7SPRoT6OjoWAARNTXPVaPo/s400/_MG_7593.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5zbPa3EY07sdRYvMiT5S-8zxU9xoNpP4V9p_3kjZjRa1Upj_sPzc1W2xmf3ymRB3-xo3i66ExToE9YQK6SY0p25hUIfEf7AOLKSmwRRJ03kxSJK-38qxm5v8CL4tGKTrmEhb4jNcwq4M/s1600-h/_MG_7578.JPG"><img style="width: 400px; height: 267px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361608735117071362" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5zbPa3EY07sdRYvMiT5S-8zxU9xoNpP4V9p_3kjZjRa1Upj_sPzc1W2xmf3ymRB3-xo3i66ExToE9YQK6SY0p25hUIfEf7AOLKSmwRRJ03kxSJK-38qxm5v8CL4tGKTrmEhb4jNcwq4M/s400/_MG_7578.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Football is a popular game in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Morocco</st1:place></st1:country-region>, you can see the local youth playing it everywhere throughout the city. When me and Kaidi were visiting <st1:place st="on">Fes</st1:place> in last October, we went for a late evening walk one day and somehow got drafted to a local youth football team. We had very much fun, so we made a deal we’ll meet again the next day. The next night we played for some time (I even scored a goal, haha) then some of the guys started playing for money and we just sat back and made small-talk with the ones who weren’t playing. I remember one moment we were talking and making jokes with the guys and the next there was something round and hard impacting on high speed with my face. My head snapped sharply and there was a bad sounding <i>crack</i> somewhere in my neck. It took me some time to realize that I got kicked point blank in the face with a football. Kaidi had been sitting next to me and the kick was so well aimed that part of her face was also grazed. Two tourists with one blow :). I’m glad i was watching aside at the time of the kick, otherwise it might’ve ended with a broken nose and now that would’ve already been a bit uncomfortable. The guys were actually much more afraid about the little mishap than we were. If I would’ve demanded to be taken to the hospital, they looked like they were ready to carry me on their backs <span style="font-family:Wingdings;"><span style="font-size:0;">J</span></span>. I went to sleep that evening with fingers crossed that I wouldn’t be blue the next morning. The kick also kind of broke my glasses, so I ended up walking around most of the next day with my optical sunglasses on, just to see anything. The fact that there was no sun made me look like a wannabe gangsta, but it would’ve been even more ridiculous if I’d walk into a wall, because i was borderline blind.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtEnKWAgJNohNXYB1nqpTVCXqQiKxUQKZVHUrkf0LZ3SxrcxqyEnA33PVW86iLZq_IcmYtTnhsofXl1XK6IQVlwBfk2Jdashx6hqXGal3JbETDpH6ECqLZUGFQDSlDuSbk2t96Gzyx3U/s1600-h/0496.JPG"><img style="width: 400px; height: 300px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361609942995842194" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtEnKWAgJNohNXYB1nqpTVCXqQiKxUQKZVHUrkf0LZ3SxrcxqyEnA33PVW86iLZq_IcmYtTnhsofXl1XK6IQVlwBfk2Jdashx6hqXGal3JbETDpH6ECqLZUGFQDSlDuSbk2t96Gzyx3U/s400/0496.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Nightly photo of our funny little football team. Quality is of course atrocious, but the guys were posing so hard and were getting into little arguements about who can stand next to us.</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Partying in Marrakech</strong></div></div><br /><div align="justify"><br />Me and Houssam went for a club-touring one night. Houssam is a friend of one of my Estonian friends, very protective and an excellent guide for a Marrakech nightlife. We started in Pacha, the most celebrated and talked about night club in Marrakech. I had heard stories and read praises about Pacha, how this place is the trendiest and coolest ever, so i guess my expectations were somewhat elevated. Frankly, i didn't see what all the hype was about - i found it lacking any character and atmosphere. Pacha is supposed to have many clubs inside on building, so maybe the one we visited was not the greatest of them. The crowd drinking and dancing seemed to have been more concerned with looking posh and hip, instead of truly enjoying themselves. I don't know, it seemed a bit like a place to show yourself rather than have a really good time, forget your daily worries and dance like crazy. But this is of course very personal observation, i actually like my dance music versatile, not the same 10 sec beat segment repeated over and over again for hours. Those few drinks i tried in Pacha were either really small or watered down to such extent that vodka with Sprite became just Sprite. The dancing area was surprisingly small and the light effect on that particular night made me think of an animal testing facility - let's see how long can a pack of intoxicated <em>homo sapiens</em> withstand bright lights flashed in their faces in random sequence before showing signs of agression.<br /><br />The next club Teatro was more to my taste. It was actually a theatre before it got converted into a nightclub. Luckily the designers didn't go all modern with the interior and preserved a lot from the old style. I liked the dominant red color, shaded lamps and three-four different levels for dancing. The decor gave a bit of a naughty old style cabaret vibe, wasn't hard to imagine that there could be some nice cozy rooms back somewhere for getting more intimately acquainted. The people were really dancing and having fun, not just "moving along with the rhythm" and trying to look cool while doing it. One girl actually fell on me, she had been dancing on the higher level dance floor and i guess lost her balance because at some point i found myselt attacked by a falling body who was too stunned to know what was happening to her.<br /><br />I don't know why i so much disliked Pacha, but i was definitely glad that Houssam knows the door-guys in most of the places and we didn't have to pay for a ticket anywhere (usually around 100-150 DH). Pacha also locates outside the city and the taxi-ride back can get very expensive, whereas Teatro is about 20 minute walk from Djemaa el-Fna or 8 DH taxi ride. </div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">That was a fun night, Houssam gave in first, i would've gladly danced until the last club closed. We left after 5am, but it didn't look like the party was ending any time soon yet. </div><div align="justify"><br /></div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"><strong>The dangers of Marrakech<br /></strong><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4reMZsHvp27KjmHY6MVEmohUOze4Ba3TI7p4Hjb87vmg9__icPKfbLKZ4P1_8WYLKH96uXlKkshRbp6B56GX8tvhkQUfIUazLJ7TWa1sQBGuK72ICcBRai99fvBm_wv-COCjJ89iUT_A/s1600-h/0493.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 273px; float: left; height: 400px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361624508147937058" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4reMZsHvp27KjmHY6MVEmohUOze4Ba3TI7p4Hjb87vmg9__icPKfbLKZ4P1_8WYLKH96uXlKkshRbp6B56GX8tvhkQUfIUazLJ7TWa1sQBGuK72ICcBRai99fvBm_wv-COCjJ89iUT_A/s400/0493.JPG" border="0" /></a>Some people have asked about the dangers of Marrakech. I don't really know how to answer that. It's a bit of a subjective thing and it depends first of all still of your own sensitivity towards other people and weird situations. I very rarely team up with anybody while traveling, so most of my comings and goings are done alone. There have been few spooky/creepy situations, but it is a city with roughly the same amount of people living in it as the whole population of Estonia, so some creepiness is greatly pardonable.<br /><br />Latest spooky situation was when i was coming home after that same night of clubbing. Taxi dropped me off around 5 am and i had about 5 minute walk to my hotel. During this time some guy lurking in the side street somewhere had noticed me and took an active interest in me. He was following me quite tightly while talking something in Arabic. Since the streets were totally empty, i didn't stop to inquire what he wants, i just kept walking without paying any attention to him. I was exceedingly glad that i had chosen a hotel so close to the main square and not deeper in <em>medina</em>. It was creepy enough having him tailing me on the wide (though empty) shopping street, it would've been times more unpleasant dealing with him on the small secluded streetmaze of <em>medina</em>.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">I've gotten few times into a late night argument with some brick-headed horny guys who don't take no for an answer. I know it's pointless to steep to that level, but i really resent being grabbed. Once i slapped a shop-guy for sticking his hand under my shirt in a too active attempt to help me try on a jellaba. Funnily enough he got offended on me because i had touched him and that was not supposed to be acceptable. I haven't laughed so hard for a long time.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">So far the weirdest and i guess potentially most dangerous situation i had was when some guy sort of attacked me on the ATM queue. He was taking out money and i was standing behind him in a queue, we were about a meter apart. I was turned away, pretty much with my back to him. Suddenly he kicked me with a leg and when i turned around he was running towards me with his hand up in front of his face and fingers spread. He was screaming something and jammed his spread fingers into my glasses, kind of like trying to stick my eyes out with them. I had to jerk my head back not to get my glasses slammed into my face. All this time he was screaming something in Arabic and people around were translating later that he had thought i was watching his PIN code.<br /><br />Generally a rule - the later the hour and the less crowded the street, the more seedier people are hanging about. So make your own conclusions in choosing where, when and how you walk. </div><div align="justify"> </div></div></div></div><br /><br />Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-7952937549703962152009-07-02T00:05:00.031+03:002010-04-17T23:28:08.972+03:00Shakira Shakira!<div align="justify"><strong><br /><br />Cellular experience<br /><br /></strong>So, on the account of having the previous one stolen, i went shopping for a new mobile phone. I've always felt that not having a mobile phone is like not having hands. You know that you will get yourself new hands soon, but that's not really going to help you if you need to scratch your nose right here and now.<br /><br />So, the mobile phone prices are the cheapest when buying from the street vendors and there are plenty of vendors selling them. And since i needed just a random mobile phone, not anything specific or special, i was very ok with buying it from the streets. At first i tried to bargain on my own, but the guys just wouldn't budge. Seems that mobile sellers here in Marrakech are quite a tougher breed than the <em>tajine</em> ones. But having some Moroccan friends really pays off, mostly financially - i decided i don't want to pay the double price, so i got a friend to help.<br /><br />After you buy the phone in Morocco, your next visit is to a lovely gentleman down in some basement somewhere, who will crack the phone for you and make it work with any SIM card. That service can also be very flexibly priced, i think the initial price we started was 150 DH, but in the end we shook hands on 30 DH. The phone itself was 300 DH, add to that the local prepaid SIM set (another 50DH, though they will try to sell it with 75 or higher) and some extra credit (i bought the 50 DH card) and the total came to a whopping 430 DH. I could've come up with some better ways to spend that money, but oh well, at least i have a shiny new phone now.<br /><br />I got the cheapest phone there was, i will have plenty of time at home to waste thousands and thousands on a new fancier model. Though knowing myself, i will probably never get around to do it. I don't care much about mobiles, i use them for pretty much only one thing - calling; so all the fancy extra features are not really my thing. And the very cheap one will do just fine while traveling. Turned out that my newly acquired high-tech gadget could be best described with words "somewhat too weird", as it really is ahead of the pack when it comes to sucking in many different levels. It looks decent enough though, very slick and modest.<br /><br />My first problem was finding out what kind of ringtone it has, to ensure i would actually recognize it ringing when i'm in a more crowded place, like <em>anywhere else</em> besides my hotel-room. I spent quite some time trying to find the way i could change the ringtones and it was only later i learned that the feature i was searching for was burried so deep into some obscure sub-menus that you'd think it's part of national secrets. When i got my first call to my new phone and i heard it ring with it's default ring-tone, i almost broke my leg jumping up and running to it in attempt to cover the phone with my whole body and silence it forever. Btw, it's still my reaction every time the thing rings. I remember thinking "Oh my God, oh my God, <em>no no no</em>, that just can't be! what the fuck ..??". When i finally found the way to change the ringtone, i was re-introduced to a wonderful world of .midi audio files, that were supposed to die out along with the end of previous century, but somehow had still made their way into my spanking new mobile phone. And may i say what a delightful arrangement of sounds they are - if you are tone deaf, that is. I truly couldn't believe it, but when i tried all the different melodies that my phone had to offer, i reached to a painful conclusion that the default one is actually by far the best .<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb55QCt-skMNr7BS-74_kmydrgFNK52VDl6JSa2CEThjngPaQf9jimGhvZc5o86eSHPfmbtdBZ7uE7SngB3qmcRgMblc5-703t9nopYCy1HdAUMoeMHkI7pSVVr3urzkHvImFf-oIqbq4/s1600-h/0453.JPG"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9NrGtIA7DHaQTucqLqexRSbyroAAK48CwNRqf399mtsK8UbvR8wBIaZB1Gjxca3XoaosFi3FPwJ3WYBLLRowHv79gEBhe8VqGObzFl-gwOv4P7aFbqHgX6G5KHCq1D1cSjPUknhesWr0/s1600-h/0453.JPG"><strong><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353621663178690642" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9NrGtIA7DHaQTucqLqexRSbyroAAK48CwNRqf399mtsK8UbvR8wBIaZB1Gjxca3XoaosFi3FPwJ3WYBLLRowHv79gEBhe8VqGObzFl-gwOv4P7aFbqHgX6G5KHCq1D1cSjPUknhesWr0/s400/0453.JPG" border="0" /></strong></a><br /><em>Entrepreneurial boys selling stuff on the street<br /></em><br /><br /><br /><strong>Shakira Shakira!<br /><br /></strong>So far i’ve been in Morocco only with my friends, but this is my first time to come here completely alone. While a big chunk of my acquaintances and family is convinced that i am totally crazy and irresponsible, i myself am kind of thrilled. Maybe i should be worrying about my safety, reputation and whatnot, but at the moment my biggest concern is money and how to keep my meager budget afloat.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5hVWaSCjidxREwo8HhrY1rTg6Ag3fTBQYdpRqGWzXB1uTc8RVwR-1i3L9n2HlQTU2RYQ0ZMAN8H2s2hm5U1V_9oP4m9W3MCILYPkX16O8vu5kgMNtHUWFqV2A6QhVGt1mohoIth0FS6I/s1600-h/0945.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353625408612892162" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5hVWaSCjidxREwo8HhrY1rTg6Ag3fTBQYdpRqGWzXB1uTc8RVwR-1i3L9n2HlQTU2RYQ0ZMAN8H2s2hm5U1V_9oP4m9W3MCILYPkX16O8vu5kgMNtHUWFqV2A6QhVGt1mohoIth0FS6I/s400/0945.JPG" border="0" /></a>The attention in Morocco can get a bit tiresome. Specially if you are a white woman and alone. It’s amazing how most random guys will take the trouble to mutter something to you when passing or attempt to start a conversation while walking on the same street. The iPod + sunglasses combo works quite well in Morocco as well, though you might still find somebody walking next to you for 5 minutes and trying to talk to you. My Moroccan acquaintance Adil was saying that modern Moroccan guy’s dream is to get a fancy car and land a rich (preferably white) woman. Morocco is definitely a country where any normal looking white woman can find herself a guy for the night is she wants. And from conversations with local guys I get the impression that there is a fair number of female tourists who are coming to Morocco first of all for exactly that and then for tajines :). No wonder it’s almost impossible for me to explain to locals that I’m not here for love affairs, majority just don’t seem to grasp the concept of traveling for the sake of traveling.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplbaGpNoEwzjfkCC0qDVzuPLBSjh-z5Po1OddCWnCyOOUMqXF2MtQ-1btTVBv83Gfe3sVyLgCj8bfYVYZ72CtbYl14dlhz8mmjHYM-_PNSwpfHt30TCauHQnNjjl7xIEjJkt3dHTxopQ/s1600-h/0803.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353630543042232434" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplbaGpNoEwzjfkCC0qDVzuPLBSjh-z5Po1OddCWnCyOOUMqXF2MtQ-1btTVBv83Gfe3sVyLgCj8bfYVYZ72CtbYl14dlhz8mmjHYM-_PNSwpfHt30TCauHQnNjjl7xIEjJkt3dHTxopQ/s400/0803.JPG" border="0" /></a>Of all southern male population I’ve met, Moroccans are by far the most non-vilently aggressive and with unreasonably high egos. You just cannot imagine the confidence of those guys, they are ready to butter you up any time any place. And all that without a drop of alcohol to gain courage from (islam forbids alcohol). Of course, it might be also a lot of talk and no follow up, but the testosterone is definitely bubbling. For example Mexican guys were kind of timid when it came to making social chit-chat, specially when they were sober (hehe, like Estonian guys). They were very happy shouting “Guapa!” or “Bonita!” from over the street or from a passing car, but that was mostly it. Next to Morocco Mexico was a land of peace and quiet for a single female traveler, though I did not realize that at the time.<br /><br />Morocco is also the only country so far from my travel experience where marriage means nothing. A big fat zero. People either tell you flat out: “I don’t believe that you are married” or look around and say: “So what? I don’t see your husband here ..”. I liked that in Mexico people had respect for marriage and though the macho guys were still machos, nobody was trying to “talk you into” anything as it is in Morocco. Moroccans are generally very flexible when it comes to defining stuff like “private space”, “intimacy” etc. I personally do not like when people I’ve just met take liberties of touching me casually too much or trying to hold hands or something. It might be perfectly norm in Morocco, but it’s sometimes too much for my ice cold Northern nature. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnul7yVEMCOOE79l1btjUpEU4YZr1ipX64B60xbP0tlVdDykCiJJj-EUaDsdXDVl65HyJ7LHSSz5L8cadbKx8QOxV2c_60Cs1cAGxWUepVFBJ1c5EnrlGLH0NKDNUSqpCZIcRWUt9Ofhg/s1600-h/0955.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353622102039818114" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnul7yVEMCOOE79l1btjUpEU4YZr1ipX64B60xbP0tlVdDykCiJJj-EUaDsdXDVl65HyJ7LHSSz5L8cadbKx8QOxV2c_60Cs1cAGxWUepVFBJ1c5EnrlGLH0NKDNUSqpCZIcRWUt9Ofhg/s400/0955.JPG" border="0" /></a>I also tend to be sensitive about conversations with a lot of sexual innuendo, because they can get very quickly very personal and when that happens I have very little patience to stay polite and friendly. I do realize that sometimes I over-react, but I prefer to keep most people at arm’s length, specially random new acquaintances. But if you get pass that awkward phase of making it clear that you are not “on the market”, then the guys can be very adorable. Very protective and helpful, sometimes even a bit territorial with each other :).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsONONjAsCYU1tsishIBrg2UK6RVS2rm-I-GRq1ZGBbNtTb4GnqpdRIZMmAXsQIAvVKpOMEM8rJvbvlfLb5V_yvK4sqwwTr67Kk9ATM_dtqyQt2qE2fSi7X4L14MOxoDQpSpioOQtxvas/s1600-h/0925.JPG"></a>All my life I’ve mostly had guy friends. I grew up with an older brother and big part of my childhood was spent playing with his friends. Even now I can count on one hand my female friends and they are somewhat outnumbered. And i’ve yet to be in the situation in Morocco, where I could strike up a friendship with a girl. Women definitely speak less English in Morocco, but they also generally seem to be more passive and withdrawn. And so it goes that most of my old and new Moroccan acquaintances have XY chromosomes.<br /></div><div><div><br /><div align="justify">When i walk on the streets of Marrakech, there are many recurring types of comments i hear, but one of the most amusing ones is <em>Shakira Shakira! - </em>i've asked few times that why you are calling me Shakira and gotten an answer because of the "golden hair". I guess the Brasilian pop is taking ground in Morocco :).<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Following<br /><br /></strong>Morocco is also so far the only country I’ve been to where people actually take the trouble of following you. OK, maybe for example Cubans were also doing it, but in that case they were much better at it because I never even had an inkling that I might be followed, not to mention seeing a guy circling the block for the umpteenth time. I remember that my first encounter of being followed was on my first visit to Fes. I was walking alone in <em>medina</em>, cruising about and snapping photos when a guy in a lime-green shirt passed me by on one of the streets. Five minutes later I see the same lime-green shirt walking on one of the other nearby streets, and then five minutes later again coming down the stairs somewhere and so on so forth. It went on for quite some time. At that point I even considered the possibility that he is just walking randomly like me, that we are on the same route or even that there might be more than one guy in Fes who is willing to wear that God-awful bright lime-green shirt.<br /><br />The notion of “somebody following you” sounds awfully sinister, but in all fairness they seem to do it purely out of curiosity. I’ve never felt threatened or scared, it’s just a bit weird at times to see somebody taking such personal and persistent interest in you. But again, iPod will do miracles in not paying attention to anybody or anything around you. As it gets later in the evening that following can get more aggressive. I’ve gotten into a verbal fight couple of times because it’s very annoying if the same guy keeps coming to talk to you with the lamest questions ever or pretty much just one direct proposal. But if you’re walking late on the streets alone or spend time on Djemaa el-Fna after midnight, you kind of have to be prepared for that.<br /><br />One morning i woke up and there was a note slipped into my hotel-room from under the door. It was a long novel of a letter:<br />"<em>Hello sweet girl! My name is Khalid, i am 26 year old. I wanted to knock on your door in morning but didn't want to wake you, i hope you have good dreems ..</em> ", it went on and on, telling me that he has been watching me (creepy?) and would really like to get to know me better bla bla bla. The usual pitch. Along with the phone number. Girls, anybody of you happen to want to meet a 26 year old tattoo artist from Morocco? :)<br /><br />I guess, in reality, i'm also kind of a stalker. I love making photos of people, so all i do on my travels is lurk around and follow interesting people, trying to catch a shot-worthy glimpse of them through my lens. I'm constantly on the prowl, batteries charged and camera ready. Like a greedy animal who never has enough. Always looking for a better prey.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwqKqARFujn3CiWnhljXeK0runMBf34UxoAX3i7ObcMMEBEW4jau25JQpjMflRsXXZGAaflOHbYpNzXXNimnZO157PGjYwjtyfniYWoaeUqV1p45_Rac_PC12HQkgcGfKSDBEA_JisDeM/s1600-h/0634.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353631592891171186" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwqKqARFujn3CiWnhljXeK0runMBf34UxoAX3i7ObcMMEBEW4jau25JQpjMflRsXXZGAaflOHbYpNzXXNimnZO157PGjYwjtyfniYWoaeUqV1p45_Rac_PC12HQkgcGfKSDBEA_JisDeM/s400/0634.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div align="justify"><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg09lKmvSXF5vI9M5tTrNI4EbOcR-no_5s3HmKtFDLEp1tDLxU_bXZmOUNIwmyF7mFCh3pkiCnFgohq2TYAQgitHIYjg1RGwYe-ih8bPKPiEzFvfr1N4o6gSRhfBt5RNFmQ-mobjZNNaw/s1600-h/0116.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353631588975860306" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg09lKmvSXF5vI9M5tTrNI4EbOcR-no_5s3HmKtFDLEp1tDLxU_bXZmOUNIwmyF7mFCh3pkiCnFgohq2TYAQgitHIYjg1RGwYe-ih8bPKPiEzFvfr1N4o6gSRhfBt5RNFmQ-mobjZNNaw/s400/0116.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgILruZczLXVb5zK9bz7Ci5XfxlVu6rKDBTU-arUkjLE885Onp2bu8Gfa1fApbow-gM9-19D32aYi0A8jtuVCfk0N0Su0qCjac-amj9iNkz5AF8oDiF-GQc_ygotphQNGi9eUHYcc0QxfA/s1600-h/0738.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353631473307464866" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgILruZczLXVb5zK9bz7Ci5XfxlVu6rKDBTU-arUkjLE885Onp2bu8Gfa1fApbow-gM9-19D32aYi0A8jtuVCfk0N0Su0qCjac-amj9iNkz5AF8oDiF-GQc_ygotphQNGi9eUHYcc0QxfA/s400/0738.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTK2BtsvSjGD1KGpwn9ndZlQ9oFU7bGxnrS3Y1yXfg7unuE-qcY_zIyfjnD3J0KqqA7BOlbjY2nysEBUIQc2FmOiqxd4cQeb_gFpYZAIw2MJ4irH-LTVaFfM3_FgmN6ocsCTog6gu4kIM/s1600-h/_MG_8246.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353631472388718546" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTK2BtsvSjGD1KGpwn9ndZlQ9oFU7bGxnrS3Y1yXfg7unuE-qcY_zIyfjnD3J0KqqA7BOlbjY2nysEBUIQc2FmOiqxd4cQeb_gFpYZAIw2MJ4irH-LTVaFfM3_FgmN6ocsCTog6gu4kIM/s400/_MG_8246.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Show guys on Djemaa el-Fna. If you make a photo of them, they will hunt you down and bully you pay money for it. I personally believe in "it's a free world, i can photograph whoever is walking around in public", so i never pay for such things.<br /></em><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSp_ltw5EMZCsSnRA6o1g5VJyGj44GVeePlTjl_ol5hokiTHGX_7rhRF89nyVlW344_jR51lNULI-z2CFIUnk1F4qwgq7yf4EQ7BGOdzGY-LbrxPTodkAL1R_QIyX4sjanC1Yp_ZaU_Mg/s1600-h/0366.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353631462283676114" style="WIDTH: 267px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSp_ltw5EMZCsSnRA6o1g5VJyGj44GVeePlTjl_ol5hokiTHGX_7rhRF89nyVlW344_jR51lNULI-z2CFIUnk1F4qwgq7yf4EQ7BGOdzGY-LbrxPTodkAL1R_QIyX4sjanC1Yp_ZaU_Mg/s400/0366.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1406aZHv_juXadYSdUxEnrs2Xaoz51zGrN2jzmtEiff_6fOHm2n9G7YIdzICrXquPfUNYwNCkyFFD64eufPVSf6RRPenZhJ_I9-_RbLt_ZmyUPsI-1xhHsRcCH184ksCpyHgMc-RWczE/s1600-h/0211.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353631460950766354" style="WIDTH: 246px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1406aZHv_juXadYSdUxEnrs2Xaoz51zGrN2jzmtEiff_6fOHm2n9G7YIdzICrXquPfUNYwNCkyFFD64eufPVSf6RRPenZhJ_I9-_RbLt_ZmyUPsI-1xhHsRcCH184ksCpyHgMc-RWczE/s400/0211.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbIAyh6DgHikqZ9xdKgvunOgd8PCDHGhj85em2R3W69GutmMhgydrTHmmSvPdM_r-sUBbFSLhAETgyxtUcrF0pz44zvGY80UyoBOw2Z8U3_LQ-YXcFP4VEh4vySfV4i5_tAdzo5jF5ik0/s1600-h/0474.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353631449522182706" style="WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbIAyh6DgHikqZ9xdKgvunOgd8PCDHGhj85em2R3W69GutmMhgydrTHmmSvPdM_r-sUBbFSLhAETgyxtUcrF0pz44zvGY80UyoBOw2Z8U3_LQ-YXcFP4VEh4vySfV4i5_tAdzo5jF5ik0/s400/0474.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />But all in all, people here are nice. I'm at the moment talking about the <em>simple folk</em>, not the rich cream of society of Morocco. Which is not to say that the latter aren't nice people as well, i just don't have very many personal connections with them. The usual people though are friendly and open. Sometimes they get too excited about you being a foreigner and they want to charge you too much or walk around with you in public and so on, but i've also met some great kindness, pure interest, childlike joy when you spend time with them and eagerness in helping you even if there's no way to profit from doing it. My suspicious nature is used to searching for an ulterior motive when somebody wants to be friends with you, but sometimes it's just that. Yes, i'm the first one to say that you have to be reasonable yourself not to get swindled or taken advantage of, but don't get too carried away with being always on a lookout or you will miss out on some interesting acquaintances.<br /><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjghywjuGGl9PmoZSHl4ypyGCiFBQcdQV1-QvlbrtZNGnfgf7pW26xW6uM7o6Zy-S4cwkNMgPg8v9N8IdNJUdLczWiIdV4PnEPzZtJyy8cAQfukc3WRiCYrolMHneu6ddikfqg45m2lC-M/s1600-h/_MG_8269.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353632958791636354" style="WIDTH: 267px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjghywjuGGl9PmoZSHl4ypyGCiFBQcdQV1-QvlbrtZNGnfgf7pW26xW6uM7o6Zy-S4cwkNMgPg8v9N8IdNJUdLczWiIdV4PnEPzZtJyy8cAQfukc3WRiCYrolMHneu6ddikfqg45m2lC-M/s400/_MG_8269.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>A kind pizza guy from the pizza joint next to my hotel. He always tries to ask how my day is going (very little English skills) and gives me small gifts like keychain holder and so on.</em><br /><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-45860327881153667732009-06-26T14:05:00.042+03:002010-04-17T23:28:08.974+03:00Eating & drinking or AKA the simple pleasures<br /><br /><div align="justify">I’m taking full advantage of the freshly-squeezed orange juice season at hand here. At the very least my day starts and ends with a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice from the Djemaa el-Fna, 6 DH/0,5l bottle (less than 9 EEK!). And i don’t want to hear any lip about the dangers of drinking/eating fresh juices/foods in Morocco. Of course everything within reason, but avoiding them completely is just too big of a trade off - you just miss out on too much great stuff and it's not worth it. I know some people who visited Morocco and avoided drinking and eating anything fresh, including that very same tasty orange juice. And i dare to say that they also didn’t get to see the Morocco as it is intended to be seen. How can you? if you only do what a hysterical guide-book allows you to do. In any case, for those who avoid drinking fresh orange juice out of fear of it being mixed with unhealthy local tap water, you can always choose a vendor who provides 100% pure juice. Ask about it or if the language barrier is too high, climb into the booth to see how he’s squeezing it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsi1YIdleXrIsLbJhPMiNFf7EjG8muIjjc5KNVDhZKTteiSJb9AEPYlTeMMu1c-zsykBAy0BYYYzsScwc4dSXP15oq794hwAhPiO8fZooEmX3GoJMDIGra94dwJPrdB6cEYf6u9kwcwRk/s1600-h/0766.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351601098202231346" style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsi1YIdleXrIsLbJhPMiNFf7EjG8muIjjc5KNVDhZKTteiSJb9AEPYlTeMMu1c-zsykBAy0BYYYzsScwc4dSXP15oq794hwAhPiO8fZooEmX3GoJMDIGra94dwJPrdB6cEYf6u9kwcwRk/s400/0766.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Kaidi last year posing with an orange juice vendor on Djemaa el-Fna<br /><br /></em>Eating with hands is very common in Morocco, bread is often used as means to get the sauce, soup or other food into your mouth. That of course means that almost every food is served with fresh bread, which does not do any favours to my figure.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGaDXF1i2z-FH2p-hxDQnbJpQnmlUXn_0IYBtVnHia5a3I1sJTQ7QbzPXmkTvMeofctlVQGWTFe4AuWG1TXY1W6u_F3gP5h644xAjOvAs4mjKT-_ySWHjEKSYLLe3D51ic-HF5U9_t1Ag/s1600-h/0389.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351601482452632754" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 290px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGaDXF1i2z-FH2p-hxDQnbJpQnmlUXn_0IYBtVnHia5a3I1sJTQ7QbzPXmkTvMeofctlVQGWTFe4AuWG1TXY1W6u_F3gP5h644xAjOvAs4mjKT-_ySWHjEKSYLLe3D51ic-HF5U9_t1Ag/s400/0389.JPG" border="0" /></a>The other day i was having lunch with the hotel’s cleaning ladies and the reception guy Abdul - we all sat around a big plate of steaming cous-cous. I ate with a fork, because getting something so small as pieces of cous-cous into my mouth with just two fingers seemed a bit of an impossible task. But it was interesting to observe how they were doing it – they took a big chunk of that flaky cous-cous, squeezed it in their palm tight until it formed a sort of a solid piece which could then easily be put into the mouth. I think i will prefer to eat cous-cous in the future also with a fork or spoon, it’s just too messy business to eat it with hands.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrP4xjSGidVvwsAS5VI1_zM2rfRBZHYD0mmcKDkImhHeKhh8Cl3OpIEOYVUZHOqyh39717osxuqvPGsFeiFzIT96EocVf3d_SHBqD4s8OJW0PxXRM4ARIOib96VHOEOoI5_IPnRRHKuEc/s1600-h/0934.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351602250043074898" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 266px; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrP4xjSGidVvwsAS5VI1_zM2rfRBZHYD0mmcKDkImhHeKhh8Cl3OpIEOYVUZHOqyh39717osxuqvPGsFeiFzIT96EocVf3d_SHBqD4s8OJW0PxXRM4ARIOib96VHOEOoI5_IPnRRHKuEc/s400/0934.JPG" border="0" /></a>Few days ago I was walking aimlessly deep in the <em>medina</em> when I suddenly stumbled on a nice little street, which was filled with different street-food vendors. The clientele was 100% locals and prices also very nice. This is pretty much valid for all southern countries I’ve ever been to and also goes for Morocco – the tastiest and also most affordable food is usually the street-food, because it's simple and without alterations to meet the palette of tourists. This little food street I found was a nice gem and I took great care afterwards to remember my way out of there – which was not easy as anybody who’s ever been lost in <em>medina</em> can tell. As much as I like the food on the nightly Djemaa el-Fna, the choice there is still rather limited. Most food-stalls offer the same stuff and after you’ve eaten there for a week, you’ve pretty much exhausted the choice in the menu. Finding this little food street brought some fresh selection on my plate. And being able to buy fresh strawberries afterwards for dessert from the nearby market sealed the deal for me. I will definitely return there. If i can find it that is.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXbuSytST_oRhyphenhyphen0kBAqxiMphwirxVyNfZ8w10elZEtCQYBWKXBQiynDqTfJTvKfzESWlU9zf0FNOIixG3MW4rMC3vXDKx0w9Fhw3A6AKquoqP125EOwKadhVdwo-eUMWYmZWzYY0C5VTg/s1600-h/_MG_1973.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351606379567661906" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 267px; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXbuSytST_oRhyphenhyphen0kBAqxiMphwirxVyNfZ8w10elZEtCQYBWKXBQiynDqTfJTvKfzESWlU9zf0FNOIixG3MW4rMC3vXDKx0w9Fhw3A6AKquoqP125EOwKadhVdwo-eUMWYmZWzYY0C5VTg/s400/_MG_1973.JPG" border="0" /></a>There's also a big variety of sweet snacks sold on the street. I personally don't appreciate sweet food particularly, so i might be a bit biased when it comes to liking/disliking it, but they all seem to be kind of same for me: very sweet and overly greasy. Last time when me and Kaidi were in Fes, we went on a mission to go around in <em>medina</em> and try all kinds of different sweets. We didn't get very far with our testing, the sugar levels alone threatened to give us diabetes. But if you're into properly fried sweets, Morocco is definitely your country. On the Djemaa el-Fna nightly market, there are usually guys walking around with carts loaded with sweets (<em>as</em> <em>on the photo -></em>), so if you're done stuffing yourself with tajine's, it's time to overdose on sugar.<br /><br />I do want to make a recommendation though. After the sunset, when the culinary chaos of Djemaa el-Fna is on full blast, there are women and girls walking around with trays on the main square and nearby streets selling very tasty coconut cookies. Around 9pm they are starting to leave already, so shop early :). Though also a serious sugar blast, those cookies are still very tasty - soft and light. If you ask for the price, they will say 2-3 DH/each. In reality don't even ask, just give them 1 DH per cookie and be confident. Maybe locals get away with paying less, but 1 DH was as low as i could get away with.<br /><br />I would like to take this moment here and say big “thank you” to Vantaa, Heathrow and Stansted airports for supplying me with perfect size zip-lock bags. Well .. , maybe <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">supplying </span>isn’t the right word, it’s more like they created a chance for me to stock up on those neat bags on my way to security check :). These bags are perfect for traveling. Among other things, perfect also for keeping food fresh. I already have a bit of a routine - i buy few of those cookies, eat some in the evening and the rest will be just as fluffy and soft in the morning, with the help of my zip-lock bag. But if you leave them in the open air for the night, they turn into stone-hard sugar blocks.<br /><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqOTkpcCBJ5WB9DtVdgDegR7YfdBpegjrucEbT8pOwGk_BHE14B4F-5gUnCWiWkHNRayWXv2SpfrrrHWLBO5wlpJS8-azR348aQJpAE1BIqTE8eVSuEWPXtp5zhnD_Ket0n-gkAH4oIkU/s1600-h/_MG_8209.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351611210883199586" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqOTkpcCBJ5WB9DtVdgDegR7YfdBpegjrucEbT8pOwGk_BHE14B4F-5gUnCWiWkHNRayWXv2SpfrrrHWLBO5wlpJS8-azR348aQJpAE1BIqTE8eVSuEWPXtp5zhnD_Ket0n-gkAH4oIkU/s400/_MG_8209.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>The cookies in question, a typical selling style<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWruCEsGcGrJZrc3pHbgdFZcsFyhmM1EZuDbcRo4Z9efUo9bGj3c0QXXxuAl3t2j1qVWdacUB0Rp-qc9sZ2pALxZ0G1eswjjn32MAKZM16gjfwxJ16q7BUr5XbqVE8FLtTT7EmIIEsejY/s1600-h/_MG_8213.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351611209608500642" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 252px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWruCEsGcGrJZrc3pHbgdFZcsFyhmM1EZuDbcRo4Z9efUo9bGj3c0QXXxuAl3t2j1qVWdacUB0Rp-qc9sZ2pALxZ0G1eswjjn32MAKZM16gjfwxJ16q7BUr5XbqVE8FLtTT7EmIIEsejY/s400/_MG_8213.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Truly, recommend</em><br /><br /></div><div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiirTKx91xjNo981tQOGx50WXxw1aqfKhi8YVLQRHCruI_gftpMgGhD3jW3L88fBOju4ZCN0gCcQ977vygvlWDD3HxA8jKi1mYkt-xL6dlTqW6mcgF9wWKHRh2aVwE4zLmGqnLlYQDnvSU/s1600-h/0804.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351611810345817282" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiirTKx91xjNo981tQOGx50WXxw1aqfKhi8YVLQRHCruI_gftpMgGhD3jW3L88fBOju4ZCN0gCcQ977vygvlWDD3HxA8jKi1mYkt-xL6dlTqW6mcgF9wWKHRh2aVwE4zLmGqnLlYQDnvSU/s400/0804.JPG" border="0" /></a>Another very very sweet staple part of the Moroccan menu is the mint tea. And absolutely delicious, if brewed properly. Also surpisingly refreshing on a hot summer day. There are many different ways of making it, but whatever the approach, it always consists a generous amount of fresh peppermint, simple chinese gunpowder green tea and lot's of sugar. When visiting somebody's home, making the tea can turn into a bit of a ceremony. As a rule, the tea is prepared into a metallic pot. When the tea is ready, the first cup is always poured back into the pot. It helps the sugar to blend with the water better. They also like to pour the tea with great precision into the cups from very high up, which sometimes results in tea splashing all around.<br /><em>Photo: the guys at Djemaa el-Fna are very skilled in pouring the tea without a single drop going to waste. And you would not believe the speed they do it at.</em><br /><br />The tea is served from glass cups, but because cups get very quickly very hot, it might be somewhat problematic to drink. The trick is to hold the cup between the thumb and index finger, but so that the index finger is supporting the glass from the bottom and the thumb grasps the top edge of the glass.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKzGq12po2BWo4oLS6oFGLya81ouUZ2Rx8cdzztRXrcMBVYtBFyDdhJsEowOhcxKH-U54ftLComL6YPisVihXoZZtvRZg6tMi5SLRQkAxkag4kz1RAHs1aSLfq9SzqV6Iorw2rdmTv-0c/s1600-h/_MG_2255.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351611867452666162" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKzGq12po2BWo4oLS6oFGLya81ouUZ2Rx8cdzztRXrcMBVYtBFyDdhJsEowOhcxKH-U54ftLComL6YPisVihXoZZtvRZg6tMi5SLRQkAxkag4kz1RAHs1aSLfq9SzqV6Iorw2rdmTv-0c/s400/_MG_2255.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Ready glasses with mint and sugar on the nightly Djemaa el-Fna food market, all you need now is a dash of boiling water<br /><br /></em>I've been eating on Djemaa el-Fna nightly food market on most evenings and i've kind of developed a favorite food-stall i go to. There are different types of food vendors on the market. Some specialize on grilled meats, some on lamb, some fish and so on. And some on reeling in the tourists, which as mentioned in some earlier post before, are the places you want to keep away from. I've tried the food in many different food-stalls, but i somehow kept coming back to one and the same and now i go there already knowingly. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwdoMhBNpGMJhh1kkxeELnNiwJAntfsljr0x9GhbOfQxMn8gAT4SGp-bHxc3F2cax2vygeSQp2IhhWFPtIC7H5VhyphenhyphenmKS7FsW0zMBOXOEpPa9vdr7hXniWDQqlj3tAYgHZuGQZUxk6JH5o/s1600-h/_MG_8229.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351622146427453794" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 387px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwdoMhBNpGMJhh1kkxeELnNiwJAntfsljr0x9GhbOfQxMn8gAT4SGp-bHxc3F2cax2vygeSQp2IhhWFPtIC7H5VhyphenhyphenmKS7FsW0zMBOXOEpPa9vdr7hXniWDQqlj3tAYgHZuGQZUxk6JH5o/s400/_MG_8229.JPG" border="0" /></a>Every food-stall has a number and sometimes it takes me quite a time to find my stall no. 4. It's more of locals-oriented place, the guys working there are fluent only in Arabic with few French words to boot. But we manage just fine. By now they already know that i don't like onions, so they fish out from the tajine all the onions for me. I also always order the soup, which isn't even in the menu - one of the guys always runs to get it from a nearby soup guy. We know each other by name and every time i come, they already welcome from far: "Sofi! <em>&%#¤=¤#%?`%#!</em> (something in Arabic)". And they are also very protective when anybody shows too much interest in me. The chef was showing me photos of his wife and children the other day and was obviously expecting for me to share my photos with him. That part actually was too difficult to explain that i don't carry photos in the wallet, as a matter of fact, i don't even have a wallet.<br /><br />In the beginning when i started going to the stall no. 4, the vendors around it were always trying to make me interested in their food. By now they are already used to that i only eat at the stall no. 4 and when they see me coming, they say things like: "<em>Oh, number 4 girl!</em>", "<em>Every time it's number 4! Maybe today it's 6, yes?</em>" or "<em>Yes, Shakira, your table in number 4 is reserved</em>" etc.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5usPd5zhUSkEsDPWpo4nTTFRSLJqj0p2jbr1ogEoGGEcdpNj3PnHIfxhS4m8jfyaq2NHlEWG7R0ya2GnQsfM1v_-GNWNlUMXIRdDwtH-ct9iGSjdMhyphenhyphenEpJqrR8bLtbuKsK-oGj8_2mc/s1600-h/_MG_8233.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351622265087725426" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5usPd5zhUSkEsDPWpo4nTTFRSLJqj0p2jbr1ogEoGGEcdpNj3PnHIfxhS4m8jfyaq2NHlEWG7R0ya2GnQsfM1v_-GNWNlUMXIRdDwtH-ct9iGSjdMhyphenhyphenEpJqrR8bLtbuKsK-oGj8_2mc/s400/_MG_8233.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Milod and Ahmed, two guys from the food-stall no. 4</em><br /><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4gaVatrO8ZUz75xNx50THgum4DA2r8DuMFc2GchkFGVAIDg8pR99kqMEoinq-aVP9SQ0T_i7iUwl_5_5IEh6XvIoPnXFsyw1UkhTY66kiCTdVQ6eUYTsNOaGakDaZYX0QXudg3MuyKL8/s1600-h/_MG_8236.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351622265551811394" style="WIDTH: 267px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4gaVatrO8ZUz75xNx50THgum4DA2r8DuMFc2GchkFGVAIDg8pR99kqMEoinq-aVP9SQ0T_i7iUwl_5_5IEh6XvIoPnXFsyw1UkhTY66kiCTdVQ6eUYTsNOaGakDaZYX0QXudg3MuyKL8/s400/_MG_8236.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Milod</em><br /><br /></div><div align="justify">PS! Kaidi, Kaidi - i eat olives now! OK, i eat <em>certain type</em> of olives, but still, it's a progress nonetheless! I never quite got the handle on eating olives and since Moroccan food has plentiful of them, then the topic of <em>i really should start to eat olives </em>is every once in a while in discussion. Kaidi had this theory/urban legend/hearsay, that if you eat 11 olives in a row, no matter how disgusted you are, you will start liking them, or at least to tolerate. So we put it to the test, i think she made to the 6th one, i almost threw up already around 3rd. But now, having so much olives in my everyday food, that they come out of my ears already, i'm starting to differentiate between them. The black ones are still unbearably gross, the green ones are so-so, but they also have pink ones here. They marinate them somehow and i must admit that the result is very decent. Now i actually go to market and buy myself pink olives. On the top left side of Djemaa el-Fna is a small market court, where they sell fresh herbs and olives. I've tried the olives from all the vendors already, the number 12 is definitely the best. And he doesn't cheat when it comes to weighing me my 200 grams of olives.<br /><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ri83xecYSxLh3muDgixrW52IBIz_pM8dFStGJfMFKuSo-YBC08qnptYoWiGXy9Sq0xn1e8N-ZgEG_lufB2sUKx6FNHZC_oRA-t6Sv3Z5STgi1kBj8qUN_2b0wMhvXcmdPiAcdEDT8cs/s1600-h/1190.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351617850437925874" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ri83xecYSxLh3muDgixrW52IBIz_pM8dFStGJfMFKuSo-YBC08qnptYoWiGXy9Sq0xn1e8N-ZgEG_lufB2sUKx6FNHZC_oRA-t6Sv3Z5STgi1kBj8qUN_2b0wMhvXcmdPiAcdEDT8cs/s400/1190.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div align="justify"><br /><br />During last couple if years i’ve traveled quite a lot. Partially in Europe, but mostly still to various southern countries. And every time i go to a country like India or China, something new is added to my list of vaccinations. A lot of people have been asking if i’m vaccinated and against what. Currently i’m vaccinated against AB hepatitis, typhoid, diphtheria, tetanus, encephalitis and poliomyelitis. Without those vaccinations I don’t think I would be so careless as I am now eating <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSntvzIQDN7iekIkex8XJaR1672X7wPmw2FvSgu5nS2gqGxpem5PPSoIJRpQL5EVjudkLvo-NTCV-G2B3yehZQ3lX3aVhwQW1vfqKduCAGRwAMCAJEYvqXzeUcpHfcDbMuNwnpZPgyL0I/s1600-h/0394.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351613377616724578" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSntvzIQDN7iekIkex8XJaR1672X7wPmw2FvSgu5nS2gqGxpem5PPSoIJRpQL5EVjudkLvo-NTCV-G2B3yehZQ3lX3aVhwQW1vfqKduCAGRwAMCAJEYvqXzeUcpHfcDbMuNwnpZPgyL0I/s400/0394.JPG" border="0" /></a>in absolutely random places absolutely random food. Of course there are many diseases you cannot vaccinate against, but seeing on every trip too many toilet-bound tourists battling with some avoidable stomach problems, I’m really glad that my vaccination book is as full as it is. I think that my peace of mind is worth more than saving money and traveling without even basic vaccinations. New and interesting experiences are always fun to have, but I think I’m ok with skipping the one of having explosive diarrhea while being surrounded by squat-toilets (<em>on the photo -></em>) or a simple hole in the ground.<br /><br />I have been sick few times, but nothing really worth mentioning, only some lightweight stuff. Those few times have however taught me the importance of not relying on local pharmacies, specially when there's a language barrier the size of an Eiffel tower to boot. Have you ever tried to pantomime that you have a diarrhea and you need some Loperamid tablets? Yeah, those were some fun and creative moments .. :)<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfKdTtILQ_oJoBSWeHJaPKyWubBlq4e0mofBEy7kqn0si0YQ9GXz5e0Ex20UJtEU1OxG814GAKlMRayXeRjOn_a_S2BDvFktuRkejWPddFysAOh-kxO5T2z3pjmAmqUA9V9nJPhH0FXQ/s1600-h/0224.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351623478933833490" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfKdTtILQ_oJoBSWeHJaPKyWubBlq4e0mofBEy7kqn0si0YQ9GXz5e0Ex20UJtEU1OxG814GAKlMRayXeRjOn_a_S2BDvFktuRkejWPddFysAOh-kxO5T2z3pjmAmqUA9V9nJPhH0FXQ/s400/0224.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH5KfUWMNhMfK3OGqiZuC5l7OxYKZ9JGN5kYIzneB1wz6qQImFpAAcFqsMpXkjhAo2eE62Ta77f-5BC1zyaXQTDbqotbc9qdCWflZZjaj4nIgR4Ub8O6IceHMnb02B6i8ae6wy08VtRBA/s1600-h/1176.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351623476420099282" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH5KfUWMNhMfK3OGqiZuC5l7OxYKZ9JGN5kYIzneB1wz6qQImFpAAcFqsMpXkjhAo2eE62Ta77f-5BC1zyaXQTDbqotbc9qdCWflZZjaj4nIgR4Ub8O6IceHMnb02B6i8ae6wy08VtRBA/s400/1176.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Berber tajines cooking slowly. Berber tajines have round shape, whereas the usual tajine dish is more conical.</em><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvdSunykXq0yu3l3rl3gxJrtfUfmKuiIUySev2EkRc1liebbeRV4JuzHyk2lMJ3WlW_K5S6eYvpEdmO7q7z3ct4smrSGBFaTYA570K2Jk3MXdlqCXmnbO4Dp7HO8_OmdhMlXMsvxK0yo/s1600-h/0789.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351623470642771650" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvdSunykXq0yu3l3rl3gxJrtfUfmKuiIUySev2EkRc1liebbeRV4JuzHyk2lMJ3WlW_K5S6eYvpEdmO7q7z3ct4smrSGBFaTYA570K2Jk3MXdlqCXmnbO4Dp7HO8_OmdhMlXMsvxK0yo/s400/0789.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Lamb brains, Djemaa el-Fna nightly food market<br /></em><br /><div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTeRRmfzmyjzQ0gItGjM9-bBG1jdwDgLWonD_ZssjdC0-dgQSjk5ciOz9JfuiHJZV7H4fXUzpqDm-fBIuDdUuK3G9dVURNdYTBXqycjxggD9nVrBiJbFkHGc8fZ_EuDfFaEQQ8UY_0emk/s1600-h/_MG_8223.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351623299735587890" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 321px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTeRRmfzmyjzQ0gItGjM9-bBG1jdwDgLWonD_ZssjdC0-dgQSjk5ciOz9JfuiHJZV7H4fXUzpqDm-fBIuDdUuK3G9dVURNdYTBXqycjxggD9nVrBiJbFkHGc8fZ_EuDfFaEQQ8UY_0emk/s400/_MG_8223.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Cheap and tasty bread, that accompanies most foods in Morocco. They sell them all day long on the street-shops or from carts just like the one on the photo, costs 1-1,5 DH/piece. I've had quite a few times a situation that i want to buy the bread, but when i start paying it turns out i have no coins and only some bigger bank notes. And so many times the vendor has just given me the bread, sometimes saying something like "Welcome to Marrakech" etc.<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9mEK9vhH90HRYHmzSfS-RCuO5-tx9uZXZnU5dQspkbrvDrA7-bCrzmQo63le5APsw92JNhZCXPJ5qidXfrlQIc4XUsv6Xy4zQ6ikfTB9KBGr7NtdtPt2ZFbdJFUFUkAbqslWfSbBggE/s1600-h/0083.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351623296521112930" style="WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9mEK9vhH90HRYHmzSfS-RCuO5-tx9uZXZnU5dQspkbrvDrA7-bCrzmQo63le5APsw92JNhZCXPJ5qidXfrlQIc4XUsv6Xy4zQ6ikfTB9KBGr7NtdtPt2ZFbdJFUFUkAbqslWfSbBggE/s400/0083.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Nabil hiding behind the bread<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtv9O9GCmGVzadcnMTINDaTqyWNRQuhSJmOFsMdDEjn9iANxi3ngMIa3S8hR_89t9xPQd1prhNi5SKJJkdzD1Ao9JKlzK9Dx9Db6YGTSfRJ5xinfrqk3BmIBO3ZF_j1pvdALRYPw5tOLU/s1600-h/_MG_2033.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351623290032950658" style="WIDTH: 267px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtv9O9GCmGVzadcnMTINDaTqyWNRQuhSJmOFsMdDEjn9iANxi3ngMIa3S8hR_89t9xPQd1prhNi5SKJJkdzD1Ao9JKlzK9Dx9Db6YGTSfRJ5xinfrqk3BmIBO3ZF_j1pvdALRYPw5tOLU/s400/_MG_2033.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Food sample of Djemaa el-Fna nightly food market<br /></em><br /></div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilctZycCcBSjFu_9isJw7Lrp4kSoetX6TKoMky71_wM0o1nWxKc_VVNPJhBNWrrNUc1m9oLqmVz3fN9ZRvaGw2tQ-jBvFW0mf8BPQJ5J5-S75RWJK1OT5G1KDIdzcJa0AZcQepZqULI98/s1600-h/1169.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351623286880553042" style="WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilctZycCcBSjFu_9isJw7Lrp4kSoetX6TKoMky71_wM0o1nWxKc_VVNPJhBNWrrNUc1m9oLqmVz3fN9ZRvaGw2tQ-jBvFW0mf8BPQJ5J5-S75RWJK1OT5G1KDIdzcJa0AZcQepZqULI98/s400/1169.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>A girl carrying a pastry tray to the bakery<br /><br /></em></div></div></div></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-48339684632859801042009-06-09T22:25:00.001+03:002010-04-17T23:28:08.976+03:00Phone numbers wanted!<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><br /><br /><em>She was cruising in the city – relaxed and worriless. The setting sun was turning already pink buildings of Marrakech into flaming red and the evening shadows were growing longer and longer. The bustling life of the nightly <span lang="ET">Djemaa el-Fna was getting into it’s groove. She enjoyed being alone, she was free to satisfy her every wish without worrying about anyone else. But was she indeed alone?</span><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p><br /><o:p></o:p><br /><o:p></o:p>Somebody had been observing her, somebody with unkind intentions, waiting for the right moment. A moment to take what he wanted, after all that’s what he was here for.<o:p></o:p><br /><o:p></o:p><br /><o:p></o:p>She decided to go to eat and strolled lazily into the thick crowd of <span lang="ET">Djemaa el-Fna. He saw his opportunity .. - he reached his hand and with a moment of a second he was gone, leaving her without a mobile phone.<o:p></o:p></span><br /></em></div><span lang="ET"><o:p></o:p></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="center"><span lang="ET"><br />*<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span lang="ET"><o:p></o:p><br />Good riddance with the mobile! It was an old almost prehistorical piece of **** anyway, but the unfortunate part is that along with the mobile he also got all your phone numbers .<br /><br />So, please, everybody reading this, drop me a line or send me an sms, so i could regain your digits. That goes to my fluffy foreign friends as well :).<o:p> In short, <em>everybody.</em><br /><br /></o:p>Big big thanks;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJDyFC1c50ftNYpM9mbBnfWz4WzoyWHdPN7mbCpLqa1BV0L80uo5qvEuU0JADXeJodaPlGb-5HRGdwLdczsXFvBbtG70OmwC0xh1RYDUlY6L5sadOSpa4gfTRmmS1skzeT5Nm5PaJ-bB8/s1600-h/contacts.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340030678012586018" style="WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 96px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJDyFC1c50ftNYpM9mbBnfWz4WzoyWHdPN7mbCpLqa1BV0L80uo5qvEuU0JADXeJodaPlGb-5HRGdwLdczsXFvBbtG70OmwC0xh1RYDUlY6L5sadOSpa4gfTRmmS1skzeT5Nm5PaJ-bB8/s400/contacts.png" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p><br /></p>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-44077933516133759702009-06-05T22:08:00.015+03:002010-04-17T23:28:08.979+03:00Couchsurfing in Morocco<div align="justify"><br /><br />I have mentioned couchsurfing on this blog before, but i’ve never really explained what is it. So, for those of you who don’t know - couchsurfing (CS) is a network of travelers, who offer (each other) free accommodation for some period of time (usually few days). "A host" is a person who offers his/her home for sleeping. "A surfer" is a traveler who takes you up on your offer and spends some time in your place - hence "to surf" :). You don't necessarily have to be a host in order to surf or vice versa. The system is built on mutual trust and respect and every surfer or host who has had a connection with another user is encouraged to leave a reference telling others how was the experience. This is a way to keep the program safe and functional – honest feedback. Both hosting and surfing is strictly free. A host may charge for example for the use of his private phone or a surfer can bring a bottle of wine for dinner etc, but in all other aspects it's still free. CS is not really about traveling cheap, it's point is not to provide free hotel but to enable social networking. You meet new people, see other cultures up close etc.<br /><br />Me and Jevgeni have been hosting about a year and during this time we’ve met some very cool people. I haven't had any bad experiences, nothing even remotely negative to say, everybody's been very respectful and polite, usually also social and outgoing. As a rule people who CS are also travelers, so it’s easier to find a common ground by sharing travel stories etc. With some people you connect better, with others less. But it's the same in life, it's not like you're friends with every person you meet, only a small amount of them stand out exceptionally. Tartu, the city i live in, is kind of off track, you actually have to make an effort to come here, it's not just easily on the way from one place to another. That means fewer travelers find their way to Tartu, as opposed to our capital Tallinn. In the same time we also get more "serious" travelers who actually want to go an extra mile and see a smaller city also, not just the capital. </div><br /><div align="justify">When we started hosting my friends and family thought (yet again) that we are crazy to open our home to strangers like that. "You will get robbed!" was the main warning i heard from them. OK, everything can happen, but i really doubt that a person from Canada will come all the way to Estonia to steal my TV and if necessary i can always reduce the risk to a minimum by choosing only surfers who have lots of positive references from their previous hosts. If 20 people write that this surfer was an awesome dude, very polite and cooked for the hosts, then you can assume his going to be the same at your place. And if he really does something to offend you or to create a problem, you can leave him a negative reference (which he can't delete himself) to warn others. And no serious traveler would ever damage his chance to get hosted again with getting a bad reference, so they behave very good. Experienced travelers are usually anyway very respectful and polite, it's the one-time tourists who might bring with them a small expectations of your home being a hotel, because that’s the only way they are used to travel. But like i said, such problems are very rare, the CS system takes it's safety and user control seriously.<br /><br />CS is an awesome program, but in Morocco it can be tricky. In Morocco 99% of hosts are male and yes, some hosts are very decent and trustworthy, but there are also too many hosts who are using CS as a dating service to <em>get </em>white women. I’ve heard some creepy stories about single female travelers that got strongly harassed by their over-enthusiastic male hosts, who had failed to understand the concept of couchsurfing. But there are also entrepreneurial Moroccans who use CS site as means to make a living and finding costumers for their riads or shops. Very often profiles promising things like „authentic berber life-style“ etc are actually providing accommodation as a service though you might not be informed of it before you arrive or sometimes you hear about it altogether in the very end. They might expect a „donation“ or so on.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGk3KtX9tEVyJgT4KyjtZCfgZor2Y-DBR4lgGPFk8mfjg2rd_0sbaR4HtiQUgg2kzm69bTvbL0qhaHxC9HPkAtmmjFM0y_aUXRXh1WoEHACif6-PNhPTUGGS78L3W_wjmJeXAKQSAFfk/s1600-h/hassan_bouaouina.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTu5PtCslso5apZVdhDRsxuIU5bSRjr-dYPJe-42RemULQEe84hGz4bBL7N19hHrIH0qen8gBR8GlnbYkHC38My0ENy_CnLDhOM57ApXY_GC23yiD5P2bXE3uKDSkZGUPqR4tVbpbEemw/s1600-h/hassan_bouaouina.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3kpKhH45SbeOB6fMrkSJ674OJ3t5_m0cGJUsI2LhOfS-SpJ9AWtxe2fASEdInMPiOEmn1_B8dx4Y8VrQa_TuNqGvxaL2Q_MEzmtaOYw30h-7_EWpNgU448aVDZ0Gp2sle4XKQjzugHU/s1600-h/hassan_bouaouina.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ccMWDX5mCbUYqNWXLyTEla1WCqLEDdEKsiW_j7-jSceF5rv7luep1v1Kn5l8wlUJDy2raAPpYkfKzpkevQH4Sq4Dxl8zt4N9wFe9TWCWlBzCzJilnQ7-t02P-LlBYGf5ZRLSuYuGCEs/s1600-h/hassan_bouaouina.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343931448736089714" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 182px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ccMWDX5mCbUYqNWXLyTEla1WCqLEDdEKsiW_j7-jSceF5rv7luep1v1Kn5l8wlUJDy2raAPpYkfKzpkevQH4Sq4Dxl8zt4N9wFe9TWCWlBzCzJilnQ7-t02P-LlBYGf5ZRLSuYuGCEs/s200/hassan_bouaouina.jpg" border="0" /></a>In October last year, when me and Kaidi were planning our Morocco trip, i was searching a host for us near Fes. I found one guy named <a href="http://www.couchsurfing.org/people/gutentagdiewelt">Hassan Bouaouina</a> (<em>on the photo ->)</em> who was terribly happy and inviting and wrote me immediately back saying yes, of course, he can absolutely host us bla bla bla + long list of nice things tourists can do in his village, places to visit bla bla bla and in the end of the e-mail he added [quote]: „my guests don't pay like normal tourists, the charge is lower“. I got of course all puffed up „what you mean <em>pay</em>? CS is a free culture exchange program!“. But out of the interest i asked how much he wants to get paid, thinking that maybe it’s something symbolic like money for dinner etc. He wrote back that he is a poor student and he will only charge us 250 euros. (!). I didn’t know if to laugh or to be furious – the sum was so inflated and unrealistic, it seemed that it must be a bad joke. My plane tickets from Estonia to Morocco and back cost the same! And this guy here is kindly offering us few days of accommodation in his family’s mudhouse for 250 euros. But no, it was not a joke, he was dead serious. We exchanged quite many e-mails, so there’s no chance that i misunderstood him. I reported him to CS admins, hoping they will boot him off the site, but i guess they gave him a warning and only stripped him off his „city ambassador“ status.<br /><br />„Ambassador“ is a title you get if you are verified and endorsed by the program and it’s usually a sign to others that you are 200% trustworthy. Ambassadors are appointed by the key members of the program who live in the same region so it can be at times a bit of a „friends vouch for their friends“ circle, which makes it possible for people like Hassan to get away with charging his guests and not getting his account suspended.<br /><br />I left Hassan a negative reference and the guy got tottaly pissed at me. At first he wrote me three times a week trying to convince me to remove the reference. His first approach was lamenting: „What’s the big deal?“; then he started saying that i had misunderstood everything and he never meant to charge <em>us</em>, that he would make an exception for <em>us</em>. Not a very intelligent guy after all, i though. After a while he started claiming that it wasn’t even him who wrote those letters, that somebody had logged into his account and pretended to be him. When this didn’t get him the desired result he commissioned couple of his past couchsurfers, who had been obviously very pleased with their surfing experience, to e-mail and inform me that Hassan is a truly an excellent guy and would never ever ever charge for hosting. One French girl took the whole affair rather personally and wrote me 3 very long letters varying from very emotional to extremely rude and abusive. I think as a last resort he tried to hack into my account to remove the reference himself, because suddenly i started getting regular e-mails from CS system informing me that there are too many unsuccessful log-in attempts to my account. If nothing else, the guy is definitely persistent :).<br />Hassan actually has a lot's of positive references, so he most likely hasn't tired to charge anybody that blatantly before. Maybe he just got tired of all those wealthy Westeners, who stay in his place and thought he can just as well make money off hosting them.<br /><br />CS website has this feature that if you are logged-in, you can see all the surfers who are currently visiting your country/city etc. Each time you log-in your location is recorded thus allowing CS to display information like „nearby travelers“. So every time i log into my account in Morocco, i start getting kind offers from Moroccan guys inviting me to come and visit them in Rabat, Ourzazate or God know where else. And this time was no different. „I live alone in a big apartment, i can show you around town, we can go to a desert tour, etc“. Are there really women who go for these offers and think they’re legit? These guys never have any credible references, if they have any at all it’s usually brothers and friends who vouch for them. They usually don’t have even decent decriptions of themselves and by the looks of them the most of them are also severly illiterate.<br /><br />So i’m in a pickle here now .. so many choices .. i wonder if i should go first to Rabat or Ourzazate .. ? :) :)<br /></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIQ0JcIUqbiN5gPVlXk_jlinxxfDwS_7wnWuko8qVI3qCFQ3fEB8K0pRa0OAC2SPpgfS_tZnk9CxdXga_3jUBaItOXifdq7YNDAhpmXy9I0wiQjfhsYuBag9k27vx4nqhcvTDVKbGNYI/s1600-h/0324.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343932118405585794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIQ0JcIUqbiN5gPVlXk_jlinxxfDwS_7wnWuko8qVI3qCFQ3fEB8K0pRa0OAC2SPpgfS_tZnk9CxdXga_3jUBaItOXifdq7YNDAhpmXy9I0wiQjfhsYuBag9k27vx4nqhcvTDVKbGNYI/s400/0324.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>Young groovy generation of Moroccans<br /><br /><br /></em></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5818028816916708587.post-79517131976894376492009-06-04T14:24:00.036+03:002010-04-17T23:28:08.981+03:00Out and about in Marrakech<div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div align="justify"><strong><br /><br />Marrakech <em>medina</em></strong><br /><br />Morocco has many wonderful features and different places in it are differently captivating. But when i'm in Fes or Marrakech, my utmost favourite activity is to stroll around aimlessly in <em>medina</em> (the old town). Fes and Marrakech <em>medinas</em> are quite different, from size, color, architecture and so on, but they both are very intriguing and photographically provoking.<br /><br />Marrakech <em>medina</em> is a busy busy beehive, if you're not careful you can get stung a bit. By "stung" i don't mean anything too <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhva7J92rsW7hr8cuhq9cmFvJcEwv0WMyzI1DIHI7MtkCh4_lF-CE9JbumX1hlkjY98u2f9c5sjUIrtYK90GtKn0hJE69WYCR_pNig-CCgucoiM62ZbtcZuS6E-7lNuDejR-czZDjTgc4k/s1600-h/0640.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343498494384071074" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhva7J92rsW7hr8cuhq9cmFvJcEwv0WMyzI1DIHI7MtkCh4_lF-CE9JbumX1hlkjY98u2f9c5sjUIrtYK90GtKn0hJE69WYCR_pNig-CCgucoiM62ZbtcZuS6E-7lNuDejR-czZDjTgc4k/s400/0640.JPG" border="0" /></a>serious, at most maybe pick-pocketed. While i'm sure there are also areas, which might be actually criminal or dangerous for tourists to walk in, the biggest threat i've encountered so far was getting nudged / driven into with a motorcycle. Most <em>medina</em> streets in Marrakech are wide enough to be able to drive there with a roller/scooter/bike etc. Add occasional donkey carts and even small cars and it's suffice to say some streets can get quite busy. The bikers are usually quite good in navigating between the people, but every once in a while you'll meet one that over-estimates his skill-set and drives right into you. It's not necessarily painful, just annoying to get a tyre-print on your clothes.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixO3TRek3dYL3UI8attLtTgIyXqYN3YM4Zm0MbNhwSdALljqUkktbEwfqpwGVlJAoWa8zOXWmcOsmQKojX75P4szHneO3K3MfOuWY3Zw3d3xcbXyeIJ7swbnA9HDx68GxWZlAREdWADfY/s1600-h/0296.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343498970100310994" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 256px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixO3TRek3dYL3UI8attLtTgIyXqYN3YM4Zm0MbNhwSdALljqUkktbEwfqpwGVlJAoWa8zOXWmcOsmQKojX75P4szHneO3K3MfOuWY3Zw3d3xcbXyeIJ7swbnA9HDx68GxWZlAREdWADfY/s400/0296.JPG" border="0" /></a>The further you walk from the Djemaa el-Fna, the less tourists you will see. Overburdened and crowded shopping streets slowly converge into living areas with usual people going about their business. It's very interesting to walk around randomly, because you often end up in places you would never even find with a map. Or meet people who you wouldn't meet in tourist areas. <em>Medina</em> is cool because it's entirely unstructured and unexpected. <em>Medina</em> in Marrakech has somewhat more logic to it, than the one in Fes, but the general idea is the same - total maze of streets and houses, often without any names or numbers. You never know where does the street you walk on actually lead and smaller streets often just end with a wall. Some of the streets are narrow and covered, others quite wide and open. One moment you are passing a fresh vegetable market and the other you find yourself on a street full of leather workshops or tailoring businesses (which are the very same back-alley places that cater for the shops on the main streets) etc. Deep in <em>medina</em> are hidden homes of some very rich people, both local and foreign. If you could just see the rich decor or tasteful renovation of some of those houses, you would never guess it by the simple door from the street.<br /><br /></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyoKHbd7Xu4jt7q4byDXlnjk6bM_C7i3uPVj9m1talmbcdKPvsbQzFdtWNty-M2YoZ62Jen1-WLY3kWT-iHLPrE92yRRbblZmrtM0f_Uu97NZ0Oq9k1HZ9mzhn5UcaDd4belC8SsP9Gjo/s1600-h/0633.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343515557071783458" style="WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyoKHbd7Xu4jt7q4byDXlnjk6bM_C7i3uPVj9m1talmbcdKPvsbQzFdtWNty-M2YoZ62Jen1-WLY3kWT-iHLPrE92yRRbblZmrtM0f_Uu97NZ0Oq9k1HZ9mzhn5UcaDd4belC8SsP9Gjo/s400/0633.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Door knocker, this symbol is called Hand of Fatima<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEvA186bCjuaFfUpBSmMrvxxka7rcdFiIeLI_dYxmVNribqoJORo3_RRdv_MGZ4aonfiykbYQnT24rQGg0FYkqKUdrOu-RKgobwDyt6_YERHZJnbBQvtaHCNFVxF9V84BJbuc0a03_X8/s1600-h/_MG_1442.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343515553891907794" style="WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEvA186bCjuaFfUpBSmMrvxxka7rcdFiIeLI_dYxmVNribqoJORo3_RRdv_MGZ4aonfiykbYQnT24rQGg0FYkqKUdrOu-RKgobwDyt6_YERHZJnbBQvtaHCNFVxF9V84BJbuc0a03_X8/s400/_MG_1442.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div align="justify"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYsTL_sZ17tcp_oafM32ft0KLJqQKo8lXGci8jtMZJGgd_2gPS6ubQnyCoNy7WoVXLOkLJxAmDHrmkiIPaLpYNuFINAn7HXSCR511H20XHAJCPNjwPdwrirp90wSpMiyFOx97xSKw-6g/s1600-h/0330.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343515549005708610" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYsTL_sZ17tcp_oafM32ft0KLJqQKo8lXGci8jtMZJGgd_2gPS6ubQnyCoNy7WoVXLOkLJxAmDHrmkiIPaLpYNuFINAn7HXSCR511H20XHAJCPNjwPdwrirp90wSpMiyFOx97xSKw-6g/s400/0330.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNqTCSbQTQuvGnPUrTKQMslo029B7V-RaqLDoP8JrJZhpfQ2JHb7VPyF2-Xav4hfifeomYNi9QRvFMl5k5yq0ia8luq4A8VKQJtulpj3ifFGiC-wPnPwxLu_O3NKzJ6iCOETO9r_pG-M/s1600-h/1009.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343515548423792882" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNqTCSbQTQuvGnPUrTKQMslo029B7V-RaqLDoP8JrJZhpfQ2JHb7VPyF2-Xav4hfifeomYNi9QRvFMl5k5yq0ia8luq4A8VKQJtulpj3ifFGiC-wPnPwxLu_O3NKzJ6iCOETO9r_pG-M/s400/1009.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />There are very few to non-at-all tourists walking significantly far from the Djemaa el-Fna. I don't have a map of Marrakech or a map of <em>medina</em>, but i feel that i don't even need one, because it's quite easy to navigate. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHO6oMYyDumQK5eTHizJLCWXsyT9tykbapgGhmpKRMMDBrNXIZEbvNH7ZynXEMYZug3Zz7iROj2t-Xr4GfdymN-OS9NbQlKx0UvaELCjkvOgmch8odMpYHYwncVdM_f1Z15d8qtJcuwPk/s1600-h/0990.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343499365432030146" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 293px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHO6oMYyDumQK5eTHizJLCWXsyT9tykbapgGhmpKRMMDBrNXIZEbvNH7ZynXEMYZug3Zz7iROj2t-Xr4GfdymN-OS9NbQlKx0UvaELCjkvOgmch8odMpYHYwncVdM_f1Z15d8qtJcuwPk/s400/0990.JPG" border="0" /></a>If you want to stay in the central area of <em>medina</em>, follow the flow of tourists. The less tourists, the further from Djemaa el-Fna you are. If that is indeed your aim, just keep choosing streets without tourists and you will soon find yourself surrounded only by locals. Works every time. The locals are actually very kind and helpful, but they do seem to have a trouble with the concept of "just walking around randomly", because as soon as you're a bit out of the tourist area, you get some helpful people stopping you on the street and informing that the direction you are walking in "has nothing to see" and/or the "big square" is the that way. <strong><br /><br /><br /><br />Photographing + people</strong><br /><br />I've never felt unsafe in Marrakech having my camera out (in daytime) and i do literally carry it everywhere with me. OK, i might also be a bit careless sometimes, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6ZcEjxaAMs7luWW7hmkLg1LwD3eReIAhTbzmbyz6ONXFnyaEfqvr-VPa8wMXwR7wcLv47xTIkav5QFR9ixMSQZNdONx_OhULwayTNvcqn7Aj8RDZF_fRzfvOwhK1bU9BwYZNs0xDI34/s1600-h/0352.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343499922036493874" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6ZcEjxaAMs7luWW7hmkLg1LwD3eReIAhTbzmbyz6ONXFnyaEfqvr-VPa8wMXwR7wcLv47xTIkav5QFR9ixMSQZNdONx_OhULwayTNvcqn7Aj8RDZF_fRzfvOwhK1bU9BwYZNs0xDI34/s400/0352.JPG" border="0" /></a>but even with that in mind i still think Marrakech is very safe for a photographer. You should try to be respectful while taking photos of the people though - most of them do not want to get photographed and shoving your camera in their face is considered very rude. Some people want money, but it's quite rare and i almost never pay anyway. I have few times given some dirhams to children when they've been posing to me cutely, but only because i wanted to give. In my experience Moroccans are not aggressive when it comes to asking money for photos and not getting it, so feel free to say no.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6vfWCyV3cH_c3NEz7JwlWraXC3Zflp5S_5IYTkEM_phWGSmC7CJFi1SirSgx9KiQabBFtde-ATMgTAjOQy5X5NNhPCpTPD6QJtUdwVc6OdWlNMuIzsRyBfoWkIKTFJM4wfngwORvj7L8/s1600-h/0226.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343516101753853090" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6vfWCyV3cH_c3NEz7JwlWraXC3Zflp5S_5IYTkEM_phWGSmC7CJFi1SirSgx9KiQabBFtde-ATMgTAjOQy5X5NNhPCpTPD6QJtUdwVc6OdWlNMuIzsRyBfoWkIKTFJM4wfngwORvj7L8/s400/0226.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieknnWs9CrFlfROs3PAlT9LUqpFYNjttX3Vz5i3FXyqmwvv4L03U_SDuCWCxz0ALKvqt7rrafQ9BRqUvbTzd3Plik-cQbn1ZlNpZmnc1_YWgC2j-IHwsZzC6V1nfJtNlx7COX0AZFMqPI/s1600-h/0285.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343516099274609970" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieknnWs9CrFlfROs3PAlT9LUqpFYNjttX3Vz5i3FXyqmwvv4L03U_SDuCWCxz0ALKvqt7rrafQ9BRqUvbTzd3Plik-cQbn1ZlNpZmnc1_YWgC2j-IHwsZzC6V1nfJtNlx7COX0AZFMqPI/s400/0285.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKl_ptrFbXUx0FSOUpM0cYSGu10xK0PdZMaMs2cUajrbR0V9egWqC6fBL_LUkRCXq7tq8pAgS1JNQA0lvzxH2Mq6ni7_WOUKnBbtWyJfbDLhBccA9oBZrj13kwDJJ5sd65onJb2uj7gQ/s1600-h/0274.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343516087663555026" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 246px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKl_ptrFbXUx0FSOUpM0cYSGu10xK0PdZMaMs2cUajrbR0V9egWqC6fBL_LUkRCXq7tq8pAgS1JNQA0lvzxH2Mq6ni7_WOUKnBbtWyJfbDLhBccA9oBZrj13kwDJJ5sd65onJb2uj7gQ/s400/0274.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj16e1npG4Ll_qunvYz7Wuku8nmrqFXbZh8OvGkiZEwhK6QWQ8ytp3b9tNcGw0jplfpsY55lXjzSVTB4h417VxjzsPbsscudLC7qmKWDfdL1-__psrqDDivxrGUgss8bWu3I9HiW3SQBrs/s1600-h/0626.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343516087835352866" style="WIDTH: 288px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj16e1npG4Ll_qunvYz7Wuku8nmrqFXbZh8OvGkiZEwhK6QWQ8ytp3b9tNcGw0jplfpsY55lXjzSVTB4h417VxjzsPbsscudLC7qmKWDfdL1-__psrqDDivxrGUgss8bWu3I9HiW3SQBrs/s400/0626.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I had a situation once in Fes - i was walking in <em>medina</em> and there was an interesting looking man in the market, holding a live bird. I asked if i can make a photo of him and he said yes, for 2 dirhams. I was ok with the price, so i started shooting. When it came time to pay and i was fumbling in my pockets to find coins, two other guys stepped up and started picking a fight with the bird-man for charging me in the first place. Needless to say i was very pleasantly surprised, my very own Moroccan protectors :).<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuETX0p-hEsuCn0hgD-l117WPwiYRzmd0s66-OMUO0izyPxb8xo4wde9ycL1UvgCIUrOKFFfWp9CCZjiFY0b8k1YACRwZ0nTbRW1LH-xj26QuQXD7h3SrOB7RafahoK93N1T_o2n2Hyvo/s1600-h/0231.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343516598342796658" style="WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuETX0p-hEsuCn0hgD-l117WPwiYRzmd0s66-OMUO0izyPxb8xo4wde9ycL1UvgCIUrOKFFfWp9CCZjiFY0b8k1YACRwZ0nTbRW1LH-xj26QuQXD7h3SrOB7RafahoK93N1T_o2n2Hyvo/s400/0231.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>My "model"<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6x6uRwawBy2Lxr05LCNTKVDQE13FD758pdVN6LesRFbNC3vKfavYRujXg2HRUM2edq63SNKYtcbqn5vWObdvTiGyrlTYZmq5xvGvnziC_n5ehkMAH6O9V5-hWkYrva6nETs-Ug0C0LE/s1600-h/0228.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343516505653435490" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6x6uRwawBy2Lxr05LCNTKVDQE13FD758pdVN6LesRFbNC3vKfavYRujXg2HRUM2edq63SNKYtcbqn5vWObdvTiGyrlTYZmq5xvGvnziC_n5ehkMAH6O9V5-hWkYrva6nETs-Ug0C0LE/s400/0228.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>And my "protectors" :)<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_PKq7uN92s9zVrpH3Nt4obQ3z6P6ifLP_FmKuUtRfwTNva6nMcJ1rPWZc29TBXMUIDCHsJvD_3Ma3urEMTEWMfmwCRI4o2QAgx0ab-TmDFOoBumA-lCPhFlclFKNdASkP6bvcP3Pwwo/s1600-h/0230.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343516503519551042" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_PKq7uN92s9zVrpH3Nt4obQ3z6P6ifLP_FmKuUtRfwTNva6nMcJ1rPWZc29TBXMUIDCHsJvD_3Ma3urEMTEWMfmwCRI4o2QAgx0ab-TmDFOoBumA-lCPhFlclFKNdASkP6bvcP3Pwwo/s400/0230.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Riads in Marrakech</strong><br /><br />While hotels are the standard means of accommodation in Morocco, you can also choose to stay in a local style ethnic riad (ryad), meaning basically a guesthouse/bed & breakfast. Riad is usually kind of a luxury place, a small house in <em>medina</em> converted to accommodate guests. Riads are very private and peaceful, with only few rooms to avoid crowds. Traditional riad is a house with an open courtyard with rooms/apartments around it. As a rule the morning starts with traditional Moroccan breakfast, usually served on the rooftop terrace. Most riads also offer lunch and dinners. It's a very nice way to live in Morocco, but also a quite expensive one. One night in a riad in Marrakech can cost from 1000-5000 EEK a night (1440-7200 DH), the upper price one being already a super luxurious place.<br /><br />Same as hotels, riads can also be in a very different range of quality. Arabic culture has a strong history with appreciating luxury and style, so a high-end riad can be almost like a palace where your every wish is granted swiftly and you feel like a royalty. The beauty of interior can be breath-taking, making you feel like you are part of "The Thousand And One Night" tales. So if your budget allows, stay in a riad for at least a day; allow yourself the experience of being wealthy in Morocco, even if it's just for one night.<br /></div><div align="justify"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLBKvcsDaiQIWrNCSlR9Zno2jlzM5EHHn0a3j6o7ShVNlBXu2v4eeG5cTdgfdHh7_LGs0MQ5YUToR_FQH4Hp4xGVb_LF0aRWByaKiQvdJ3KE3YX2HMNNXLuUy3pkK8A1_ycnLSIchKXQ/s1600-h/_MG_8443.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343517044940975170" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLBKvcsDaiQIWrNCSlR9Zno2jlzM5EHHn0a3j6o7ShVNlBXu2v4eeG5cTdgfdHh7_LGs0MQ5YUToR_FQH4Hp4xGVb_LF0aRWByaKiQvdJ3KE3YX2HMNNXLuUy3pkK8A1_ycnLSIchKXQ/s400/_MG_8443.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Typical riad breakfast for one person (middle-range riad)<br /><br /></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-apj1yffkmQejmcrGM6WLdizFcgYxsi2a13dOrpQE_Xt0lG9NvRtkadphg8eoL5gqJyPla0DWw_o1giac_f0hECs6amAyKDusMbGfBa-uYlJUkM6Xfv84Ov03LBFSbbynYv97CXS_uw/s1600-h/0022.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343517034552307698" style="WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-apj1yffkmQejmcrGM6WLdizFcgYxsi2a13dOrpQE_Xt0lG9NvRtkadphg8eoL5gqJyPla0DWw_o1giac_f0hECs6amAyKDusMbGfBa-uYlJUkM6Xfv84Ov03LBFSbbynYv97CXS_uw/s400/0022.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Inner courtyard of a simple riad, with lantern hanging down<br /><br /><br /><br /></em><strong>Shopping</strong><br /><br />Marrakech is a city of enormous variety. If you like shopping, just enter the <em>medina</em> and you will have a vast choice of <em>souks</em> (markets), offering you all the imaginable Arabic style products, from teacups to handmade exquisite furniture. Some of the <em>souks</em> are dedicated to one certain item like <em>souk of babouches</em> (slippers), <em>jellabas</em> (long ethnic robes), leather, metalwork etc. You can even commission custom made things from a local master. Of course bargaining is a must. I wouldn’t recommend buying your souvenirs too close to the tourist areas, like from the shops close to Djemaa el-Fna. Prices are higher and the sales-guys less motivated to meet you half way – if <em>you</em> don’t buy, the next tourist will.<br /><br />If you don’t quite like the market quality or style, you can do your shopping in the high-end designer boutiques, that offer higher quality and more distinguished design. In Gueliz, the new part of the city, you have all the western shopping choices that one could wish for. The same goes to food, means of transportation, accommodation, entertainment etc. The choice is very wide and budget range flexible. The same money that a budget traveler spends in Morocco in a month, another person can blow in few days. There are some insanely rich people living in Morocco and the city caters accordingly. It all comes down to choices you make.<br /><br />At this point in my life i get to mostly experience the authentic ethnic Morocco. My budget as such would not withstand me dipping into trendy nightlife and restaurants of Marrakech. But considering that at the moment i have very little interest to the modern part of Morocco anyway, i’m quite happy with the situation. Maybe in 5 years or so i would yearn to climb up the local social ladder, rubbing elbows with the rich and richer, but at the moment i like my backpacking travel-style and simple and often like-minded people i meet along the way.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUGoQB4H2hCTr5ZDphw94ZyYXgcBtbwEKkbb9s08Mw8CKrTb0_4cGyxM9IqGCANtx9lWyHKBy3JV0VBOVT12AveJVFA3e30Pql0TTmKnbE4WvbDd7SHkzsTmYsy_740gy4yq-nOd7319o/s1600-h/1139.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343518768054068722" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUGoQB4H2hCTr5ZDphw94ZyYXgcBtbwEKkbb9s08Mw8CKrTb0_4cGyxM9IqGCANtx9lWyHKBy3JV0VBOVT12AveJVFA3e30Pql0TTmKnbE4WvbDd7SHkzsTmYsy_740gy4yq-nOd7319o/s400/1139.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Beautiful necklaces</em><br /><br /></div><div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGtM46lZCW3refP1JBshUaj8QxLhcwU2Yt5Qx9oWf9azX_K1anPDY7V_-r9nBZYqas-CHM_LpLD5iLLWBkSUzT4eAKxroTowX02Ly0gIBZd4JFoym3WRZA4QjmVs8FKhqnUY7kg5XLIk8/s1600-h/0246.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343518768269194402" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGtM46lZCW3refP1JBshUaj8QxLhcwU2Yt5Qx9oWf9azX_K1anPDY7V_-r9nBZYqas-CHM_LpLD5iLLWBkSUzT4eAKxroTowX02Ly0gIBZd4JFoym3WRZA4QjmVs8FKhqnUY7kg5XLIk8/s400/0246.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Shoe shop for women</em><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Xfrwe42Y6cmXoN7UStvI8b7HcBnME8XZRlRdJ_v7Hv9Zp8f91JZCfyLouD66O1BHXF9hlxKpfz3AIOx5BRaRmwEjiCQ_jOj7pDeTQgfFKktahb1kSmAEh11Qtom1ezs6a5VwfC_x3us/s1600-h/0596.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343518764119085554" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Xfrwe42Y6cmXoN7UStvI8b7HcBnME8XZRlRdJ_v7Hv9Zp8f91JZCfyLouD66O1BHXF9hlxKpfz3AIOx5BRaRmwEjiCQ_jOj7pDeTQgfFKktahb1kSmAEh11Qtom1ezs6a5VwfC_x3us/s400/0596.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Metal bracelets</em><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMX-wIQszzPpyhc3UmycyuWUepczTU3kmE3eS31Mwva5s1u1ISyXhJKw0BSzaHsVN0cOvZDC4neHaO_tcdz5HFUXHYU3PzVsIqtDG6dDxLdzy70fMSda0IcDGr_c250Wgug6P2tb7WARU/s1600-h/_MG_1312.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343518403980537042" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMX-wIQszzPpyhc3UmycyuWUepczTU3kmE3eS31Mwva5s1u1ISyXhJKw0BSzaHsVN0cOvZDC4neHaO_tcdz5HFUXHYU3PzVsIqtDG6dDxLdzy70fMSda0IcDGr_c250Wgug6P2tb7WARU/s400/_MG_1312.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Moroccan teapots<br /></em><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpL-3itKf3vv9C8UZ3zDh6L1tRIU-6Fb-WYN02qToFa61YIs-Vlm63-VYN4Xck3mg2HGoeiPjb3BttDKNSzHH1ATIQ9hoRhI1BpCG2mbq80zBa4QZqCTrFlAdDevSIyzCpyHElezXKCPw/s1600-h/0590.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343518409361750418" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpL-3itKf3vv9C8UZ3zDh6L1tRIU-6Fb-WYN02qToFa61YIs-Vlm63-VYN4Xck3mg2HGoeiPjb3BttDKNSzHH1ATIQ9hoRhI1BpCG2mbq80zBa4QZqCTrFlAdDevSIyzCpyHElezXKCPw/s400/0590.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>In Marrakech markets you can easily find also modern stuff, fake of course.</em><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdgTgfljUqyCkxUriJY-tWM6745FHi_d_Ua-VDH9rgVruafCGtslcgVF9iDMq15NZEV0nFOI3JH8mI1tjkPhHK4exQ3e6cSzb0rigrsMWNhLiTFj0PzfmsQ0dZAxHhDvIViiVu8_aCQQ/s1600-h/0594.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343518405409980162" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdgTgfljUqyCkxUriJY-tWM6745FHi_d_Ua-VDH9rgVruafCGtslcgVF9iDMq15NZEV0nFOI3JH8mI1tjkPhHK4exQ3e6cSzb0rigrsMWNhLiTFj0PzfmsQ0dZAxHhDvIViiVu8_aCQQ/s400/0594.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Moroccan tea glasses, adorned with hand-painted art<br /></em><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXugpxrueXvkDzu3vVOxduGqcLdfkUAnP8yYsz_BRBLxsz_DnoFSEUy7U5feLTxGat-4ia1kH6sO3amQ8OE1_DDW3FYYlwVg4J_RSh5MKpRbbF0zXNydHCYAlfPbfpThaExVbRSiLyyJs/s1600-h/0593.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343518399544546434" style="WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXugpxrueXvkDzu3vVOxduGqcLdfkUAnP8yYsz_BRBLxsz_DnoFSEUy7U5feLTxGat-4ia1kH6sO3amQ8OE1_DDW3FYYlwVg4J_RSh5MKpRbbF0zXNydHCYAlfPbfpThaExVbRSiLyyJs/s400/0593.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>The whole wall full of tea glasses<br /></em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9737ddHrYqTeSUtUpfVb9rOtSzYnZoymrxNBfpCSCG3evK8L5X6TwqD1U537mfS_rEKEm0yHmBHvyPG321pya7QW3VfP23xa0ycqTjxck3GybR7PFMy1HADQhZfMZqlF7YAyaLdIpyPM/s1600-h/0588.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343518773821166690" style="WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9737ddHrYqTeSUtUpfVb9rOtSzYnZoymrxNBfpCSCG3evK8L5X6TwqD1U537mfS_rEKEm0yHmBHvyPG321pya7QW3VfP23xa0ycqTjxck3GybR7PFMy1HADQhZfMZqlF7YAyaLdIpyPM/s400/0588.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Moroccan tajine dish, Safi ceramics. Though sales-guys will tell you that you can easily cook with those dishes as well, they are still meant for decoration. The dye used in glazing is too poisonous for everyday use</em><br /><br /><div><div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDRx5X4BNT-LTaIxWkFYU5bnMRUgvdhVHMykTnYRpkJWYyNVGofXFKFbCWsG2EbnZ38twh-t_wUOBo2VTCPdByXMVdH7-f8FPPnmzQ2hrr_hre-B0sasZKJLEC0e80K_zjT57ANH1I7Zg/s1600-h/0935.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343517885510510818" style="WIDTH: 258px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDRx5X4BNT-LTaIxWkFYU5bnMRUgvdhVHMykTnYRpkJWYyNVGofXFKFbCWsG2EbnZ38twh-t_wUOBo2VTCPdByXMVdH7-f8FPPnmzQ2hrr_hre-B0sasZKJLEC0e80K_zjT57ANH1I7Zg/s400/0935.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>More ceramics. Almost all ceramics in this style comes from a small town called Safi<br /></em><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikg7KE62bl9oUQTBlm2gHGl2_wdEeEqcFkTubOqYzNusKSYaXmPNLk6jNgtPcgATgPF0i0hxL42LVygnS0gUuD4cVbGbQwYZgh47P8HJ4EKU1qBalqpC0kxQE04cwJF5ETzXkTqjbbp6M/s1600-h/0240.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343517882287946114" style="WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikg7KE62bl9oUQTBlm2gHGl2_wdEeEqcFkTubOqYzNusKSYaXmPNLk6jNgtPcgATgPF0i0hxL42LVygnS0gUuD4cVbGbQwYZgh47P8HJ4EKU1qBalqpC0kxQE04cwJF5ETzXkTqjbbp6M/s400/0240.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Carpet shop</em><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjciQwJyHaxZF0C7Wen1XmrTmlCsmpafp5C33J-d8Y5Remhm1VwDN0jzDBQbObuFmqFViQZqtoun80IS3X0vGWYMfk3fPH9qx6qzY2tBk-MHR4LK4HntjcpB-8t7VpQFcV6xAnCmBGL0U/s1600-h/0243.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343517880747038066" style="WIDTH: 256px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjciQwJyHaxZF0C7Wen1XmrTmlCsmpafp5C33J-d8Y5Remhm1VwDN0jzDBQbObuFmqFViQZqtoun80IS3X0vGWYMfk3fPH9qx6qzY2tBk-MHR4LK4HntjcpB-8t7VpQFcV6xAnCmBGL0U/s400/0243.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Fabric merchant. Interestingly, almost all merchants in Morocco are men. I've seen only few women selling on food markets or independently some handicraft on the street-corner.</em><br /><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Ragne Kabanovahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15971001585538380281noreply@blogger.com0