tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72949624336961535012024-03-05T08:09:26.101+00:00Where in the World...Weekend updates for those who want to keep up with all the latest goings on...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.comBlogger152125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-19648126915868846042013-11-24T19:56:00.002+00:002013-11-25T07:56:16.652+00:00Coastal Slovenia - small but perfectly formed<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-style: normal;">I
seem to have spent a lot of time talking about Slovenia recently.
But, as I said in my last post, it is a country that gets under your
skin. The last few weeks have been busy ones, with a work trip to
Rome, a lot of networking, and a whole lots of shining up the CV. We
have even gone as far as to start up our own teaching
websites in order to best sell ourselves to the European market. We
must get back there, and the closer to Slovenia the better.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">So,
why the obsession? We have been to beautiful places before and not
had a desperate need to up sticks and move there. Rather than one big
draw, it seems like there are a whole lots of small things that add
up to something rather unique in Slovenia. </span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">To
get to Slovenia from Morocco we flew into Milan Bergamo and rented a
car. It is about 400km along highways which should make it easier
than it is. Driving in Italy, where everyone thinks they are a racing
driver makes highways more stressful even than back home in Morocco.
A four hour journey takes it out of you, especially when you get lost
in Trieste's remarkably ugly industrial zone, in the dark, just 20 km
away from your destination. Leaving the hulking shapes of factories
and warehouses behind, it is calming to cross a barely noticeable
border into Slovenia, where you are instantly in peaceful, rural
surroundings and small spread-out, dimly-lit villages.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">For
our first night we were staying in Marezige, a tiny town in the hills
overlooking the industrial port of Koper. Arriving late on a Sunday,
very tired and somewhat irritable, we were dreading the prospect of
having to make the inevitable journey down the hill and into Koper to
find somewhere to eat. There was little sign of life in any of the
villages we had passed through on the way up. We got to Marezige and
passed a vineyard, instantly making things look more positive. Then,
rounding a bend we came upon a small restaurant, twinkling with fairy
lights and looking very much open.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">For
our first experience of Slovenian hospitality, we probably couldn't
have done much better. We were met by a broadly smiling waitress who
led us to a cosy table. We sipped cold beers while studying the
enormous menu. European cuisine is always a pleasure after living in
Morocco, but this menu was fabulous. Nick opted for the highly taboo
ham cooked in red wine sauce, and I went for the lighter option of
pork on pork with the mixed grill. </span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">Slovenia
produces up to 90 million litres of wine a year, yet exports very little of
it. Slovenians love wine and drink nearly all of it before it can
leave the country. They sell it by the litre. We ordered a litre of
white produced just down the road. This arrived with a free aperitif
for me. This was not going to be a quick meal. </span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
food arrived. One thing I have learned from this trip, the Slovenians
have big appetites. The portions are enormous. From main meals to
cream cakes, you will not be finishing your plate. When in doubt
share. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBfoymVlV3q4Zw3-k_U7jiDjS9vyvQ4wLijQxIKqp11Xn2362pmM72i1QWPACX8ROnJRNKbehhjfap3ArSlhIVozInFI90WUe7d4cU259xAkEbV6A2-NITxmQvm7EMTyv5S4-U0wJxgIfN/s1600/WP_000717.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="font-style: normal;">A
whole lot of pork and a portion of profiteroles later, we were just
about ready to roll ourselves down the hill to Casa Oasa where we
were staying, but not before trying one of the many digestifs at the
back of the menu. The aperitif had been lovely, so we had high hopes.
If there is one thing I would recommend avoiding when visiting
Slovenia, it is the tasting of random spirits. Instead, just spray a
can of hairspray quite liberally into the air and then walk through
the resulting cloud. This way you at least avoid the extreme chemical
burn going all the way down to the stomach. We found we needed to
leave quite quickly after that, so paid the remarkably cheap 40 Euro
bill and stumbled home.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://www.karjola.si/"><span style="font-style: normal;">http://www.karjola.si/</span></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://www.casaoasa.com/"><span style="font-style: normal;">http://www.casaoasa.com/</span></a><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjHNygjbTGc0xLPOtOgLJRFmgNddsGgdQq0bevY14s1gYCIiNMfCyew8QFlz7jeCKOAzJrctKzVstLGnK8IjY8MGd_68TlSJeRIaGUqVdH0o8UPmzX0vMr3CGNYpekuSMLEpKHicv6nG4/s1600/WP_000719.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjHNygjbTGc0xLPOtOgLJRFmgNddsGgdQq0bevY14s1gYCIiNMfCyew8QFlz7jeCKOAzJrctKzVstLGnK8IjY8MGd_68TlSJeRIaGUqVdH0o8UPmzX0vMr3CGNYpekuSMLEpKHicv6nG4/s400/WP_000719.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking a break from stumbling home.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
next day started somewhat delicately. The hangover a lot bigger than
we had intended. The plan for the day was to go and have brunch in
Piran, Slovenia's prettiest town, before driving up the country to
Lake Bled. Dating back to the Napoleonic Wars, Piran has a distinctly
Venetian feel. Beautiful cobbled alleyways, colourful and ornate
architecture, and a wonderful Café culture. However, unlike it's
grander more touristy counterpart across the Adriatic, Piran has
crystal clear water, is free from stagnant lagoon smells, and has
coffee that doesn't cost 6 Euros. </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"> </span>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Hairspray
spirits the night before aren't the most motivational ingredient to
add to a day, so we explored a lot less than planned, and spent a
large part of the morning eating. Just in case we didn't reach our
P.I.G (pork intake goal) the day before, we started the day with a
ham and cheese sandwich and coffee on the waterfront. We took a short
walk along the promenade, round a church or two and then down a few
narrow alleys. It was here that we stumbled across our next hidden
gem of a restaurant. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Tempted
by the seafood but still a little full, we decided to share the
seafood platter for one, washed down with delicious grapefruit beer.
When the food arrived I had to suppress a gasp of surprise and with a
hint of panic at the bill, and confirmed what we had ordered. The 11
Euro seafood platter for one. This thing was enormous. Fried
potatoes, fried fish, deep fried calamari rings, grilled calamari,
and our personal favourite, and something of a revelation to us,
calamari stuffed with cheese and ham. We shared one and were still
unable to finish. Something a little unheard of when it comes to
seafood. The couple on the next table ordered two, after having
appetizers. I did mention people in Slovenia have big appetites.</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lgGOYrwAPfgOfpoAIW7KPKpOS6qUyMncuEvS4vwHDi9g5y8-DyIUSxRoZCdbkFj33ucu6luzOWkRBHTZpzUResWBgaoYE8BrNlpZbd3l7NlZx1O1OF9kpG6TxNYETQ0b-9XhOOtR0Mfq/s1600/WP_000724.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lgGOYrwAPfgOfpoAIW7KPKpOS6qUyMncuEvS4vwHDi9g5y8-DyIUSxRoZCdbkFj33ucu6luzOWkRBHTZpzUResWBgaoYE8BrNlpZbd3l7NlZx1O1OF9kpG6TxNYETQ0b-9XhOOtR0Mfq/s640/WP_000724.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">Very
full and somewhat over indulged, we had completed our coastal stage
of the Slovenia trip. Now for the 173km journey that would take us
from the bottom to the top of the small but beautiful country. </span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-77241069045014128172013-11-02T18:57:00.000+00:002013-11-24T13:44:58.402+00:00The Slovenian Dream<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaBBbZ-UJbnx5tO8TAmCY3eSegfw0BYtlc5jwM1C6AFW9-DEXonUehuQVlKuq7mwWyHfh_IZ6tnlkCiMvIhwevJtvMgiLrYkLqn2fZ3LAy8THWeUShCSGMXeyO6ba_1QsFvwGWCXUBrIyP/s1600/IMG_9887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaBBbZ-UJbnx5tO8TAmCY3eSegfw0BYtlc5jwM1C6AFW9-DEXonUehuQVlKuq7mwWyHfh_IZ6tnlkCiMvIhwevJtvMgiLrYkLqn2fZ3LAy8THWeUShCSGMXeyO6ba_1QsFvwGWCXUBrIyP/s320/IMG_9887.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Slovenia.
A country of warmth and hospitality. A country where the size of your
host's smile is dwarfed only by that of the plates of food they are
serving. A country of endless green forests and spectacular mountain
vistas.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We have
been waiting to visit Slovenia for a very long time. Six years ago
Nick and I visited the small French village of Praz de Lys, and fell
in love with the alpine life style. Small villages full of quaint
chalets, and tiny bistros serving local wine. This was the life we
wanted. Someday, somehow, we would make it happen. We would become the
clichés; buy the run down shack in the hills, renovate it slowly and
haphazardly, and find some way of scraping together a living. Heck, I
might even have tried writing about it.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was
not long after, that some clever soul convinced us to go back to uni
and get our teaching certificates. We had never really intended on
becoming 'real' teachers, but with a quick search of available jobs
showing us just how much we could make in the Middle East, we
thought, 'this is it, this is our way to the chalet. Five years of
working hard in the desert and we could be living the dream'.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The plan
was simple. We would find that run down wreck of a home, for a
fraction of what it was worth. We would do those haphazard
renovations, that would cost us next to nothing as we would cunningly
source our materials and skilfully do everything ourselves (even
though we have no hint of such necessary skills). We would then open
our doors to guests who would return year after year for our
effortlessly warm hospitality, expert ski guiding skills and summer
photography courses. Simple.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We
searched high and low in the French Alps for that perfect place. We
were nowhere near ready to buy anything, but it never hurts to look
and dream. It quickly became apparent that all those run down wrecks
in France had already been snapped up. That was not, after all, the
place for us. The search expanded. Our search technique consisted of
looking at Google images and real estate websites. It was this that
lead us to the small central European country of Slovenia.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I defy
anyone to Google Slovenia, and not want to live there. Don't take my
word for it, go have a look. Stunning, isn't it? To top this off
Slovenia does have lots of affordable properties. Affordable
properties with all the mountain views and quaint features you could
ask for. So this was it, we had a plan. Slovenia it was.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVzMQm8ODhRNEuvhuE3J5U-9xq1amt-RX5lGAoLV3ISJEFKCNjgMtHAHqCZyEklVvxhR6sCoDzm4jINamN8c1A-8dVIARokoLP5T1NO_7Hyahf0HK38yrQ4bpry7QBr1jaV5rIsJEGdG8l/s1600/IMG_9173.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVzMQm8ODhRNEuvhuE3J5U-9xq1amt-RX5lGAoLV3ISJEFKCNjgMtHAHqCZyEklVvxhR6sCoDzm4jINamN8c1A-8dVIARokoLP5T1NO_7Hyahf0HK38yrQ4bpry7QBr1jaV5rIsJEGdG8l/s640/IMG_9173.JPG" width="425" /></a></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now those
who know us well, know that we do little without extensive research.
We had never been to Slovenia, but this was a small issue. We would
go at some point. However, while I have worked in hospitality a
reasonable amount, we had very little understanding of how to run a
hotel. To rectify this we started watching as many reality programs
as we could. It soon became apparent that there are few jobs that are
more demanding or likely to fail. Dependent on the seasons, and
taking near constant work, the hours are long and the market fickle.
Being teachers we are used to over three months' holiday a year, this
was possibly more of a commitment than we were able for. As teaching
became more enjoyable, and the long holidays more appreciated, it
dawned on us that perhaps we would be better sticking with what we
know, and instead of taking care of people when they go on holiday,
we just get to go on more holidays and have people take care of us.
The dream of a Slovenian chalet is still out there, just on a
distinctly smaller scale.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So as you
can understand, Slovenia had a lot to live up to during our visit
last month. Six years of longing and anticipation. While I’ll save
details for a later blog, I will happily share that it not just lived
up to expectations, it surpassed them with ease. The outstanding food
and wine, the colourful streets of Piran, and the hauntingly
beautiful Lake Bohinj all added up to something rather special. Never
have I left a place and so strongly felt I need to go back. This
feeling being so strong that for a while all plans for our next
holiday were put into jeopardy.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQHhqJqhKyHqofthkfL_aXqhIvw5g6Ct44je8MGZUg6UAlZLZuVo__ifJsZAnpNTpK4jwJ08ZooLmd-RQnvVV_dNg6vh1_bRO4YoQYmB0bTiQqF-L_3gvJ6tNwlx_WtJxVs59HdIX2-vrP/s1600/IMG_9047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQHhqJqhKyHqofthkfL_aXqhIvw5g6Ct44je8MGZUg6UAlZLZuVo__ifJsZAnpNTpK4jwJ08ZooLmd-RQnvVV_dNg6vh1_bRO4YoQYmB0bTiQqF-L_3gvJ6tNwlx_WtJxVs59HdIX2-vrP/s640/IMG_9047.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With all
this in mind, we returned to Morocco, and after a little thought
realized that holidays there are not quite enough. We do need to live
there after all, or as close as we possibly can. The time has come to
dust off that portfolio and spruce up the CV.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-49236876741293330952013-10-27T15:03:00.003+00:002013-10-27T15:03:47.209+00:00More Flying Fun and Games<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So...
fingers flexed, and it is time to start writing again. It's been a
while since I put 'pen to paper' as the saying goes. Therefore to
make this task a little less daunting I’m going to break our recent
trip down into more manageable 'bite-size' pieces.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This year
for our fall break, we had originally planned to do a tour of
Northern Italy, stopping off at different International schools in
the hope of making friends and potentially finding a job for next
year. This idea morphed a little when we thought of maybe taking a
day trip into Slovenia. There are just so many things to do there,
that we decided to spend most of our time there.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
excitement started before we even left Morocco. Those of you reading
this who used to frequent this blog regularly, will know that few
journeys within or originating from Morocco, are without event.
Whether it is driving to the shops or flying home, some eyebrow
raising event is usually guaranteed to happen.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We have
learnt, through repeated painful experiences, that when flying
Ryanair into and out of Morocco, the 10 pounds for reserved seating
is money well spent. The mad dash for the gate is worse here than I
ever saw in Asia, So many sweet little old ladies have mercilessly
perfected the art of negotiating the smallest of gaps, armed with the
juxtaposed tools of the sharpest of elbows and a very innocent
expression, to squeeze their way to the front.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This trip
we were flying with Ryanair from Fez to Milan. It was early morning,
but we had had our coffee, negotiated the passport control without
incident, found a child-free section of the departure lounge, and had
our reserved seating tickets. Having got up early, and made Shannon
and Nate get up early on the first day of their holiday to drive us
to the airport, we were then a bit dismayed that the flight seemed to
be delayed without announcement. But no matter, this is all part of
the holiday after all. When the boarding was announced, we shuffled
our way forward to the 'Priority Boarding' line. This is always
something of a rewarding experience, as the attendant patiently, then
not so patiently explains to pushy people that they do not have
priority and must join the back of the other queue. If you are a
person who wouldn't pay for priority boarding then yes, we are those
annoying people, the ones who get to go to the front of the queue.
But after ten flights this year alone, we're done dealing with the annoying line jumpers.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Well,
this time the joke was on us. The plane was delayed even further.
When we were called to board it had not even landed. Instead we had
to stand with the sun beating through the window, right onto the
priority boarding line, wilting in the heat for almost an hour. When
boarding time finally came, our line was ushered out and on to a bus.
This is not usual practice, normally we walk, but we figured they
just wanted to move us somewhere, due to the fact that we had been
waiting so long. It became the airport version of a holding cell as
we sat for another 5-10 minutes on the tarmac outside the gate. When
the plane was finally emptied and our bus began to move off, the
boarding gate was opened and everybody else was instructed to walk to
the plane. This seemed a bit strange and worse, incredibly
frustrating, as all on the bus realized that we seemed to be unable
to go faster than about 6 miles an hour. The people walking also
seemed to realize this, and all of a there began a sudden insane
sprint to the plane. The racing business men, djellaba or high heel
restricted women, and towed children was quite a sight to behold. The
bus did make it to the plane first, but to everyone's further
frustration the door remained closed and seeing their chance the
sprinters increased pace.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
While
this farcical situation was annoying, none of this worried us too
much, we did have reserved seating after all. But for those who had
opted instead for Priority Boarding it was incredibly frustrating.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When we
finally reached our seats, we breathed deep and tried to bring an
illusion of calm upon us, after all, we were on holiday. We tried to
ignore the overhead locker chaos, the increasingly irate instructions
of the flight attendants, as they try to get people to find a seat,
or actually secure that child instead of letting it climb over the
chair in front. We even tried to ignore one flight attendant's mad
dash up the aisle as the plane increased speed down the runway to
instruct some deaf/ignorant person that they should really “SIT
DOWN!”. We tried to ignore it and think of the holiday ahead, but
as they dash past with an oxygen bottle you start to get a little
distracted.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Just
another day on the Ryanair Fez route.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We are
lucky enough to be off to Rome for a week next Sunday. I wonder what
surprises we'll get on the Fez Rome route. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-81761772004953436612013-09-29T16:51:00.000+01:002013-09-29T16:51:06.328+01:00Thank you for checking....Life has well and completely taken over.<br />
Well, a bit of life and a lot of mental block. It seems that ideas are few and far between as life in Ifrane settles down and there are fewer local places to explore, and there are only so many times I can share my thoughts on local driving habits and extreme weather.<br />
Maybe some day soon, when I am consistently winning the battle with my new students, maybe then, I'll put my writing hat back on. In the meantime, thank you for visiting.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-63272627909996630642013-02-17T13:45:00.000+00:002013-05-26T19:40:14.848+01:00The New Year...Hi all, thanks for thaking the time to visit the blog. The new year has been busy with work and changing classroom programs. We are also saving for exciting holidays to come so haven't been off exploring too much.<br />
Hopefully something worth sharing will happen soon.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-86950532557202474782013-01-20T16:42:00.000+00:002013-01-20T16:47:47.108+00:00Happy flying...<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Flying
Ryanair is never going to be anyone's greatest aviation experience.
Famous for more bad than good reasons, it is most known as the
airline that finds ways of charging for every small thing. At one
point it looked like you'd have to 'pay to pee', thankfully someone
somewhere saw sense. Europe's 'favourite''low cost airline
is also reported to have once treated a man suffering from a heart
attack with a sandwich, and then charged him for it. This is an
airline with a very bad reputation, deservedly or not.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Believe
it or not, despite first appearances, this is not a blog bashing
Ryanair. Before living in Morocco I had only used the airline a
handful of times, and it was okay. That is apart from one ridiculous
occasion where a calamity of errors made our flight from Paris
Beauvais look more like a Carry On film or some silly sketch with
Benny Hill music as passengers from two unexplainedly late flights
comically ran from gate to gate as teasing staff pretended to
commence boarding.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Living
now on the outskirts of Europe we have found ourselves regular
customers of this airline we said would never again use. The Beauvais
experience was not limited to the Benny Hill farce and it scarred us.
However, with little choice available and repeated exposure to the
experience, you find that while far from perfect, if you prepare
yourself for it then the Ryanair experience is everything it promises
to be. Cheap, quick and no frills air travel. That is, until you fly
into Morocco. This is a stand alone experience which makes all other
Ryanair routes look premier class.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Having
lived in Thailand for six years and travelled a great deal around
Asia, I am no stranger to budget airlines and have encountered many
people for whom flying is a rarity and who are nervous or a little
confused as to what to do. Saying that, in all the flights I took
there, I have never seen chaos descend quite like I have seen in the
last two years of travel here.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
By chaos,
we are not just talking about the frantic pre-boarding rush for the
gate when the steady trickle to the line becomes one person too many
and everyone decides that it is now or never to get in the line, or
the distinctively 'long-legged' striding that people use in the
fruitless attempt to carry you past a few people on the tarmac in a
bid to get a better seat.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This
chaos begins when people start queuing up to an hour before boarding.
Not that the queue perturbs those who arrive late, they just push
their way unquestioned past people, using age, illness or just the
inability to look up and make eye contact with all the annoyed
passengers around them as an excuse.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
While the
'queue' develops it becomes noticeable that nearly every family has a
child. This means that as a child free traveller you are left to
stand there and pray that they don't invoke the 'children first'
boarding rule. If they do you might as well go and sit back down and
wait for the end of the line. That hour queuing? Wasted. Have I just
found a reason to have children? Not a chance. It is airport travel
and the extra stress it seems to bring every parent that has cemented
our resolve on maintaining our 'child-free' status.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
stress of travelling with children didn't seem to bother the parents
on our last flight to Fes. They opted instead for the 'low-impact'
parenting. This entailed letting their children run wild between
people and go behind the departure desk and down the stairs on their
own while the departure staff were desperately trying to maintain a
semblance of control and work out which child belonged to whom. While
dealing with this they also had to organise the first twenty people
in the queue who after an hour of standing there had obviously
forgotten why they are there and misplaced their boarding passes and
passports.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Once on
the plane the fun of getting into a seat starts. For us we have one
thought in mind. Emergency Exit Seats. On our last flight, after a
lot of bargaining, we were told by an Eastern European flight steward
that we could sit in our desired seats as long as no one else arrived
having reserved them. As he stood by us protecting the seats he got
increasingly annoyed at the attempts of passengers finding seats and
spaces for bags and become increasingly blunt with people. As the
plane filled, greater numbers of people attempted to sit in the
'reserved' emergency seats. At first he was quite polite, telling
them simply 'no, they are reserved'. As the plane got fuller it
became obvious no one had reserved the seats and he needed
responsible people to sit there in case of an emergency. He began to
ask select people if the spoke English. Usually just receiving little
more than a grunt or a blank look in response he moved them on down
the plane. With some people he didn't even ask, he just looked them
up and down, shook his head, muttered something under his breath and
moved them on. His frustration got the better of him and by the end
he was saying 'English only in these seats' in a slightly aggressive
manner. This would have sounded a lot better if he had just explained
that he needed English speakers to explain the exit instructions to,
instead he just ended up sounding incredibly racist.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As a
nervous flyer I am the first to fasten my seat belt to circulation
restricting, and to turn off all electronic equipment for fear of
making the plane take control of itself and steer off the runway
before we even leave the ground. No such fears for these fliers, some
of whom I have seen stand up and receive calls during take off and
landing no matter how many times instructed otherwise. On landing
women are up and in the locker before the brakes are even eased off.
One friend said that on their flight last month there was even a lone
child wandering up and down the aisle during landing.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
To top
off our last flying experience, within moments of standing up to
disembark, a fight broke out within arms reach of me. This was not
just a heated discussion kind of argument, but an arm swinging and
shoving argument. It was between two women so there was a lot of hair
pulling and face slapping as well. For some reason this made it all
more unacceptable. Apparently the fight broke out as the result of
one of the ladies deciding she needed to get from her seat at the
front to her bag stowed at the back, right at the point everyone
stood up. Shoving her way down the plane she obviously bumped into
the other lady who was probably as fed up with the lack of queuing
courtesy as I was, and decided she would do everything in her power
to stop her. These women had to be dragged off each other and the
argument continued down the length of the plane.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What a
welcome back to Morocco.
Nothing like a little travel stress to make you appreciate getting home. Well, inside the safety of the apartment at least. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-64312795956885578482012-12-13T16:21:00.000+00:002013-10-27T15:29:20.114+00:00Hanging out with little people<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It is
that time of year again; the leaves are off the trees, there is dirty
snow on the ground, the students are tired and eager for the coming
break, the teachers more so, the classroom is littered with part
finished winter decorations and I am permanently covered in glitter.
For two weeks at the end of every year I am driven to distraction by
sparkles catching my eyes and stuck on the end of my nose. Regardless
of the mess, the glitter annoyance, and the fact that everyone is
tired, as I am wrapping up 2012 I have come to the realisation that I
love what I do. It's taken nearly nine years, but better late than never I
say.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This may
seem like a strange observation to make, not many people can say they
truly love what they do, but in teaching you often meet a large
number of those who do. Teaching is not a job people usually find
themselves in unless they love spending time with children. I am
ashamed to say that is not the case for me.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I started
teaching in Thailand in 2001. I had never really liked children and
it was purely a means to an end; I was living there and needed to do
something to earn enough money to survive. I found myself doing what
about 80% of western people did at the time... standing in front of a
class of people who barely understood a word I said, trying
desperately to look like I knew what I was doing, and fighting the
impulse to run screaming out the building. That first
year was a baptism of fire and I’m not sure how I ever ended up
doing a second year. I was obviously lacking in sense in my early
twenties.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
While I
have always loved the perks of being a teacher; free periods, travel
opportunities, unrivalled holidays and no two days the same, I never
really liked the contact hours. To be honest, initially for the most
part I didn't even like the children. During the first few years my
fondness of the students thankfully did increase; I realised that on
the whole they were quite harmless, and that the classroom actually
wouldn't burn down when I ran out of ways to keep them busy. In fact,
at times, it was almost fun. I still didn't really like teaching and
preparing lessons, and still liked the classroom best when there was no-one in it, but as far as jobs go it definitely wasn't the
worst thing I have ever done.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Finding
myself still teaching six years later, having limited career
alternatives available, and being unable to face the thought of
losing the three months of paid holiday a year, I decided that if I
was going to keep teaching then I might as well do it properly.
Confident that with six years of experience I would find a training
course a breeze, Nick and I set off to Australia for a high speed
teaching qualification. When we started the course it quickly became
apparent that apart from classroom management (teaching a class of up
to 34 six year old boys has got to be good for something), we didn't
know much at all. We had been doing the best possible job we could as
untrained teachers, but there was so much we had missed. It was a
tough year with some tough teaching experiences. Definitely not a
breeze.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Last year
was our first year as qualified teachers, and for those who follow
the blog you'll know that for all the training and experience we had
had, nothing could prepare us for the work and stress that was to
come. We spent the entire year fighting hard to keep our heads above
water. There were tears, tantrums and full on nervous breakdowns from
me as I questioned whether it was the easy career choice I had
thought.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Eight
years on, my second year as a qualified teacher, and all the pieces
of the puzzle are finally coming together. Now that I can do it
properly, or thereabouts, the contact hours have become more of a
pleasure than a chore and even planning lessons can be enjoyable. I
always used to question the boundless energy and motivation displayed
by some of the supremely dedicated teachers I have met. Now I find
that instead of being desperate to down tools at the end of the day
and get as far away from school as possible on the weekends, I find myself reading and thinking about school stuff a lot of the time, and while I wouldn't go as far to say that I look
forward to Monday mornings, there are times after a weekend in sleepy
Ifrane that I’m not far off.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now... if
only someone could enlighten me with a fun way to do report writing
and life would be perfect.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-6601075359630777182012-12-08T15:32:00.000+00:002013-10-27T15:42:28.927+00:00Let it snow...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha8m5a9KqeieUCG_4BysZ_8UJqyionU_H1_AgXgNBWyC5yBePX_dOSW3MbqxtNquA625kjLfdhJU16i5yeTwRa_cXo3yiSRk-nEp6Xqc_eji18oL5YmW2T5Vdu3ngDrskStpwyUX3nv184/s1600/IMG_8738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha8m5a9KqeieUCG_4BysZ_8UJqyionU_H1_AgXgNBWyC5yBePX_dOSW3MbqxtNquA625kjLfdhJU16i5yeTwRa_cXo3yiSRk-nEp6Xqc_eji18oL5YmW2T5Vdu3ngDrskStpwyUX3nv184/s320/IMG_8738.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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I am
frequently one to rave about the amazing weather we are blessed with
in Ifrane; not too hot, not too cold, and usually with a crystal
clear sky. With the occasional arrival of bad weather, the old-timers
would laugh and say 'you haven't seen anything yet' as we sat in
the clouds and the rain whizzed horizontally passed. We heard tales
of tremendous blizzards, with roads closed, temperatures as low as
-27 degrees C, and snow higher than the windows. Hearing all this we
were somewhat disappointed when, having brought a snowboard out with
us, there was barely enough snow for one week of sledding last year.
It was with this in mind that when the temperature dropped last week
I urged the snow to come. Each night the clouds rolled in and it
started to snow, but each morning there was barely a dusting.
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Friday
morning we woke up and looked out of the window into solid clouds. On
the way to school there was already a light covering of snow on the
ground. We were due to leave for the Spanish enclave Melilla straight
after school and it was supposed to snow all morning. Saying that, we
weren't too concerned as the snow that was falling was fine and
powdery, looking almost like spray snow out of a bottle. We figured
something that fine wouldn't really stick.
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The snow
continued silently. Busy in the classroom with fogged up windows, it
wasn't until morning recess that I noticed the gathering piles. By
lunch, which I was hosting in the classroom for our only
student/parent lunch of the year, to celebrate the end of
International Week, it was so thick that some parents were stranded
at the university and couldn't get through down-town due to the
accidents. </div>
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With an
hour of school to go we made the decision that we would at least try
to get to Spain. The old-timers said, 'this is the real Ifrane!', and
'if you can just get down the mountain to Imouzer it'll all be
clear”. Nick set off to pick up Nate from the Best Western 500m
down the hill. On the way back Nate had to walk behind the car and
push it up the hill, getting covered in snow and taking the
occasional face plant along with it. The journey took just under an
hour. With the heavy weight of the week long expectation of Friday
night beer and pork in Casa Marta, we decided to press on. A snow
plough had gone down towards Fes at 3.00, and leaving school at 3.30
we thought we'd be long down the mountain before a snow plough led a
convoy down at 4.30.
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Within
500 metres of setting off we had to push two cars out of snow drifts.
We figured that maybe having done good deeds that Allah might choose
to ignore the fact that we were doing all this in the name of alcohol
and keep us out of a snow drift. Our progress soon got halted
however, when we reached the lowered snow barrier on the outskirts of
town. It was 4.40 by this point and somewhat foolishly we were
surprised that the snow plough hadn't been through. An hour later and
we were still sitting there, by this point with little way of getting
back up the hill into town and with a long line of cars behind us The
thought of setting off down the hill in the dark wasn't appealing,
but by that point it was too late to turn back.
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The snow
plough arrived at 6.00. Lights flashing and third in line in a long
convoy we set off down the hill. Progress was good and the snowfall
lessened. Spirits in the car rose. The snow plough pulled out from
the convoy a couple of kilometres before Imouzer, and although it
seemed that the snow was actually thicker we thought that as the snow
plough had left us we must be through the worst. We were wrong.
Imouzer was in chaos. On the other side of the closed snow barrier
cars were parked haphazardly and people were blocking the thickly
covered slippy road. Waving you through they stand in the way of the
moving cars, which are likely to skid into them at any point. It is as
if they have never driven on snow and have no idea that you need to
get out of the way. Instead they stand and walk in the middle of the
road and expect you to jam on the breaks, forgetting that this will
just induce a slide. </div>
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Once
through the chaos of Imouzer the sight that faced us was not a
positive one. Imouzer sits on the edge of a valley and the road winds
down out of it with a steep drop on one side. The cars coming up the
hill were sliding all over the road and into our lane at times.
People were helping push them up the hill with little thought for
getting out of the way of oncoming traffic. If no one went off the
mountain that day then it's a small miracle.
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To cut an
already too long story short, the 45 minute journey from school to
the highway took us four hours. The snow line was far lower than
anyone expected. We crossed the border into Spain at midnight, 1.00
local time, were in the bar by quarter past, and still didn't make it
to closing. By the time that we had panic drank ourselves silly on
empty stomachs, we had to go home just as the real party was
starting.</div>
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Our trip
to Melilla followed its usual routine, and we set off on Sunday on
our return journey with every nook and cranny of car loaded up with
pork and booze, telling ourselves that the extra weight would act as
traction to get us up the hill into Ifrane. The drive back was
uneventful. That is until we reached the snowline. As soon as we hit
snow there were cars parked at every angle along the side of the
road, people taking photos of each other and their cars in the snow.
If this wasn't annoying enough, we started to see cars making their
way down the mountain with mounds of snow on the roof and bonnet, blocking
the windscreen and limiting the drivers view of the chaos on the
road. It took us a while to realize that this wasn't just due to the
drivers being lazy and not clearing their windscreens, but it was in
fact placed there on purpose. Locals drive up from the city, pull
over at the first patch of snow they can find, take all the pictures
they can, and maybe get out a stove and make mint tea. Then, before
departing, they make enormous snowballs and pile them on their car
and take it back down the mountain with them. We even saw a snowman,
complete with eyes, mouth and twigs for arms on someone’s bonnet.
What they expect to do with the snow I have no idea, but judging by
the mounds of it that we kept encountering on the road at the
roundabouts, they didn't really think the plan through. </div>
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How long
this current batch of snow will last I don't know; it is still up
over my classroom windowsill a week later. I know one thing for
sure, we are avoiding all travel on roads that we can. Drivers here
are accident prone in the best of conditions. With the added
hindrance of slippy roads and snow tourists it's like a Demolition
Derby. We'll just stay up here and enjoy the spectacular views.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-35889339382555918052012-12-02T21:00:00.001+00:002012-12-02T21:00:20.755+00:00This weekendBeen away and have had some unreal Morocco experiences this weekend... post to come soon,<br />
<br />
thanks for checking for updates.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-68659244110403396052012-11-24T16:56:00.000+00:002013-10-27T16:00:32.301+00:00Imlil to Setti Fatma<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's
nearly the end of November and I’m not quite sure where the year
has gone. I am however mighty impressed that this time in a month we
will be making our way home for Christmas. The joys of teaching...
never a dull day, time really flies. What with Portugal and all the
exciting stuff we've been doing in school it seems like quite a long
time since we were up in Imlil and setting off for our three day hike
across the mountains.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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Advertised
as easy, the 40 kilometre walk would lead us through connecting
valleys and over a 3180 metre pass, with two overnight stops in
Berber gites, before finishing in Ourika Valley where we had left our
car.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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The
morning of our departure we were met by our guide Mustapha, chef and
muleteer Hamide, and our mule Bob at our Aubegre Dar Adrar. We really
didn't feel that we needed all three to take us on an 'easy walk'
over the mountains, but travel experiences have led us to believe in,
where possible, providing opportunities for locals to earn an income.
Setting off it did feel like a bit of an entourage, and I was a
little concerned for our mule. We only had a small bag each but he
seemed really overladen, thankfully I soon realised that a lot of the
stuff was lightweight bedding for Mustapha and Hamide.
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>Day
1 – Imlil to Tacheddirt</b></u></span></div>
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The first
day we set off slowly climbing up the Tamatert Valley heading east
from Imlil. Initially frustrated with Mustapha's somewhat plodding
pace, I soon realized that it enabled us to walk a lot further
without stopping, and we could actually enjoy the view while we progressed.
It was with this slow and increasingly enjoyable pace that we wound
our way up through a pine plantation before crossing the 2362 metre
saddle and descending slightly into Imenane Valley. Here we traveled
down a long and windy mountain road. Strung out along the green
valley floor were lots of little villages. Linking these villages
there are are pretty gardens taking up every available space.
Moroccans have to come be experts at water use, working in whole
communities to build complex irrigation channels that are controlled
with little drop doors, or planks of wood. At the lift of a door, water can be directed from
one side of the valley to another so that everyone can water their
crops. At the head of this valley, nestled against a ring of high
mountains lies the small village of Tacheddirt, our stop for the
night.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrQbPWQ6Niiwn8am669655LEVg9fRC4c2bEVCSGBs2VyXQrGf5jTXz3yXUNJuBl8WuqQf8ChtAlER9Ei3uD30AzIB3n4OblEA0YqXhtUh86RTX3S62nOQ3_h08ffpctYpHRFJl8_AZ1va/s1600/IMG_8143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrQbPWQ6Niiwn8am669655LEVg9fRC4c2bEVCSGBs2VyXQrGf5jTXz3yXUNJuBl8WuqQf8ChtAlER9Ei3uD30AzIB3n4OblEA0YqXhtUh86RTX3S62nOQ3_h08ffpctYpHRFJl8_AZ1va/s640/IMG_8143.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mustapha looking back down towards Imlil</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNZpPQNnLE6F-kY3eeYwAWWVsmKPLOUcSsIejBtBh_0DTUKQcposVF_W0JFUaZY8WUKCPKc1e0Nhh2BgHsCOiRMAAwOEBs_Er3BZiSz6ox7nv3fw7j3UYoY5dcGNTO0gT6fKRcUrzQw4gz/s1600/IMG_8161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNZpPQNnLE6F-kY3eeYwAWWVsmKPLOUcSsIejBtBh_0DTUKQcposVF_W0JFUaZY8WUKCPKc1e0Nhh2BgHsCOiRMAAwOEBs_Er3BZiSz6ox7nv3fw7j3UYoY5dcGNTO0gT6fKRcUrzQw4gz/s400/IMG_8161.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Villages along Imenane Valley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYbu5DBEIavcXuT5ptdtswHYnVtZKrEvXo0hVrdOT72K-q55z_hANTiphgdB8ZvY7ypYdx5Qn6qm6de4am-gR0IYoOcdbLRnMpM3R196dERyr7A641YuBb9jlGUc3c_DcKd55W3Uz6kk54/s1600/IMG_8151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYbu5DBEIavcXuT5ptdtswHYnVtZKrEvXo0hVrdOT72K-q55z_hANTiphgdB8ZvY7ypYdx5Qn6qm6de4am-gR0IYoOcdbLRnMpM3R196dERyr7A641YuBb9jlGUc3c_DcKd55W3Uz6kk54/s640/IMG_8151.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The village of Tacheddirt at the end of the valley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Part way
along the Imenane Valley we stopped for lunch. Our mule was unloaded
and the kitchen was set up. This was a very impressive sight and way
more than we needed for the four of us. They brought everything.
Everything that is apart from something to light the gas stove with.
Unburdened and grazing happily Bob the mule bucked and protested
greatly at being loaded up again so soon, so we could continue in
search of a lighter. Thankfully this worked in our favour. Bob was
soon unloaded again and we got to lunch on an enormous pasta salad with
sardines, fresh lentil tajine and sweet mint tea, in a beautiful spot
next to a stream with views of the snow-capped peaks behind us. </div>
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It was
something of a surprise to discover that our mule Bob was actually a
girl. I’m not even sure she had a proper name, I think it was just
a name they decide to give the guests to keep them happy. She is a
working animal and not a pet, we've yet to meet a working animal that
gets a name here. Interesting fact from our guide about mules...
females are used in the mountains, they are stronger and have greater
stamina. </div>
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We
reached Tacheddirt at around two in the afternoon. Although we
climbed 1070 metres the day's 12.5 kilometres did indeed feel easy,
but it was nice to arrive at our gite early to enjoy a hot shower and
relax on the terrace with the incredible views. Ten years ago
accommodation in Tachedddirt was limited to a Club Alpine Francais
Refuge, now there are a couple of guesthouses. Our gite was the
newest and was far grander than we expected, we had a clean, warm and
dry room with six thick mattresses on the floor all to ourselves. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUFmdP7-jBfJJbM8WbnSDrSW8uufqG7fLs1ln7lpvEyjMwCPTAJMxtwlA4i0gYQnuHmbkkP1FNXun1iCdFjNSlS9l7kyLSEEhLcQeOvs_VI3vZF6VKYHE02CaHMGQH9ehd2pDRonVXHFG/s1600/IMG_8236.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUFmdP7-jBfJJbM8WbnSDrSW8uufqG7fLs1ln7lpvEyjMwCPTAJMxtwlA4i0gYQnuHmbkkP1FNXun1iCdFjNSlS9l7kyLSEEhLcQeOvs_VI3vZF6VKYHE02CaHMGQH9ehd2pDRonVXHFG/s640/IMG_8236.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Views from the terrace...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>Day
2 – Tacheddirt to Timichchi</b></u></span></div>
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We had
been warned that day two was to be the toughest day, but the day with
the most rewarding views. We set off from Tacheddirt at 7.30 while
the valley was still quite dark. Not long after we left we began to
climb. This was the hard part, a continuous climb up to a 3187m pass
into the next valley. Bob and Hamide set off long after us and we
were determined to beat them to the top. We stopped a few times for a
five minute water break but basically climbed over 1000 metres
without a proper break. </div>
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On the
way up we encountered a little old man resting with his donkey. We
exchanged greetings with him before he continued on ahead of us,
pushing his donkey from behind. He went all the way up the hillside,
winding along the narrow paths, all the while pushing his donkey
hard. When we reached the top he had secured his donkey and was
sheltering from the wind behind a large rock. He had unloaded his
donkey and had a handful of Mars bars, five soft drinks and a kettle
for mint tea to sell to passing hikers. Impressed with his effort we
bought a Coke off him. It was only then that we found out he was
completely blind. He makes the climb every day in the hope of earning
what can't add up to more than $5.</div>
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Having
taken a couple of hours to reach the top we then had to start going
down. I am quite content with up. I am not a down person. Never too
sure-footed at the best of times I tend to hesitate and lack
commitment in my stride, often leading to uncontrolled skids. To
compound the issue our route down was much trickier than the way up.
Loose footing and steep drops made it quite an exhausting descent.
Narrow and slippery in places it was challenging for us with our
hiking boots on let alone the overweighted mules with skiddy metal
shoes that usually use the route. By the time we reached our lunch
spot we had climbed a 1000 metres, and descended 1100. Not sure about
this 'easy' walk classification. </div>
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Our lunch
stop was in a small town clinging to the side of the valley. There
were roughly twenty houses clustered together around a mud-hut style
mosque. While waiting for food we observed that the village only
stretched as far as shouting distance. Every so often women would
climb onto their roofs and shout up and down the village at each
other. Who needs a telephone when voice projection and mountain
valley acoustics will do just fine. This was one of the most rustic
villages we have come across. Not a satellite dish in sight. This
village can only be accessed on foot or by mule so much of the modern
trimmings of the outside world has been kept at bay.</div>
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We were
sitting just outside the village, close to a large sand pile. The
whole time we were there children of all sizes were going back and
forth to collect sand. Using any kind of container they could find,
some as young as two or three, these children would walk, bent double
under the weight of the sand, shuffling in sandals, flip flops or
over-sized wellies, carrying the sand to a growing pile by one of the
houses. It pulled at the heart strings to see one little boy help an
even smaller boy try and carry his load back. This tiny little boy
just couldn't get a grip on his container and kept stopping and
crying. Each time, the slightly bigger boy would stop, put down his
own load and try and help the smaller child, before picking up his own
and continuing. They would make it about five metres before the
process was repeated.
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The
children didn't ask for anything; help, food or money. Some were
curious about us, but they were still very timid towards us. It
seemed they had little other to do than move sand, throw stones at
each other, or, as many bored and unoccupied children have a tendency
to do, make noise. One boy on a nearby roof decided he was going to
try and serenade us with Berber songs, and wailed at the top of his
voice while banging a pan lid. It became strangely acceptable after a
while and he was joined by a few friends. This is something they do
every time tourists pass through. As we left the village we did feel
when passing one group of children, that they were going to turn away
from their stone throwing at each other at start throwing them at us,
but Mustapha prevented this by speaking to them quietly.
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<span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>Day
3 – Timichchi to Setti Fatma</b></u></span></div>
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Day three
was supposed to be the easy day, and we were looking forward to it
being so. The night before had not been quite as comfortable as we
had hoped. We stayed in Auberge de Timichchi. This simple auberge was
run by a friendly man who had set it up many years ago with only one
room. Every year or so he tries to add on another room and now he has
eight or nine he can use for guests. This is impressive progress, but
the rooms are basic and the mattresses of the thinnest variety. With
no sheets to lie on and a sleeping bag zip that decided to choose
this occasion to die on, the night was quite cold and uncomfortable.
Little sleep was had and I arose in the morning hurting all over and
ready for our 'easy' day.
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The map
showed us that we were simply following the road that wound along the
side of the valley before descending down into Ourika Valley and our
final destination Setti Fatma. While the terrain was easy what we
hadn't counted on was the fact that we had 14.5 kilometres, with 420 metre
ascent and 900 metre descent to do all before lunch. The walk was
beautiful and dramatic, but with the end in sight and the thought of
the hot shower and soft sofa awaiting us in Ourika Garden Resort, we
just wanted to get to the end. Our first sighting of Setti Fatma was
a welcome one. The view from the top of the valley was amazing, and
as the crow flies the journey there would be short, but following the
dirt track that zig-zags back and forth down the hillside makes it a
few kilometres further than you think. So close but yet so far.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWyufJwJ6I8rPG3MdSm-xBfLGJfAAMZtpiUCK6GasOcxJClnprO0fmT5hBxy224ggadTeQ74K9gTOnoV9v9CzWMAAKvSAt38XNY29OH_r7xUJCi3tbU0C6PsR7ySTbXhD7d9Ox3KTHfFF3/s1600/IMG_8392.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWyufJwJ6I8rPG3MdSm-xBfLGJfAAMZtpiUCK6GasOcxJClnprO0fmT5hBxy224ggadTeQ74K9gTOnoV9v9CzWMAAKvSAt38XNY29OH_r7xUJCi3tbU0C6PsR7ySTbXhD7d9Ox3KTHfFF3/s400/IMG_8392.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ourika Valley, Setti Fatma is at the far end.</td></tr>
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Arriving
to the hustle and bustle of touristy Setti Fatma was a relief to the
by now descent-hammered knees. For an easy three day walk it felt
like we had gone a lot further. The views we got on route were well
worth it though. Combine it as we did with a few days of post hike
luxury in and around Marrakesh and it's a great option for an unusual
week break. Experiencing a little bit of the rough makes that soft
bed in the kasbah or riad all the more rewarding, especially with the
thought of the 8300 calories we had just burned.
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-83650081672062336342012-11-21T10:14:00.001+00:002012-11-21T10:14:35.495+00:00Update coming....Thanks for all who have been taking the time to check for the continued Imlil update, life of an elementary teacher can be hectic to say the least, I will try and get the post up by Saturday afternoon at the latest....<br />
<br />
ThanksAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-49719550948378516042012-11-17T19:00:00.000+00:002013-10-27T16:15:48.670+00:00Back to the mountains<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFiNZiPNmQPEjT2RvPvJJ5gjONzV4pc3eo9b9dJXFW3-0oyKROywIgFFoq0fJVegHCq55A_pfpVr3LZfS1NQld5uhJD2ghc-VTpcgvMxFA2XBuFxYvC_QdBMIVcmACfW1fdZl6TpgHm3S/s1600/IMG_8135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFiNZiPNmQPEjT2RvPvJJ5gjONzV4pc3eo9b9dJXFW3-0oyKROywIgFFoq0fJVegHCq55A_pfpVr3LZfS1NQld5uhJD2ghc-VTpcgvMxFA2XBuFxYvC_QdBMIVcmACfW1fdZl6TpgHm3S/s320/IMG_8135.JPG" width="320" /></a>I always
used to think of myself as more of a beach person than a mountain person. It
is only when we head up into the hills that I appreciate just how at
home I feel there. It's refreshing and invigorating in a completely
unique way. And while I don't have that drive to climb the highest
peaks and scale all I encounter, I love the feeling of being nestled
in valleys and protected by the massive peaks. Around this time two
years ago we were in Nepal, and while nothing will match the grandeur
of the Himalayas, the feeling of increased energy you get is the
same.
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Arriving
in Imlil our taxi was met by a boy with a mule. Without a word he
loaded our bags onto the mule pack and headed uphill out of the town.
Ten minutes on having passed through a damp walnut grove we found
ourselves at Dar Adrar. Here we were welcomed with spectacular views from our window, a roaring fire and
hot mint tea.</div>
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http://www.daradrar.com/</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0t_Qu4b9hTs7Dk38S8U8Grfgi9w17zrgjXc7TklR-WVFojIGA2YTmp1sKRpKjN5ZtJYXhs1YaXwFY_-ANKcqcaAxrJ8jj49ZzR9nO1rfySa_3ImIEMOldgLmSpjWJqtJOpL17T2HiyvhT/s1600/IMG_8086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0t_Qu4b9hTs7Dk38S8U8Grfgi9w17zrgjXc7TklR-WVFojIGA2YTmp1sKRpKjN5ZtJYXhs1YaXwFY_-ANKcqcaAxrJ8jj49ZzR9nO1rfySa_3ImIEMOldgLmSpjWJqtJOpL17T2HiyvhT/s640/IMG_8086.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from Dar Adrar</td></tr>
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Imlil is
a small town perched on a hillside at the joining point of three
valleys, and ringed with tall rocky mountains. The Atlas Mountains are
very dramatic. At the highest point they are only about 4170m, but
driving across the Marrakesh plane towards them they appear to rise
straight up out of the otherwise flat and featureless ground. Once up
in the mountains you are struck by the rich red colour of them. These
are rough and ragged peaks at their best. </div>
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Once a
small Berber village, Imlil has become a hub for tourists keen to
experience Moroccan mountain life. Imlil is the starting point for
nearly all summit attempts of Morocco's highest mountain, Jebel
Toubkal. Toubkal can be summitted in two days, with an overnight stop
in a refuge near the top.
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While
many guidebooks describe Imlil as an ugly and characterless town, I
think it would be hard for any town to be described as ugly when it
sits in a location like Imlil. As well as incredible mountain views
stretching out along three valleys, the valley floors are lined with
apple and walnut groves that are criss-crossed by babbling irrigation
channels. Exploring on foot it's possible to wander round villages
such as Armend, and see a way of life that has remained relatively unchanged
for centuries. That is apart from satellite TV, there are more
satellites here than in any other country I’ve ever been to. Life
is not easy for people here and is often subsistence based; growing
and trading to get what you need. Outside the houses you see
weather-worn women cooking over home-made clay ovens. Walking along
the dirt tracks you pass women carrying heavy loads around on their
backs, taking the shopping home from the weekly souq a few kilometres
away. It is quite humbling to be overtaken by an eighty year old
carrying two enormous sacks up a steep hill. </div>
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Although
life in the High Atlas has many parallels with that of what we saw of
Nepal, while exploring Imlil that first day we noticed one distinct
difference. In Nepal the villages we walked through have a long
history of interaction and dependence on tourists. Big smiles and
warm welcomes came from everyone you encountered. Walking around
Imlil and other small villages, while many people were friendly, you
got the sneaky feeling that some people would just rather you weren't
there. The occasional stare and frown could be a little unsettling.</div>
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We stayed
two nights in Imlil, where we were lucky enough to have great fireside
company with an American couple who travel the world looking for
adventure. A love of speed flying had brought them to the area. For
those unfamiliar with the extreme sport of speed flying (as I was),
it is the slightly questionable activity of throwing yourself off
mountains with a mini and seemingly fragile para-glide that weighs a
no more than a couple of kilos. Usually done over snow with a pair of
skis on it seems that the idea is to slow your fall down the mountain
only enough not to injure yourself while still making occasional
contact with the ground before propelling yourself into the air
again. </div>
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Our time
in Imlil was just the start of our adventure, the stay there was just
the relaxing precursor to a three day hike across the mountains and
into a neighbouring valley. I’ll post more about the journey with
our guide, cook and a female mule called Bob very soon.
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-56393300859598754362012-11-11T14:04:00.001+00:002013-10-27T16:21:21.955+00:00Dancing Days<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western">
This isn't the blog I had intended;
the long review of our latest adventure. That has been temporarily
postponed as life has caught up with me instead. This blog is instead
to share with you one of my depressing moments of realisation of
the undeniable fact of getting old. </div>
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<br />
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Fast approaching my mid thirties and
lucky enough to have had a full and varied social life, it has been easy
for me to stick my head in the sand and whisper sweet words of denial
about the ever increasing gap between how I see myself and how others
see me. It feels like only last year that I spent six hours dancing
on top of a wheely bin with some random stranger in Cream, or last
week that I spent the countdown at New Year on podium at Ministry of
Sound Bangkok. Sadly, or not, depending on who's looking at this,
many years have past, and in all likelihood if I did these things now
there would be unprecedented levels of embarrassment experienced on
all sides. This weekend while away at a professional development
conference in Lisbon, this depressing realisation slowly dawned on me
while watching people dance at the last night gala dinner.</div>
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Throughout the night the dance floor
could usually be separated into three parts...</div>
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The first group is those between
roughly 20-30 who dance to every song, no matter how bad it is, and
who truly believe they are Michael Jackson reincarnate. If you belong
to this group then good on you, doesn't it feel great, enjoy it while
it lasts, because believe it or not it doesn't. I should know, I
clung onto this group for as long as I could. I shall refer to this
group as the 'Jacksonites'. </div>
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The next group who I’ll I call the
'Handbaggers' are a big group made up of two smaller parts;
those who may never have had that love of dancing and have been
unwillingly dragged into that great place of embarrassment they know
as the dance floor; and those who used to belong to the Jacksonites
until they hit 30 and suddenly found themselves strangely self
conscious when they spun across the floor and felt like everybody
turned to look at them. The Handbaggers are busy on the dance floor
in many ways. Unlike the Jacksonites, who are just
busy thinking 'this feels great' and letting their body do the work,
the Handbaggers are busy either trying to maintain that even rhythmic
side stepping move that blends right in with everyone else, or
they're trying to relive their youth by throwing a few moves out
there, which they then busily analyse in their heads as to whether
they actually pulled it off without looking stupid. Finally this
group is busy with occasional furtive glances at the Jacksonites with
something akin to horror, “do they know what they look like?”,
“look at all that sweat”. </div>
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And then there is the last group,
the Christopher Walken's amongst us. These are those brave people who
manage to break the boundaries and effortlessly move between the
other two groups. Often slightly older, they have managed to overcome
any feeling of self-consciousness and as a result have found their
mojo again. They whip it up on the dance floor and really don't care
what they look like. Instead, not unlike the Jacksonites, they simply dance and enjoy the music.</div>
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So, where am I at...? Well I’ve
sadly left the Jacksonites, but I’m not ready to join the Walken
groovers; there is still way to much self analysis going on for that
and I run when the music isn't in my favour. I have to sadly admit
that the days of mindlessly dancing to anything and everything have
passed. Soon I will give up any attempts of fancy footwork and become
a master of the side to side step.
</div>
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For those of you out there, you know who you are... <br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZM1fkHQP_Pw">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZM1fkHQP_Pw</a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-59012749321388097582012-10-21T10:31:00.003+01:002012-10-21T10:31:36.437+01:00Off Again...Thank you for checking for updates....<br />
<br />
We are off on our travels again so there may not be an update for a week or so. Right now I am sitting in a small cosy gite on the steep side of a valley under Morocco's highest mountain; Jebel Toubkal. When we arrived last night we were met and escorted to our gite by a boy and a mule.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow we set off on a 3 day hike to an adjoining valley staying in Berber villages on route. Accompanied by mule and guide. We have little idea of what to expect or where we will be sleeping... <br />
<br />
Stories and pics to follow soon. <br />
<br />
And, for those who were concerned, Snowy is doing fine in his very very grand temporary home in Meknes, with a student who didn't talk about anything other than his impending visit for the last 3 days of school. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-573885101494431752012-10-14T14:54:00.002+01:002012-10-14T16:00:35.727+01:00Our First Pet...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Many
people express great surprise at our lack of desire for children.
Many try and convince us we will, 'one day'... A kind mother of one
of my students said we should 'at least try', we might like it. This
made me laugh, there is no 'try' with children, there is do or don't.
You can't say 'well, I tried, I don't like it, can you take it back?'
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Those who
know us well know that all we really want is a dog. Sadly dogs can be
even trickier than children to look after, and before I cause uproar
with this statement I need to point out that we travel. A lot. A dog
is not quite as easy to take on a plane or find a bed for. What makes
it worse is that in Morocco dogs are seen as dirty; many people don't
even want to touch them, let alone have them in their house. A dog in
a house is said to invite in evil spirits. We're not going to find
too many volunteers to dog sit for us here.
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It is for
this reason that we have never had a pet. Apart from the odd gecko
that is. In school this semester my class is doing the living
environment. We went through two weeks of having birds, reptiles,
fish, insects and molluscs brought into the class by one young boy who
is a definite David Attenborough in the making and who happens to
have very understanding parents that open their house to an
incredible range of animals. What he lacked though was a mammal that
was calm enough for class handling; his dog wees on the floor when
stressed, something I didn't really fancy, not even for the noble
purpose of science education. It was this dilemma that got me
thinking about getting a class pet.<br />
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After
much deliberation about animals kept in cages and the need for two
for company, we got a white male Syrian Hamster. Thankfully they are
territorial and need to be kept alone. I had visions of, hamster
novice that I am, mistakenly putting a boy and a girl together and
then ending up with a much bigger science education lesson than
planned. We had bought a cage for him from Spain the weekend before
he arrived, and when he was brought into school by my budding David
Attenborough in a water jug I was rather perturbed. Not only was he
far bigger than I expected, far too big for the cage, he was long and
ratty looking; white with red eyes, and he stank of wee. This was not
the cute addition to the class I had anticipated.
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With a
few adaptations to the cage (I had to make a ladder out of BBQ
skewers as he was too big for the hole to get on the slide), our
hamster soon settled into his small but cosy cage. I asked the
students to think of a name and write on papers to be picked out of a
hat. When I pulled out 'Snowy' three kids simultaneously shouted
“Yay, that's mine!”. They then continued to bicker about who
actually got to name him all the way to computer class, but Snowy it
was.<br />
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To my
surprise hamsters sleep all day and party all night. Our new class
pet likes to bury himself so deep in a bed of white tissue that you
don't even know he is in the cage. He wakes up about 8.00 in the evening and then is well
and truly partied out by the time the kids get in to school in the
morning. If he is seen during the day it is only to sleepwalk to his
water or fall asleep in a corner with food in his hands. When woken
by overexcited children, or more likely their teacher, he opens one
sleepy eye and then the other to peer at you, unamused, before going
back to sleep.
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I have to
admit I was a little bit disappointed with our acquisition. This was
not the educational interaction that I had intended. Saying that he gave himself a good bath and we
all quickly got attached to our sleepy little friend. So attached
that when the first weekend came I found I couldn't bear to leave him
all alone in school. I carried him home in his cage wrapped in a
jacket through blisteringly cold wind, talking to him all the way to
keep him calm. If anyone one else was brave enough to face the
weather they would have thought I was nuts.<br />
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It was
only during this first weekend, when I went to a friend's and came
home at 1.00 in the morning, I saw that our boring little mammal had
morphed into a frantic overeager gymnast. I now know that hamsters
sleep most of the day and spend most of the night hanging upside down
on the bars at the top of their cage, well at least that's what ours
does. This frenetic energy made us go out and get him a cage twice
the size, where he can now spend hours running in his wheel or doing
cliff-hanger impressions of the top of the cage. Our boring little
hamster is actually full of character and is more addictive to watch
than the TV. You find yourself having to rewind things you have
missed while watching him clown around, chatter for your
attention or walk around bumping into things with a cheek bulging at odd
angles, stuffed with an over sized piece of carrot. After that first
weekend trip home we have found that we
can't leave him in school on his own each night to perform his tricks
to an empty room. He gets carried back and forth in his second home
each morning and afternoon. At home the three of us have a sofa each
to watch TV from. He is becoming a very spoilt little hamster.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Being a
pet owner for the first time has not been stress-free. It was only
after a week of having him and then doing some internet checking that
I found out that we had been caring for him all wrong. This
distressed me greatly, 'had I scarred him for life?', would he ever
recover from our over exuberant handling? When he woke up after one
particularly deep sleep his eyes were all wonky... Thinking I best be
pro-active, I did the stupid thing of Googling it and found our
hamster was probably dying. Obviously the same applies for hamsters
and self internet diagnosis as does for humans. Why had I never
appreciated how difficult animal care was? It seems that at every
turn there was a chance I could kill our precious little man. When
Nick came to me during a party we were having at ours and said
quietly 'I have just thrown the hamster across the room", explaining
that it had clamped its teeth into his finger which he quickly
yanked away, inadvertently sending Snowy flying. Like any blinkered
parent I found myself making excuses for his out of character
behaviour... he was stressed by the noise, all the people unnerved
him. The worst thing was that as well as being shocked by the fact
that there was blood everywhere, I was somewhat relieved that it was
Nick's. It is so much easier to patch up a finger than a hamster.
</div>
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As for
keeping animals in cages... I’m still not sure. But I know that if
we didn't have him some kid in town would have him in a small and
probably dirty cage judging on how the majority of people care for
animals out here. With us he is clean, safe and entertained. Surely
that's got to count for something? If we were to just let him go he
would either freeze or get eaten by a kestrel.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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But now
we are back to that old concern....the holidays... who gets the class
pet? One parent has suggested we put him in the freezer to see if he
hibernates.
</div>
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I wonder
how easy it would be to pack him in a suitcase.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-91180923810832869932012-10-07T18:56:00.000+01:002012-12-09T13:40:38.569+00:00Holiday Highlights<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you
read the previous post you may have gathered that I am now somewhat
sold on the benefits of Spanish and Portuguese holidays. Endless blue
skies and a food a wine lover's delight, there is lots to enjoy.
Having grown up a country girl and spent much of my time in Bangkok
craving wide open spaces, it was something of a surprise to me that
the highlights of both Spain and Portugal were exploring the cities.
Then again in reflection, it is perhaps not such a great surprise
when you think that other than the cities and towns, you are left
with Mediterranean and Atlantic coast beaches (dirty and windswept
respectively and both Arctic by my standards), or sleepy mountain
villages.
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During
our trip the places that stood out were Ronda and Seville in Spain,
and Lisbon in Portugal. These three locations all share some of the
same features; great food and drink, narrow cobbled streets,
character filled buildings, an abundance of Mediterranean culture and
lets not forget that wonderful endless blue sky. As well as all this,
each place has its own uniqueness and offers something different.
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Seville</b></span></div>
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The
Andalucian capital of Seville swelters in intense heat and is not
best placed for any kind of breeze. The mid-day streets, quiet and
empty of locals, are left to the tourists who don't know better and
swealter. During July and August many locals leave for cooler
climates or embrace the siesta experience. Businesses shut down and
people retreat indoors for up to five hours. </div>
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Seville
has something for everyone. It concentrates all that is good about
Andalusia; medieval winding streets, plazas filled with orange trees,
is the home of flamenco, has a huge range of historical landmarks and
there is high street and boutique shopping galore. </div>
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Possibly
the best thing about Seville though is the night-life. After snoozing
away the hot hours, the streets come alive as the sun descends. The
people of Seville really know how to enjoy themselves and as with the
day time activities there is something for everyone. Posh restaurants
interspersed with old and new tapas bars serving award winning
nibbles, bar streets that stretch as far as the eye can see, and this
was just our local area. We went to one unassuming little tapas bar
that had taken over the church plaza across the road. Vacated tables
and chairs here were quickly filled by locals trailing dogs. This is
definitely my kind of dog walking.
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Lisbon</b></span></div>
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In stark
contrast to Seville, Portugal's understated star attraction is
surprisingly cool at this time of year with a constant breeze that
travels in from the Atlantic and up the Rio Tejo to keep Lisbon at a
refreshing 25-30 degrees in the day and 20-25 degrees at night. This
relative chill catches many unawares and clothes shops must do a
bustling trade in extra layers sold to unprepared tourists. </div>
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Lisbon
has a profound effect on its visitors, with it reportedly found that
over 90% of people wish to return. So just what is it about the
Portuguese capital that sets it apart from other cities? The first
thing that strikes you about Lisbon is the colour. Built partly on
hills, the colourful buildings appear to tumble down into the water.
The contrast of orange roofed, white washed cottages interspersed
with brightly tiled town houses and grand Gothic churches are all
complemented by the bright blue sky and the deep blue river. Steep
tree lined one way streets are filled with the ringing bells of
rickety yellow trams, a visiting driver's nightmare. This is a modern
city with a village feel. It has an air of Sydney and what I imagine
Rio to be like, but far more laid back.</div>
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While
exploring the town centre it is hard not to get distracted, as we
did, very, by the opportunities for Port and wine tasting. It is
possible to go from one side of the road to another testing Tawnys
and LBV's. All we were doing was walking to a friend's apartment, the
10 minute walk took us about an hour. I now have a new found love of
Port. Thankfully it's not just seen as an old man's drink out there.
I’ll just have to drink it in private when back home.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As well
as the relaxed cafés and restaurants that can be found on every
corner (apart from on a certain night where we were looking for a
cheap eat and seemed to walk for 40 minutes without spotting anything
better than a greasy spoon Café... even classy cities have them),
there is the famed Bairro Alta area where you can enjoy fine food,
music and pint and a half mojitos for <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">€</span>5.
Here beautiful people spill out into the streets until they have
drunk too much to remain beautiful, but by that point nobody really
cares.
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The draw
of Lisbon is very acute. Even the fact that the city is rife with
pick-pockets was not enough to put us off. Well maybe, just for a
short while, after some huge Eastern European thug shouted in our
faces that he was going to find us and '**** us up later' when Nick
called him out for stealing someone's wallet on the tram. Regardless
of all this drama we still found ourselves scouring the internet for
possible job opportunities in the area even before we left. Lisbon is
a city that takes hold of you. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Ronda</b></span></div>
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Saving
the best for last? With all that Lisbon offers it might be hard to
believe that the small Andalucian mountain town of Ronda could top it
as our favourite place to visit. Andalucia’s fastest growing town
is full of historical charm, dramatic views and arguably the best
tapas bar we've ever visited. These days with us it all eventually
boils down to the quality of the food and drink. </div>
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Ronda is
the home of modern bullfighting and was the first place where a man
got of his horse in order to come face to face with a bull. To be
fair I still figure they should have left the bull alone either with
a horse or on foot. Perched precariously on the edge of a plateau and
divided by a 120 metre canyon, the two parts of the old town are
linked by a grand Roman bridge. This bridge is about 220 years old
and took forty years to build. It is architecturally stunning and is
made up of three tiers of arches. What is perhaps most impressive
about the bridge is the fact that it is still used today as a main
thoroughfare. </div>
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Ernest
Hemingway once described Ronda, one of his seemingly endless summer
holiday destinations, as 'the perfect place to honeymoon'. With its
history, hidden plazas and dramatic views it is undoubtedly a very
romantic city. While this wasn't completely lost on us, we arrived
there after days in British styled Fuengirola with one thing and one
thing only on our minds... tapas bars. It took us about half an hour
to park the car and find the hotel before we hit our first tapas bar.
While unlike Ceuta and Mellia the tapas are not free, they are the
cheapest we have come across in our travels of mainland Spain.
Perhaps it was the <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">€1 beer €1
tapas deals that sealed our love of the place. We ate and drank until
we could eat and drink no more. It was at that point we turned the
corner on the way home to find the holy grail of tapas bars. Set into
a brick arch with old barrels as tables outside, Entrevinos is
distinct for offering twenty Ronda produced wines by the glass as
well as a wide selection of gourmet style dishes. Actually, maybe my
love for Ronda comes from the squid ink pasta and calamari or duck
breast in Madeira sauce for €1.50. Not sure how we can work it into
our travel plans to go back, but we'll try. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">With
this new love of Europe it is hard to see how we will tear ourselves
away from our convenient spot in north Morocco. Anyone know any jobs
going in Europe? </span>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-69872708258993743182012-09-29T14:45:00.001+01:002012-10-16T23:10:12.067+01:00Wondrous Espana <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__lHbJ4o8KnJXrGt9v1ndsJAmPVPunNWYX2Lj1j8cLbHVwArdYA1cy0wxYOFDHkfBj_ZRWn7wXti_7Li3r2LZ4gtXDEK1czZBNm0lL3Wng4oHRrXCBXzOQ-pexPFQHb1cbEfGOJphsbkZ/s1600/IMG_7649.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__lHbJ4o8KnJXrGt9v1ndsJAmPVPunNWYX2Lj1j8cLbHVwArdYA1cy0wxYOFDHkfBj_ZRWn7wXti_7Li3r2LZ4gtXDEK1czZBNm0lL3Wng4oHRrXCBXzOQ-pexPFQHb1cbEfGOJphsbkZ/s320/IMG_7649.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I am the
first to admit that over the last ten years I have been rather spoilt
with my holiday destinations. I may not have been sun-baking in the
Seychelles or Maldives, or hitting the shops in New York, but what with living
on a Caribbean Island, being only hours away from white sand beaches
in Thailand, New Year in Sydney and honeymooning in the Red Centre,
camping our way across Southern Africa, these all add up to a rather
impressive passport full of stamps and a whole lot of memories. It is
for this reason that for many years I have looked down on
what some of the UK's closest sun spots have had to offer. Although
being blessed with a climate of near constant blue sky and sunshine,
I have long been put off places Spain and Portugal due to
thoughts of them being too 'tame'. At only 3 hours flight from the
UK, I have always visualised it as the place of big noisy
resorts and large family groups with lots of demanding children... a
childless teachering couple's worst nightmare.
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In the
last year I have had to temper this view, particularly when it comes
to Spain. Living in Morocco it has become our haven, an opportunity to
return to reality and live a little. Having two Spanish enclaves
tucked away on the northern coast of Morocco has helped us keep our
sanity. Living in Morocco is nice but the social scene is more than somewhat lacking in spark. Five minutes after crossing the border
into Spain and you are surrounded by people enjoying life and setting
the world to rights over a glass of wine or chilled beer in the sun. </div>
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While
these visits to 'Moroccan Spain' have opened my eyes to many of the
wonders the culture has to offer, I have still been unsure as to how
reflective this is of Spanish culture as a whole. Are the Spaniards
living across the water in Africa trying to be more Spanish just to
prove a point? Even the locals there don't consider themselves to
be living in Spain, when they go over to the mainland they are travelling
to Spain, when you question this logic by pointing out that they are
in fact in Spain, they are adamant they are not. Saying that, Spanish
spirit is there in spades, flags are flying on every corner and the
traditional tapas lifestyle is more evident here than anywhere else I
have visited.
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Watching
the Euros semi final between Spain and Portugal in Ceuta was an
unprecedented experience for me. 95% of the customers in the bar we
were in had not only the football strip on, but the hats, flags,
face-paint and scarves too. Musical instruments were played, a
traditional Bota bag was passed round the bar; a goat skin bag
filled with strong fermented wine, 50 Euro strips of ham were brought
out of pockets and shared amongst friends. At the end of the evening,
after the tension of the penalty shoot out had brought the whole
place to their feet, we watched the entire bar, in fact most of the
city, turn itself inside out with celebration. Anyone would think
they had just won the World Cup for the first time. People emptied
out into the streets, took to their bikes and cars and circled the
city waving their arms in the air, honking horns and trailing flags
in their wake. This went on for a few hours afterwards. I wasn't
about to tell anyone that it had in fact been quite a boring game,
not unlike the one we watched between Spain and Portugal in Cape Town
for the World Cup two years ago.
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After our
complete immersion into Spanish culture for three days in Ceuta, we
caught the ferry across the Med to Algeciras where we picked up a car
and headed north. Now I am sure that I have made this journey quite a
few times as a child. Obviously I had never paid much
attention. There is little that is 'boring' or 'tame' about the
Andalucian countryside. Yes you may be driving on a busy highway to
avoid cramped coastal towns, but the road winds its way up through
majestic craggy peaks that thrust dramatically up into the blue sky.
Here you have that beautiful combination of mountains, sun and sea, a
combination not too dissimilar to that which we went all that way to
South Africa to see. And while the Med might be dirty and cold, it is
blue enough to make a stunning backdrop when you do get a break in
the stretches of property development.
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Sadly,
the Costa Del Sol has been very developed. There are complexes
everywhere and most of the empty space is development waiting to
happen. Saying that, much of it still retains a traditional Spanish
feel. There are pretty whitewashed towns dotted in the folds of the
foothills. Narrow cobbled streets lead to pretty terraces where you
can stop for a beer and snack and enjoy the view. Many of these
little towns have become a little too touristy, but for others life
still goes on same as always.</div>
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For our
stay in Spain we had been lucky enough to get an apartment for free
about five kilometres away from Fuengirola. This vastly developed
stretch of coastline is a British home from home. British pubs and
cafés selling meat pies and fish and chips line the seafront. But
even here, if you're willing to look hard enough, it is possible to
find the Spanish bars and local café culture enjoyed by locals and
foreigners alike. For us we spent our days exploring the coast and
inland and eating plates of fried fish and calamari before retreating
to our spacious apartment. We couldn't believe our luck getting
two terraces, one a roof terrace the size of two bedrooms which we
bought a paddling pool for so we could sunbake
without ever having to go down to the pool. From here we had a view
of both mountains and sea. I only went in the pool three times, twice
out of guilt for not using it, and once to sit on the bottom of it in
an aim to shake of the effects of the night before. </div>
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To sum it up, after seven
days of incredible food, cheap wine, great culture and a whole lot of
sun, I am sold, Spain is obviously the place to be.
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-85212041204823584092012-07-23T17:02:00.003+01:002012-07-23T17:02:58.724+01:00Summer....My apologies for the lack of posts, there is much to write about but I am being unusually lazy during my summer holidays, 3 weeks of sun, wine, foo and late nights have taken their toll and I need time to recover.<br />
<br />
Thanks for checking.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-31695586958407915372012-06-24T14:49:00.000+01:002012-11-18T09:10:57.728+00:00Clock Cafe Cooking Day<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;">
A few
weeks ago I went down to Fes for a cooking class in Clock Café. This
highly recommended course is something I have wanted to do for a while
as I have yet to master the intricacies of Moroccan cuisine.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I went to
the cooking course with Megan, the mum of one of my students who has
uprooted her family of six to come on an adventure to Morocco for
eleven months while helping educate local farmers on the ins and outs
of successful sheep breeding. Trin, a friend of Megan's from
Australia who is currently based in the UAE was visiting for a week
and decided to come along. Trin has been working in the genetic
selection and breeding of racing camels for one of the wealthiest
sheikhs and was quite fascinating to listen to. In the UAE camel
racing is much bigger bucks than horse racing. It is a spectator-less
sport and is basically a lot of men in pick up trucks driving around
in the middle of the desert chasing after camels ridden by robots
that are controlled by whistling into remote controls. I digress, but
this blew my mind.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
cooking course at Clock Café is far more than just a simple cooking
class. Starting with a menu discussion with other students (a mother
and daughter from England) and introduction to the incredible
friendly teacher, Souad. You then go out into the local food area of
the medina where for about thirty minutes you walk around learning
about the different stalls. The confusing variety of stalls usually
specialise in one or two things. You build up a relationship with
vendors by repeat business and then get the best cuts of meat,
freshest vegetables, and the warmest and softest bread.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After an
education in olives, bread, vegetables, oils, spices, fragrant water
and smem (presevered butter, note preserved as in rancid), you
retrace your steps slightly wiser and a lot smellier from trying oils
and buy what you need for the class.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Clock
Café is deep down a narrow alley and is a warren of rooms and levels
that rise steeply up to a remarkably comfy and airy multi-levelled
roof garden. As well as offering some of the tastiest and healthiest
Morocco fusion food, it offers Arabic classes, calligraphy classes,
art exhibitions and Sunday sunset concerts of local music. The
cooking class was to be held in a private but spacious kitchen and
dining area in one of the many hidden rooms within the old converted
riad.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Matching
aprons on, you are walked through the spice and flavour combinations
that make up the basics of many Moroccan foods. Souad was an
entertaining and cheeky teacher, who was keen to test whether we had
been paying attention by quizzing us when we had finished preparing
the three course meal and were waiting for the pressure cooker to do
its magic. After she was sure we could remember everything she
encouraged us to ask any questions about Moroccan life that we had
yet to have answered.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I have
lived in Morocco for nearly a year and yet the secret life of women
has remained largely hidden from me. Wherever you go you see men...
working in the souqs, medinas, marches and shops. Mostly you just see
them passing entire chunks of each day sitting putting the world to
rights in one of the million cafés there are everywhere. Souad gave
us a bit of a window into the world of women. Explaining about the
importance of family, in general, but in particular your relationship
with your mother in law; “happy mother in law = happy life”. When
not working Souad will take some cakes round to her mother in law's
house where a collection of women will sit and gossip about love,
life and health for hours at a time. Seriously, I think it is a
miracle that anything ever gets done here with all the talking,
coffee drinking and cake eating that occurs.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After a
fair amount of gossiping we sat down to our three course meal of
Zaalouk, followed by lamb, prune and apricot tajine, topped off with
Kunaffa, a tasty and incredibly light dessert of toasted Moroccan filo
pastry with frozen rose water yoghurt, honey, walnuts and cherries.
Sadly I haven't got the recipe for the dessert yet, but should be able
to remember it, the tajine recipe is as follows...<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Lamb,
Prune & Apricot Tajine</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
800 grams
lamb (or beef if you prefer) for lamb shoulder is best.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
150 grams
dried prunes</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
150 grams
dried apricots</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
1 big red
onion, finely chopped</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
1
cinnamon stick</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
1 tsp
ginger powder</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
1 tsp
black pepper</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
1 pinch
saffron</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Splash of
olive oil</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
3 cloves
of garlic, crushed</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
1 small
bunch of parsley and coriander, finely chopped to garnish at end.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
1 tsp of
cinnamon powder</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
2 tsbp of
sugar</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
1 tbsp of
butter</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wash the
prunes and boil in 1 litre of water until soft.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Marinade
the lamb in the olive oil, garlic, ginger, saffron, salt and pepper
for a good 10 minutes.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Put the
onions and the lamb into a big pan or pressure cooker. Cook on a high
flame, turning the lamb on all sides. Add cinnamon stick and water to
nearly cover. Turn down the heat to medium. Stir and cook for about
30 minutes (depending on cut of lamb) if using a pressure cooker,
45-60 minutes if not. If lamb is not tender continue cooking. If the
tajine is watery, let reduce till thicker.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Remove
the water from the prunes and add the sugar, cinnamon powder and
butter to the pan. Heat on a medium heat for around 10 minutes until
they are caramelised. Add the apricots to heat through.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mix the
fruit through with the tajine and garnish with herbs to serve.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-22869163589039502772012-06-15T18:07:00.001+01:002012-06-20T11:45:41.682+01:00Thought Provoking Words....<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div align="justify" class="western" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 150%; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Rather than give a full review of last week's cooking
course at Cafe Clock I thought instead I would share the words of
someone much wiser than me. This moving piece was written today by a
six year old Korean student in my class who started learning English
last summer. This was her final piece of writing for the year and it
was completely free choice, the product of which is a heart warming
and thought provoking tale. For effect I have copied this as written.</span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><u>Three Seeds</u></i></span></div>
<div align="center" class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Once upon a time there was a great beautiful field
full of flowers named dandelions. All the mother flowers were ready
send their baby dandelions. </i></span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">
</span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>One day three dandelion babys told their wish to
their mother. The first one said “My wish is live rich forever.”
The second one said “My wish go for a big trip.” The third one
said “My wish make poor and beautiful people's hearts rich". </i></span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">
</span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>The first and second one's dreams didn't came true.
But the third one's dream came true. She sat on a windowsill and
there lived a girl named Irli and a mother named Wali lived there but
they were poor and also nice. Their heart was nice but the just
didn't thought they were rich. </i></span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">
</span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>The girl and the mother saw the seed and grow it.
They understand that they are rich even though they are poor. </i></span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="western">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSGjdXieFrAZevRFtD7WjhVzJiHYE6h-x63fDIIQQ7fnihDUWX21HERfC9DX6jnev9PWySIY9k4U21CBZs6udQqeLt_mc0axkXuAirUXGllAPE_UGpYFAUo5CM1106QH1ZHjrxWMQcmgf/s1600/dandelion-seeds-vector-535916.jpg"><img align="bottom" border="0" height="320" name="graphics1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSGjdXieFrAZevRFtD7WjhVzJiHYE6h-x63fDIIQQ7fnihDUWX21HERfC9DX6jnev9PWySIY9k4U21CBZs6udQqeLt_mc0axkXuAirUXGllAPE_UGpYFAUo5CM1106QH1ZHjrxWMQcmgf/s320/dandelion-seeds-vector-535916.jpg" width="304" /></a></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I would like to take credit for this beautiful piece,
but the credit is all down to a very dedicated and hard working young
girl. It genuinely brought tears to my eyes. </span>
</div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-23571038719074213432012-06-10T17:28:00.002+01:002012-11-18T09:11:52.617+00:00Aprons on and burners at the ready<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Most teachers will tell you that they spend all
year battling the germs that lots of snotty little noses are determined to give
you, hardly ever taking a day off, only to hit the holidays and fall apart.
This has been an intense school year, and in preparation for the inevitable
crumbling that will occur as soon as the last bell rings, I decided that unlike
most years where I do something akin to a baseball players slide into last
base, I would instead ease off gently and gracefully coast to the finish line.
As a result of this my crumbling has occurred a week early and I have had four
days of chest infection and three days of migraines. Looking for the silver
lining, hopefully this means I will be germ free for the food, sun, pool and
wine fun of three weeks in Europe. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
As well as falling apart this week I have been
bothered by that tedious task of report writing. This is the fourth time this
year that I have had to write reports and to put this laborious task into
perspective I have to write six paragraphs for fifteen children. This amounts
to around 9000 words. That is about the same as a thesis. By the end of next
week I will have written four theses in ten months. Thankfully one of the
reasons we took this job in particular is that we would have some influence
over how things are done. Next year we have this down to three report cards. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Despite report writing and illness, I did
actually manage to get out and do something different this weekend. Deeply
hidden in the medina in Fez lies the Café Clock. This English owned café is a
maze of rooms and terraces and is a sight for sore eyes (and taste buds) for those
needing a break from the typical Moroccan dining experience. With movie nights,
sunset concerts, Arabic courses and exhibitions, this place is more than just a
café. It reminds me of the best backpacker places I have seen around the world.
Not too cool or fake, it is warm and welcoming and a monster camel burger on
the multi-levelled roof is a must. Unlike too many Moroccan eating establishments
it is quick and efficient with amazing staff. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
One of the things I have been keen to do is get a
handle on the basics of Moroccan cooking. Clock Café is highly recommended when
it comes to their cooking courses. Costing 60 Euros but lasting over five
hours and including medina shopping trip and three course meal, this is more a cultural experience than a cooking course. I’m not going
to go into the details of the course today, this needs a post of its own, but I
did think I’d share the recipe for one of the dishes we made; Zaalouk. Zaalouk
is a Moroccan salad made of smoked aubergine. This is not one of the prettiest dishes but it tastes amazing and smoky and is great for the summer days ahead. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Zaalouk Salad</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
(Courtesy of Café Clock)</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
3 aubergines</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
2 tomatoes peeled and cut into small pieces</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
1 small hot pepper (optional)</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
1 head of garlic</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
1 handful of fresh parsley</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
1 handful of fresh coriander</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
1 tsp lemon juice</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
1 tsp ground cumin</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
1 tsp ground paprika</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Pinch of black pepper</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Pinch of salt</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Wash aubergines and place in the centre of the
gas hob (that’s right, no pan, just into the flame). Every minute or so turn
the aubergine so that all the skin is lightly burned and the flesh feels
similar to a bruised banana (appealing yes?). Remove the skin and cut into
small cubes. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Wash and cut the hot pepper if using and place in
a pan with the cut aubergine and all the other ingredients except the herbs and
lemon juice. Over a medium heat mash the mixture while all the spices heat
through. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Let the salad cool a little before mixing the
herbs through with the lemon juice. If you’re anything like me, add more salt
at this time.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Best served with a variety of Moroccan flat
breads, failing that it’s good with pita and crusty bread. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Enjoy!!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-37341661977019653722012-06-03T19:43:00.000+01:002012-06-03T19:43:02.271+01:00This weekend...Last week our excitement of our much anticipated European holiday got the better of us and we decided we just had to go this weekend. For that reason there will be no post this week. I could tell you more about the secenery on the drive there, all burnt and dusty with no remnents of the green of last month, but that is probably getting a little old now. <br />
<br />
Apart from that... 13 days of teaching to go... 15 days before 9 weeks of freedom. Now is the time of year where the majoriy of teachers remember just why they like teaching. After months of pushing and banging our heads against walls, rules are now followed, expectations are met and fun can be had. Sadly the battles all start again next year.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-66965916483969705232012-05-27T12:32:00.000+01:002012-05-27T14:57:37.155+01:00Kasbah life<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiIwGOXB7_xXIdllzaKXUoWhPTgQ1WxyraTXi-4Q6r6H9cUvNkBK6oFFXTHUWlNladdaBKETG8Tn6ZCF7mcZi2LVYfRual5F-sHU-ftFweKOG3OEwdCFF1YwqTJZ0eGEcIXxTq9qpP0Dmi/s1600/IMG_5285.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiIwGOXB7_xXIdllzaKXUoWhPTgQ1WxyraTXi-4Q6r6H9cUvNkBK6oFFXTHUWlNladdaBKETG8Tn6ZCF7mcZi2LVYfRual5F-sHU-ftFweKOG3OEwdCFF1YwqTJZ0eGEcIXxTq9qpP0Dmi/s320/IMG_5285.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Morocco
is famous for many things; tajines, kaftans, lanterns and mysterious
blue robed men leading camels amongst them. One of its most, if not
the most renowned image of Morocco, is of grand red stone kasbahs
perched on cliff tops or dusty river banks. These enormous fortress
like homes are all over the country and are remnants of a life not so
long past.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Foreigners
are presented with a very romantic view of kasbah life. One of
billowing, colourful drapes, cosy cushioned corners, luxurious room
and protective walls sheltering lush palm tree filled gardens from
the external extremes. If you go on 'all knowing' Google you find
pages and pages of examples of just this kind of kasbah; rose petal
littered footpaths, spa rooms and swimming pools. While this is now
the most common use of these grand buildings they have a much more
practical past. Like English castles, only far more abundant and
slightly less regal, these places were the centre and defence of all
village life. </div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ARy9eftUdODelbnAHkcSy_EoSEBlXXOUbTzFrUrhOy4TjlLIi5qlaM5E6y16oJghQu8icPKNif53i-fJRgYgXZdpoKHR9bboHDkWSFrbbT7WuXvBwtd57E333g1i4shI9DtPHzDIOBYi/s1600/IMG_5349.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/AVvXsEi3ARy9eftUdODelbnAHkcSy_EoSEBlXXOUbTzFrUrhOy4TjlLIi5qlaM5E6y16oJghQu8icPKNif53i-fJRgYgXZdpoKHR9bboHDkWSFrbbT7WuXvBwtd57E333g1i4shI9DtPHzDIOBYi/s400/IMG_5349.JPG" width="300" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWbTQfAVvFXFa7_fZHlUVY1zHgSa9BaYzoQ5a_0VfzejDMYGKBzM-jAhIXLJC-mCuUr55OeTiQpffl7SDU1tsHPbU1lwESNgmhSjnqEgo9xdgWsLjZN5wrDVFPLWEuGUlaQXeNYqSZsJg/s1600/IMG_3734.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/AVvXsEguWbTQfAVvFXFa7_fZHlUVY1zHgSa9BaYzoQ5a_0VfzejDMYGKBzM-jAhIXLJC-mCuUr55OeTiQpffl7SDU1tsHPbU1lwESNgmhSjnqEgo9xdgWsLjZN5wrDVFPLWEuGUlaQXeNYqSZsJg/s400/IMG_3734.JPG" width="266" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When
taking a tour of the Southern Atlas Mountains a few months ago we
visited Dades Gorge. This lush valley is one of a few green oases
that cut along the middle of the barren and near waste-land that runs
along the south of the Atlas and north of the Sahara. Spread out
along the 25 kilometre valley are over twenty enormous kasbahs. Most
have fallen into disrepair. Some have been maintained and are still
lived in by locals, some have been given a major face lift and are
now grand hotels.
</div>
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaqEH2DJjx4AgxRFd23NKBnwVfd6QO_2huqcojMfkyMTolbzfEioaGvZit7cIRajzDXioxfXuw-sxSOWYis_xejOK132A4h1UXNE4w29Lw7iHVrflb52J9Qn6b9sb8SJvvP_88jfKBW5D/s1600/IMG_5837.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaqEH2DJjx4AgxRFd23NKBnwVfd6QO_2huqcojMfkyMTolbzfEioaGvZit7cIRajzDXioxfXuw-sxSOWYis_xejOK132A4h1UXNE4w29Lw7iHVrflb52J9Qn6b9sb8SJvvP_88jfKBW5D/s640/IMG_5837.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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While we
stayed in the gorge we were taken by a local guide to visit an old
crumbling kasbah across the river. Walking around this giant ruin of
a place we got a bit of an insight into real kasbah life.
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Kasbah
life was still the way of life for many Berbers as recently as 20-25
years ago. Our guide said 15 years ago, but knowing Moroccan sense of
time I take this as an underestimate. The kasbah was used as a way of
initially protecting families and livestock from wild animals and
enemies. This was originally other tribes, but later in battles with
the French while fighting the protectorate. The tall mud walls made
from straw, local clay and goats hair had few windows and acted as a
fortress. Inside the kasbah there was a 'fire room'. A large open air
area which was used for making great big fires when they were under
attack. This was to signal distress to other kasbahs in the area.
Although very large, inside the kasbah walls many families would live
along with the animals. There would be kids and goats everywhere with
very little private space or peace and quiet. It was cramped and
smelly. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8dWYMj94qKxW1eQHa6jTGRQB3s2nfZR3hROk-UpsJjxyfoQevb3LOLRwgAXiy9fJuHIa1FnCrV9laM5FZJ7F1-tBabvkkVJjymFbszsTQ2kapvU4e0l1xZzKuCDVCrbZioTqPgbFt7dhO/s1600/IMG_5758.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8dWYMj94qKxW1eQHa6jTGRQB3s2nfZR3hROk-UpsJjxyfoQevb3LOLRwgAXiy9fJuHIa1FnCrV9laM5FZJ7F1-tBabvkkVJjymFbszsTQ2kapvU4e0l1xZzKuCDVCrbZioTqPgbFt7dhO/s400/IMG_5758.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fire room.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh2zK25KThUO_eCeOrAd5oPPBVu_h2fFlNDgO25QJ-atqFjYSzfZEePUyy3KXTDlv1ZHLdJZfpIv6XpUG_BMCu63uLp8RzhwqwcyEJvgquFwus8yvD3L7VROrdOT9LuiOLTbUjdVQzSYmG/s1600/IMG_5757.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh2zK25KThUO_eCeOrAd5oPPBVu_h2fFlNDgO25QJ-atqFjYSzfZEePUyy3KXTDlv1ZHLdJZfpIv6XpUG_BMCu63uLp8RzhwqwcyEJvgquFwus8yvD3L7VROrdOT9LuiOLTbUjdVQzSYmG/s400/IMG_5757.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old kasbah wash room.</td></tr>
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After the
French released control of Morocco in 1955 Kasbah life slowly begun
to disintegrate. With no more enemies and relative calm, locals began
to appreciate the space and quiet that could be had by moving away
from the kasbah. Simply by gaining permission from the local tribe
leader it was possible to build a private home with space for animals
and agriculture. Our guide said he spent his early childhood in the
kasbah and talked of the 'freedom and peace' of living in relative
isolation now.
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Sadly,
when people leave these majestic buildings there is no need to keep
repairing the roof and walls. When damp gets in the walls quickly
weaken and then crumble. The roof timbers get taken for fire wood and
what was the strength and centre of the community for over a hundred
years becomes a ruin in less than 30 years. </div>
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While
visitors are usually given an unrealistic kasbah life experience, it
is our romantic notion of this life that keeps us coming. Without
this interest a far greater number of these incredible places would
soon disappear into dust. A part of Moroccan history only kept alive
by slightly misleading movie sets like Ait Benhadou.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4zyJQBYHvb8fXaKRZMIPWyxGb5mLxwp3MdnJPYX_IkUxVlcovmh4L3-ccZIj7yqRqdmYMENh58KPVIZYU0mCwr7-aUy9a7xhurJ2JcJTh9s5e4CJH78cXILYdZvcquhID4Snmun4eV-j0/s1600/IMG_5699.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4zyJQBYHvb8fXaKRZMIPWyxGb5mLxwp3MdnJPYX_IkUxVlcovmh4L3-ccZIj7yqRqdmYMENh58KPVIZYU0mCwr7-aUy9a7xhurJ2JcJTh9s5e4CJH78cXILYdZvcquhID4Snmun4eV-j0/s400/IMG_5699.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-81069356995803430902012-05-20T14:17:00.000+01:002012-05-20T14:17:46.232+01:00Lost in translation<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When you
have lived abroad for over 10 years you are bound to encounter a
number of occasions when no matter how hard you try or how clear you
think you have made yourself, things get lost in translation.
Yesterday I had one of those experiences when I visited the
hairdresser for the first time in Morocco.</div>
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I have
never had a high maintenance hair style and am pretty happy with a
haircut and highlights once every five or six months, but when you
live in a country where your communication skills are limited to hand
gestures, a visit to a hairdressers can become an intensely stressful
experience.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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What
makes it worse is I usually find myself in a country where I am
surrounded by people with coarse, dark hair; the complete opposite to
mine. No big deal until you request highlights from hairdressers used to
needing to use high strength bleach for an hour to get any colour
difference. Knowledge of this means that sitting down in the
hairdresser's chair is akin to going to the dentist. Only the results
can be more traumatic and for all to see.
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Surprisingly,
my luck with hairdressers has been reasonably good. The number of times I’ve sat
sweating and biting my nails in a hairdresser's chair in Thailand
panicking that my description of how thick I want my highlights using
language normally used to choose noodles for soup has not been
understood. You spend an uncomfortable hour running through a
constant stream of questions of such as 'is it going to be light enough? Is
it going to be too light? Is turning orange? Is it going to fall
out?' This is the continuous cycle in your brain until the hair-dryer
starts to do it's work and all questions are answered one way or
another. Thankfully in Thailand I was usually okay. There was the
occasional garish orange tint and one slightly green week, but
nothing I couldn't deal with.
</div>
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Yesterday's
experience was my most stressful yet. Having asked for highlights and
demonstrated the thickness, required use of foils and area to be
highlighted with hand gestures and Nick's basic knowledge of
hairdresser French, I was left alone while Nick went to do the
shopping, wonderful husband that he is.
</div>
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It
started well, the girl doing the foils seemed to know what she was
doing and my stress eased. She had obviously understood exactly what
I wanted with unprecedented speed. It was only after the front sides
of my hair had been done and she started on the very back that I
realised that I was getting a whole head of highlights. This I
accepted without comment, I’m not fussy, and it's cheap. However, when after 40 minutes of the front of my head sitting in bleach and
the top of my head was still not in foils I began to panic. Half of
my head was well and truly cooked, while to other half hadn't even
been started. I sat and panicked about this for about ten minutes,
just how were they going to solve this problem? Surely at best I was
going to end up with an orange crown and hair loss at the front. I am
ashamed to say that while I can understand quite a lot of French,
when speaking I am is still limited to being able to ask for a glass
of water and that's about it. I was stuck with my stress in silence.
</div>
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At the
point when another hairdresser came over to check one of the front
foils and she asked him something in Moroccan and he responded 'safi'
meaning 'done', I watched her start to share my panic. She had
obviously underestimated the speed with which my hair stripped
itself. You know it's bad when two hair dressers start frantically
inspecting your hair and whispering words behind your head. I didn't
understand a word of the Arabic spoken, I just felt their panic
accelerate mine. It was then that I began to text Nick and
warn him to expect the worst. My luck had run out and I was going to
lose hair. There would be tears. Why oh why do I always choose to live in a country where
the majority of the people can't understand a word I’m saying?
</div>
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Having
prepared Nick for disaster, I think he was quite surprised when
sometime later I arrived at the car with probably the best hair cut
and colour I’ve had in a long time. This was partly to do with the
miracle of a wet towel used to strip the bleach off the overcooked
hair while the other hair got to catch up, and partly because the
male hairdresser who arrived to cut my newly washed and unconditioned
hair (they don't use it here) had little patience for de tangling and
simply combed as far as his frustration would allow before cutting
off the rest.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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This
experience reminded why I only visit a hairdresser's once every six
months. Time to start flying home for haircuts perhaps?</div>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04223583364754130605noreply@blogger.com0Ifrane, Morocco33.5333333 -5.116666733.480389800000005 -5.1956307 33.5862768 -5.0377027tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7294962433696153501.post-50635248551149427482012-05-13T17:41:00.002+01:002012-05-13T21:58:07.892+01:00Michelin living in Meknes<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
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Over the last two weeks we have
been off exploring some more as we have had Nick’s mum and step dad, Val and
Bill to stray. During that time we discovered a new hidden gem of a place to
visit as well as returning to a riad that has secured its place as a firm
favourite. As you may have read in the last post, there are always frustrations
involved in travel here, this means it can be a real find when you discover
somewhere you know you can count on.<br />
<br />
The first place we visited was a
farm stay about thirty minutes north of Meknes just by Volubolis. This 100 year
old farm is the closest building to the Roman ruins of Volubolis. A law was
drawn up in the 1930’s stating that no other buildings could be built in the
vicinity to protect the archaeological site. Over the last 10 years ex Michelin
chef Azzedine has rebuilt this abandoned farm that had been left to go to ruin.
Returning from working in Utrecht in The Netherlands in a top restaurant, he
then drove to the bottom of Africa and back in an old Landrover. Proficient in
French, Arabic and Dutch, it was on this massive journey that he learnt basic
Spanish and English. Azzedine then returned to Morocco with a dream of opening
a gourmet farmstay. This he is doing step by step and he calls his guest ‘participants’
as each stay contributes to further renovations. He currently rents out 3 rooms
in the house and one in a side annex while he lives in an adjoining house. His
current project is to turn an enormous old barn into a restaurant and two
further bedrooms. The stay is usually half board and for $40 a person you are
treated to a five course evening meal either inside in front of the fire or
outside under the stars. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">G+T time in the first sun of the hol.</td></tr>
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The farm stay was distinctly
rustic. The rooms were chilly and slightly musty, the lounge dark and lit only
by an overhead light, and of course there was the usual lack of bedside lights.
But strangely, you could forgive it here due to its uniqueness. There are not
many places where you eat your breakfast on a terrace surrounded by roosters,
geese and guinea fowl and get a fine dining experience on a farm. At
the bottom of the garden there is a babbling stream which, if you are lucky,
and we were, you’ll find wild terrapins. Going at this
time of year you are also treated to a garden overflowing with wild
flowers and swaying fields of golden wheat stretching off towards the
horizon and ruins. It is like a scene out of Gladiator. </div>
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http://www.walila.com/inside/</div>
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At the end of Bill and Val’s stay
we took them back to Meknes to Riad Maison da Cote. This was the first riad we
went to when we arrived in Morocco and having been to quite a few of them since,
I can’t recommend this place enough. Unlike most riads it is just single storey
so the interior courtyard is bright and sunny and full of overladen orange
trees. The rooms are unusually bright and airy and it is a quiet haven from the
sounds of the medina. There are two suites and one double available to rent and
the whole riad can be rented for around 160 Euros a night. It is a beautiful
and colourful riad that is half the price of most that are available in Fes. Even
though Riad Maison Da Cote is in the smaller and less known of all the imperial
cities it is a must visit. <br />
http://www.riadmaisondacote.com/</div>
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