Monday, February 8, 2010
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Ice Cream Mustache Smiles in the Adriatic Water Kingdom
Reclined on a bamboo chair under a shady hut gazing out into the turquoise sparkling water watching the people passing around water polo balls, snorkeling around coral reefs, and way back in the distance, barbequing fresh fish on their massive boats and I think to myself, wow is me, I really have a rough life. Completely by myself except for Oqujisko Pivo to accompany my beer thirst and so incredibly happy. Alone, but in a complete state of peace, feeling at ease with the calmness that here I am in the far off island of Lopud on the Adriatic Coast of southern Croatia without the security of my fellow friends back in Barcelona and the U.S. or the familiar comfort of home, and I could not be bothered. CHILLIN in the most tranquil island I have ever laid foot on with mountains in the distance that one can endlessly hike around while taking in all the rich green forestry. The mysterious paths that I wandered through only to discover this beautiful serene beach at the end of the trail. JAMMIN out to Damian Marley’s “Jam Rock” while hearing the yackity chirping of birds and happy families joyfully chattering in Croatian, which sounds like a mixture of a Slavic and Italian tongue flowing in and out of my ears. I melt into Alex Garland’s world of The Beach which takes me on a journey throughout the treasures of southern Thailand in which I will soon become a part of on my trip scheduled just a few weeks away. I mean here I am reading about the south east Asian jewels that I will soon venture out to and at this very moment, I am in my own little Adriatic jewel. Its almost unreal thinking this is actually my life! I immerse myself in foreign lands not only because of the craving that kicks in to seek adventure and the unknown, but also the desire to immerse myself in other peoples ways of thinking outside the Western world. A constant eager student needing to learn about how others live and why. The desire to not fly through the world only floating on the surface of just bits and pieces like a typical Cantiki tourist wrapped tightly in a bubble instead of diving all the way down under into the world.
So I flew out to Dubrovnik solo with no accommodation pre arranged figuring all will work out, it always does. Should I be getting some kind of brownie button for venturing out on my own? That would be a big fat no considering by no means am I unique when I see the majority of the expats I have become acquainted with exploring the world way before the average American even decided to get a passport. Nevertheless, for me this was a good test to asses how I may indeed get on when going to Asia since I have decided to extend my stay after Lily leaves Bangkok. Might as well test the water for a few days on my own to see how my clumsy no sense of direction retarded ass manages before I am thrown into Vietnam Cambodia and Laos on my own. Speaking of navigation skills, as usual, totally lost the other day looking for the hostel with two huge backpacks hiking up hilly streets, a kind woman decided to not only point me in the right direction but walk me to my hostel. Seeing me dripping in sweat from the sweltering heat she must of taken pity on me even though I was as happy as a pig in shit admiring the beautiful sea all around me. In addition, since she owns a private home that she rents rooms out of, she quickly invited me to come stay with her tomorrow instead of remaining at the hostel. To my delight after being bunked up with four other people in a stuffy hostel, getting no sleep, and having to wake up super early to go search for a functioning phone to call a potential employer all the way in Sydney, I was thrilled to move my stuff over to the Francesca’s home. We communicated through symbols and writing on paper on how long I would stay, rate, etc. since I can’t speak a lick of Croatian and her English was not much better. This was my first encounter with the absolutely wonderful Croatian people. They are so friendly and welcoming but not in an outgoing cheery Italian way. They have their own unique subtle way which I love! The first to smile at you and point you in the right direction when lost. The sun baked ice cream mustache smiles from the children makes your heart melt. Francesca’s two girls in particular, Maria and Mahita, are always eating ice cream and playing on their roof top terrace, which has a stunning view at night of the outskirts of Dubrovnik. These homes perched high on the mountain tops light up like a million stars across the sky at night fall. Her husband reminds me of a younger version of the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. My first encounter with him was when I was unpacking my bag and he barged in singing some Croatian song and with a hearty smile and arms raised up shouts out, “Vell hello, and velcome to my house.”
Julie arrived today and I was so incredibly happy to see my long lost teaching buddy from Prague. From crazy drunken nights in underground clubs in Prague to now together exploring one of the most beautiful places in the world. We excitedly dropped off her stuff and headed for the Old Town. While entering this walled fortress we felt like we were literally entering a magical water kingdom. The white washed marble floors glisten like someone just polished them by hand. The walls around the fortress stand so high that they seem to be in a height competition with the surrounding mountains. The Venetian architecture is evident everywhere from many years of Italian invasions. Everything from the arches along the buildings to the churches are masterfully intricate and detailed that I could have spent hours photographing just one arch or fountain. The mixture of Italian, Greek, and Slavic influence is enriching. We wandered up these steps to get a panoramic view of the city and Adriatic sea. The mixture of colors from the bright red tiled roofs, polished white stone fortress, piercing marine blue sea, and surrounding ever green mountains are remarkable. After strolling through the neighborhoods admiring the locals relaxing with a cold drink in hand on their terraces and hanging up laundry on lines and we decided it was time to take a plunge in the water. Remembering the locals playing water polo along the castle walls I was hopeful they would be playing right now. I was thrilled to discover how popular water polo is in Croatia. You should have seen me totally in awe when I was wondering around by myself the first day seeing at every cove and bay area people playing polo in the freaking Adriatic sea! I was so tempted to just throw aside my belongings which included my passport money camera etc. and jump in to play that I had to contain myself. I felt like a kid in time out watching from a corner all the kids playing on the jungle gym. Not that teachers ever had to put me in time out or anything because I was a perfect angel and all. Okay there was that one time that I accidentally gave Johnnie a concussion by the raquet ball courts but that was one time people!
As soon as we made it to the water Julie and I threw on our suits and jumped in the inviting refreshingly cool water. I had my goggles on so I could see all the beautiful rocks piled up along the seabed and schools of fishes happily swimming all around me. I decided to go for a long swim outside of the bay and into the sea. Only thing I had to worry about was not to get plowed into by a big boat zooming by. I don’t exactly have a good record of avoiding large fast moving objects. The sea keeps you so buoyant due to the high salt content so I could just effortlessly float on my back if I were to tire. As I reached the deepest part of the sea the colors shifted from hues of green and turquoise to royal blue. The sun was shooting right through the top down to the endless bottom creating this golden shooting rainbow effect. As I swam at a steady pace my mind started drifting off to childhood memories of when I used to pretend I was Ariel in the Little Mermaid in the neighbors pool. I would spin around as fast as I could in circles like a mermaid singing, “Out of this world” under the water. Although in reality I probably looked like a lunatic flopping around having bodily convulsions while singing at a high pitched squeal, nevertheless, I was so in my own la la land and could not have a care in the outside world while I was in my own little underwater mermaid world. Not even after being in the pool for hours on end could my own mother drag me out of the pool except when she bribed me with chocolate ice cream. When she would come to the edge of the pool yelling at me to get out I would ignore her by repeatedly diving as deep as I could under and refuse to come up longer then a few seconds so I could catch my breath. When I would resurface to see her unimpressed with my mermaid skills I would gleefully shout, ‘Mom what are you going to do come get me. Ha ha you can’ even swim!’ Up until this point I can’t remember the last time I was completely at ease like this surrounded with my own thoughts. Just thinking for a few minutes about those few minutes back in my childhood when I had no worries and could let my imagination run wild made me feel at this present state so incredibly happy. I mean here I am pretending I am a mermaid in the Adriatic Sea swimming alongside a magnificent fortress with gorgeous Croatian men playing water polo off in the distance. Umm, have I died and gone to heaven. If so PRAISE THE LORD AND THANK YOU JESUS!
Speaking of gorgeous Croatian water polo players, when I came back from mermaid land and had Ursula turn my fins back into normal legs, I just couldn’t help myself to a little water polo delight. Julie busting up with camera in hand on the rocks watched me casually meander over to the men. At first I play it cool and am ball girl, meaning if one of them shoot over the cage, I casually swim over to the stray ball and throw it back in. Within about ten minutes I flirtatiously smile at two of the younger rookies passing and ask to pass with them. By the look on one of their faces I could tell I took him by surprise but by his boyish grin it was evident he was definitely going to pass with me. So here I am, two years of not even laying my finger tips on a ball let alone attempting to play and I am full on effortlessly passing in a rocky sea. After a bit, the two boys decide to take a break and tell me the men shooting at the cage are their main players so they weren’t really allowed to shoot with them at this time. HA! Screw that! I was on a roll and once the ball was in my hand, I just couldn’t resist the urge to do what I love most, shoot! So I playfully swim over to the men and a few of them say something to me in Croatian. Of course, it sounds like haba daba zchech bch and I don’t know what that means but it sounded hot! One of them is practicing the few words he knows like, “Very good” “Hullo” “You strong, yes.” I quickly waste no time and ask without hesitation if I can practice shooting with them and in unison like two bobble heads nodding up and down they say yes. One of them however seemed a little distant and quite possibly irritated that a female was going to attempt to indulge in a “mans” sport. Either way, round in a circle we go shooting at the Neanderthal goalie. So here was the moment I am probably going to make a total ass out of myself and demonstrate how out of shape I really am. Ball my way, egg beater up high, two quick pump fakes, rotate right shoulder, and bam, in flies a cross cage high corner shot. One guy, come to find out later is named Marco, smiles at me saying, “Good shot.” I think to myself hopefully this was not my one and only lucky shot because people are definitely looking now. Next shot, jump up, no fake, goalie predicting another cross cage shot, he is positioned too far left, thus skip shot ball into strong side low. Adrenaline rushes through my body as I remember how much I love water polo and that after all the years I played, my abilities have not flown out the window. My accident only a few months ago left me fearing that my pelvis and left knee and hand would forbid me to be able to rotate properly into an egg beater without a lot of pain therefore leaving me in an attempt to forget ever playing again even recreationally. Flashbacks of physical therapy in the pool when my knee refused to even bend 10 degrees to now rotating freely in full circular motions floods a note of triumph in me for a brief second. ‘How you learn shoot like this?’ questions Marco. I humbly reply that I used to play in college thinking this answer should suffice. ‘Yes, but how you do this, how you can shoot like this?’ I am laughing in my head thinking is this guy who is a natural born fish and on the champion Dubrovnik team seriously asking me how? And then I realize he and his teammates are dumb founded not because I am a good shooter who is outwitting their goalie but because I am a woman. Of course, daah women in Croatia really don’t play water polo even amongst each other let alone against a group of men. What a trip! Marco then obviously wanting to test me demands, ‘Now we play and you on my team. Go get on him.’ Oh shit here is where I am going to get my ass worked. Well sure enough, I managed to hold my own on a half court scrimmage out driving a few of the guys, stealing the ball a few times, and even better, actually scoring a couple of goals. At least Marco seemed pleased loudly announcing in front of the other team, ‘Ha ha you better then them. But, how you learn to shoot?’ Give it up Marco, I may be a female but I know how to hang with the boys! As happy as Charlie in the Chocolate Factory I had just lived the dream. Played water polo with the sexiest men alive, Croatian water polo players, in the rocky Adriatic sea, alongside a fortress, and icing on the cake managed to make plans tonight with Marco. A fun night certainly laid ahead!
Back at Francesca’s home we are just getting ready to leave by bus to Sarajevo and the dad is cheerfully writing down his number in my journal for us to call him when we are coming back. He then joyfully tells me, ‘Now, no calling early. I like lots sleep. I no work now, pension from government.’ I happily reply that’s great you don’t have to work sleep is much better.’ ‘Yes, the government give me pension because shooting my knees.” He then points to his thigh and both knees all the while still smiling. I naively say, ‘They shot your legs with a gun’ while role playing an actual gun shooting with my hand. ‘Yes, yes in the war” as he points to the mountains of Dubrovnik, ‘Serbs.’ My smile quickly transformed into a confused pitiful look as reality struck that the Defenders of Croatia exhibit at the museum we visited was such a recent tragedy for these wonderful people that I have become associated with. Only around thirteen years ago when I was a little teenager brat smoking dubees behind the school getting drunk off keg stands with Phoebe and Lily was this the same time a twenty something year old young man was fighting for his beloved Dubrovnik and family while having both of his knees blown to shit by the Serbians. The water polo guys were probably either off fighting as well or desperately struggling to keep their families alive from the massive bombing and shelling of the entire old town that now once again proudly stands without traces of destruction. So beautiful, strong, and resilient the town now shines just like its people. Once completely cut off from electricity, water, and food death lay along the city streets like road kill. The exhibit displayed pictures of all the young men killed and a slide show of pictures after the city was bombed. I stood there in shock seeing pictures of the same streets, homes, and churches that I had just walked through the past few days completely destroyed, blown to shreds, and on fire. Clearly with direct trade routes on the Adriatic Sea and massive wealth accumulated in this mercantile area its obvious to see why former Yugoslavia wanted it part of their “Greater Serbia” thus invading it so brutally when Croatia claimed complete independence. Amazingly enough, Croatia refused to back down and managed to tirelessly rebuild and restore their little paradise. One would imagine after such a tragedy their would be an aura of coldness amongst the Croatians considering this was all so recent. However it’s the complete opposite. They are the most wonderful and welcoming people in all of Europe. Not once did I feel a tinge of shadiness in terms of being scammed. I didn’t even think twice about my safety when happily sleeping over at their private homes, and never encountered anything but warm hearts and friendly conversations with the locals. I remind myself repeatedly during the day on my way to Sarajevo of just how privileged I am to never have had to deal with such an inhumane tragedy as the people of Croatia, Bosnia, and Serbia endured just a measly thirteen years ago.
MUSTAFA IN A NUT SHELL
Bosnia, how do I even begin to describe Bosnia? Well to start with, what were my expectations about Sarajevo in the first place? To be honest all I can remember as a teenager was seeing on CNN the tragedies of the Serbian armed forces siege on Sarajevo, women hugging their babies uncontrollably sobbing in the refugee camps, children’s schools bombed to pieces, and people of all ages lying dead on the blood drenched snow city streets with dark crimson pools seeping out around them. I recall fund raisers held to send food and aid to Sarajevo. Some place that I never imagined I would visit like its some far off universe that is unreachable and us Americans only have glimpses of it through a TV. set. There is something utterly twisted that for some reason, we can see war going on through a big silver plasma screen around the world, but can’t really identify or comprehend that these video captions and pictures are indeed really happening to real people like out brother, mom, or dad because its not happening on our own front lawn directly in our faces, to our own loved ones. Out of sight out of mind, why is that? Sure we are appalled when we hear of genocide and civil wars abroad but we are able to not let it affect us to the point of a complete break down as if it were happening live in front of us even though in reality, it is happening, we just don’t have to see it or deal with it if we choose not to. Not until the bus entered into the heart of the lush Bosnia countryside did I start seeing with my own eyes one building after another laced with bullet holes. Utterly fascinated with the holes of human invasion along the walls that I find myself unable to resist capturing one picture after another. Guilt rises inside me with the fact that I too was indeed guilty like many sheltered others in the western world that closed the blinds to the East’s massive human destruction years ago. Too absorbed in our own selfish lives to really understand the severity of lives being stolen from the Bosnians. What did I do to help these people in need? Lame excuses aside, the fact is, I did not do a damn thing. Just to think sure, I alone could not have made a difference but if everyone in the world including myself just did one little thing it may have been enough to put a quicker halt to this genocidal ethnic cleansing that rampaged their streets for years. Not until I physically entered into their lives am I able to clearly see just how selfish I was in my own Western world to not attempt to assist in putting an end to others suffering. Obviously what’s in the past is indeed history but I can only hope in the future I will do more then just be aware of what’s occurring abroad. Awareness of course is just the initial step but what are you going to do with that awareness? That’s a question that doesn’t really have an answer at this point in my life. I am not a sappy one to sing and chant Michael Jackson’s “Heal the world” but one thing is for sure, seeing Sarajevo hit me like a ton of bricks.
Arriving in Sarajevo and immediately we pass the Holiday Inn, in which the killing of ten people marked the start of the siege which lasted three and half never ending destructive years. When exiting the bus a perky aggressive woman asks us if we need accommodations and before being able to reply, tells us to come stay at her hostel. She speaks a mile a minute through a heavy tongued accent about her hostel being only three minutes from the city center, how clean it is, and that we only must share with two other Canadian girls. For only thirteen dollars a night Julie and I nod in agreement that we would take a look. I may be incompetent with a map but one thing I am is street smart. Right away I notice a shade of skepticism when we walk to the hostel instead of driving there as she originally said we would be doing. Next, arriving to a dingy brown bullet shot up building with a pile of bunk beds messily lined up in a living room, I ask her who else will be sleeping in this room and sure enough, the numbers from the original Canadian girls have some how increased. Julie looks unsure so I take the initiative to take action by kindly thanking her and telling her we are going to walk to the three minute away city center for a drink to decide whether or not to stay. Very sweetly she agrees and just tells to come back in twenty minutes if we are to stay. Off we head to the city center in the 100 degree hot weather with all of our luggage and the short three minute walk turns into a fifty minute long haul just to even reach the outskirts of the city center. Julie repeatedly thanks me for being suspicious of the hostel situation and I simply reply, can’t bull shit a bull shitter and that I could sense from the minute she slipped by offering empty promises that she was sketchy. Nevertheless respecting that fact that she has a business to run, no hard feelings towards her were left lingering.
The city center has a very modern section with boutiques lined up by cafes, yummy bakeries, and bars packed with people sitting outside. We enjoyed briefly watching a group of old men in deep thought and serious conversations playing life size figure chess outside in a park. Then we walked past the Opera House which had a huge Sarajevo Film Festival banner hanging on it. I thought to myself this is so exciting to be in Sarajevo during this time. During the war the people bravely continued to hold theatrical and musical performances not allowing war to stand in the way of their love for film and music. I can only imagine that these performances served as a very temporary escape from the harsh reality outside the theatre. Along the theatre walls there are numerous huge bullet holes from the entrance all the way up to the roof but the bright red film festival banner dangled high and proud dominates and does not allow the bullets to put a damper on the main attraction soon to come. The Turkish quarter where we found private accommodation with an old lady shifts to old cobble stone roads with numerous hookah bars and steak restaurants. Later on that evening we indulged in thick black Turkish coffee, goat cheese salads, and steak skewers that were so succulent that they literally fell off the stick. There is such a rich diversity of religions in Sarajevo that we made sure to visit each section and see the numerous mosques, Christian churches, and orthodox Jewish temples. What a sight to see; three religions intermingling freely in the cafes and on each corner stands a mosque, temple, or church like they are neighbors. Each intricately designed with such fine skill and detailed care for restoring what was bombed. The Turkish quarter, a melting pot of religious diversity with old thatched roof tops makes you feel like you are back in time. A few buildings here and there were still under repair from the shelling such as the National Library but for the most part, the Bosnians have done an amazing job repairing everything with such love and care that only the millions of bullet holes on every single building from the outskirts, to the modern section, over to the Turkish quarter are left to be touched up. One would think these bullet holes must be painful for the people to be forced to see on a daily basis. After all, the ones that were not able to escape through the underground tunnel made nearby the airport were left hiding in fear. Even crossing the street was dangerous. I saw pictures of mothers holding their babies with a group of others ducking by a UN military tank in attempt to shield them from the snipers when dashing across intersections. Markets and elementary schools were direct targets as well. In the museum I remember being in shock seeing a case filled with blood splattered children’s text books and markers. I recognized these pens and markers as the same ones I have used in my class, which makes it that more horrific knowing this is not evidence from some war way before my time. These are children’s belongings that were murdered just a few years ago! When I was sitting out on a bench with Julie an elderly woman walked over to us and just stared at us for what felt like minutes. She said something in Bosnian and we could not decipher what she wanted. I unfortunately pessimistically assumed by her gypsy attire that she was wanting money. Then she sat by us and as I was continuing my conversation with Julie pointing at the bullets in the walls, she began pointing at the bullets too saying something that clearly was related to the war by the sadness of her tone and shaking of her head. Then she waved good bye to us and continued on her way. I felt bad assuming she was wanting money when clearly she was just curious about us and was openly telling us something about the tragedy she endured. They are such strong and kind people that from what my eyes can see, they appear to be happy. It’s amazing how strong the human mind can be and how quickly one can recover from such trauma to continue living life to the fullest. When we were leaving Sarajevo waiting for the tram a young teenager came up to me and asked me something in Bosnian. As soon as he heard me speak English a huge smile stretched across his face and he said, “Oh great we can speak in English. I speak English and I was wondering if you knew when tram number one will be arriving.” We begin chatting and I found out he is a student in a private high academic Muslim school. His name is Mustafa and he lives in Tuzla, Bosnia. His English was immaculate and he was so thrilled to speak with me in English about California that he did not stop speaking the entire trip over to the bus station. He tells me his dream when he turns 18 in a few months is to travel to L.A. because he has this fascination with movies and Hollywood and oh yes, he loves the name Alex. I made sure to jokingly call him Alex from L.A. a few times which he got a kick out of. Of course I didn’t dare tell him that L.A. is a lot of superficial hype but did slip in that he should spend more time in sunny San Diego if he comes to California. It was so cute when he proudly pulled out of a folder he was carrying around of a certificate he won for an English speaking competition. He won first place in his school and carries around his certificate everywhere with him. When we arrived together at the bus station he insisted on carrying my heavy back pack and asked me if we could keep in touch via email. Of course I was happy to give him my email and after we said our goodbyes, he returned in a few minutes to give me some coca cola. Julie and I could not get over what a sweet heart he was and it was adorable when he emailed me that very day telling me that Julie and I were the most beautiful girls he ever met and that he wishes if he was a little bit older that he could make me his girlfriend.
The rich diversity and immense hospitality, happy to serve you in their restaurants and homes makes any traveler dying to get off the beaten path and away from tourist zones fall in love with Sarajevo. Imagine, Mustafa was basically born into a life of fear considering his first memories when he was only around four or five was encountering death terror and war. To think, such a terrifying childhood for his age group can create such a wonderful friendly person years later is totally mind blowing. Mustafa really is Bosnia for you in a nut shell.
So I flew out to Dubrovnik solo with no accommodation pre arranged figuring all will work out, it always does. Should I be getting some kind of brownie button for venturing out on my own? That would be a big fat no considering by no means am I unique when I see the majority of the expats I have become acquainted with exploring the world way before the average American even decided to get a passport. Nevertheless, for me this was a good test to asses how I may indeed get on when going to Asia since I have decided to extend my stay after Lily leaves Bangkok. Might as well test the water for a few days on my own to see how my clumsy no sense of direction retarded ass manages before I am thrown into Vietnam Cambodia and Laos on my own. Speaking of navigation skills, as usual, totally lost the other day looking for the hostel with two huge backpacks hiking up hilly streets, a kind woman decided to not only point me in the right direction but walk me to my hostel. Seeing me dripping in sweat from the sweltering heat she must of taken pity on me even though I was as happy as a pig in shit admiring the beautiful sea all around me. In addition, since she owns a private home that she rents rooms out of, she quickly invited me to come stay with her tomorrow instead of remaining at the hostel. To my delight after being bunked up with four other people in a stuffy hostel, getting no sleep, and having to wake up super early to go search for a functioning phone to call a potential employer all the way in Sydney, I was thrilled to move my stuff over to the Francesca’s home. We communicated through symbols and writing on paper on how long I would stay, rate, etc. since I can’t speak a lick of Croatian and her English was not much better. This was my first encounter with the absolutely wonderful Croatian people. They are so friendly and welcoming but not in an outgoing cheery Italian way. They have their own unique subtle way which I love! The first to smile at you and point you in the right direction when lost. The sun baked ice cream mustache smiles from the children makes your heart melt. Francesca’s two girls in particular, Maria and Mahita, are always eating ice cream and playing on their roof top terrace, which has a stunning view at night of the outskirts of Dubrovnik. These homes perched high on the mountain tops light up like a million stars across the sky at night fall. Her husband reminds me of a younger version of the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. My first encounter with him was when I was unpacking my bag and he barged in singing some Croatian song and with a hearty smile and arms raised up shouts out, “Vell hello, and velcome to my house.”
Julie arrived today and I was so incredibly happy to see my long lost teaching buddy from Prague. From crazy drunken nights in underground clubs in Prague to now together exploring one of the most beautiful places in the world. We excitedly dropped off her stuff and headed for the Old Town. While entering this walled fortress we felt like we were literally entering a magical water kingdom. The white washed marble floors glisten like someone just polished them by hand. The walls around the fortress stand so high that they seem to be in a height competition with the surrounding mountains. The Venetian architecture is evident everywhere from many years of Italian invasions. Everything from the arches along the buildings to the churches are masterfully intricate and detailed that I could have spent hours photographing just one arch or fountain. The mixture of Italian, Greek, and Slavic influence is enriching. We wandered up these steps to get a panoramic view of the city and Adriatic sea. The mixture of colors from the bright red tiled roofs, polished white stone fortress, piercing marine blue sea, and surrounding ever green mountains are remarkable. After strolling through the neighborhoods admiring the locals relaxing with a cold drink in hand on their terraces and hanging up laundry on lines and we decided it was time to take a plunge in the water. Remembering the locals playing water polo along the castle walls I was hopeful they would be playing right now. I was thrilled to discover how popular water polo is in Croatia. You should have seen me totally in awe when I was wondering around by myself the first day seeing at every cove and bay area people playing polo in the freaking Adriatic sea! I was so tempted to just throw aside my belongings which included my passport money camera etc. and jump in to play that I had to contain myself. I felt like a kid in time out watching from a corner all the kids playing on the jungle gym. Not that teachers ever had to put me in time out or anything because I was a perfect angel and all. Okay there was that one time that I accidentally gave Johnnie a concussion by the raquet ball courts but that was one time people!
As soon as we made it to the water Julie and I threw on our suits and jumped in the inviting refreshingly cool water. I had my goggles on so I could see all the beautiful rocks piled up along the seabed and schools of fishes happily swimming all around me. I decided to go for a long swim outside of the bay and into the sea. Only thing I had to worry about was not to get plowed into by a big boat zooming by. I don’t exactly have a good record of avoiding large fast moving objects. The sea keeps you so buoyant due to the high salt content so I could just effortlessly float on my back if I were to tire. As I reached the deepest part of the sea the colors shifted from hues of green and turquoise to royal blue. The sun was shooting right through the top down to the endless bottom creating this golden shooting rainbow effect. As I swam at a steady pace my mind started drifting off to childhood memories of when I used to pretend I was Ariel in the Little Mermaid in the neighbors pool. I would spin around as fast as I could in circles like a mermaid singing, “Out of this world” under the water. Although in reality I probably looked like a lunatic flopping around having bodily convulsions while singing at a high pitched squeal, nevertheless, I was so in my own la la land and could not have a care in the outside world while I was in my own little underwater mermaid world. Not even after being in the pool for hours on end could my own mother drag me out of the pool except when she bribed me with chocolate ice cream. When she would come to the edge of the pool yelling at me to get out I would ignore her by repeatedly diving as deep as I could under and refuse to come up longer then a few seconds so I could catch my breath. When I would resurface to see her unimpressed with my mermaid skills I would gleefully shout, ‘Mom what are you going to do come get me. Ha ha you can’ even swim!’ Up until this point I can’t remember the last time I was completely at ease like this surrounded with my own thoughts. Just thinking for a few minutes about those few minutes back in my childhood when I had no worries and could let my imagination run wild made me feel at this present state so incredibly happy. I mean here I am pretending I am a mermaid in the Adriatic Sea swimming alongside a magnificent fortress with gorgeous Croatian men playing water polo off in the distance. Umm, have I died and gone to heaven. If so PRAISE THE LORD AND THANK YOU JESUS!
Speaking of gorgeous Croatian water polo players, when I came back from mermaid land and had Ursula turn my fins back into normal legs, I just couldn’t help myself to a little water polo delight. Julie busting up with camera in hand on the rocks watched me casually meander over to the men. At first I play it cool and am ball girl, meaning if one of them shoot over the cage, I casually swim over to the stray ball and throw it back in. Within about ten minutes I flirtatiously smile at two of the younger rookies passing and ask to pass with them. By the look on one of their faces I could tell I took him by surprise but by his boyish grin it was evident he was definitely going to pass with me. So here I am, two years of not even laying my finger tips on a ball let alone attempting to play and I am full on effortlessly passing in a rocky sea. After a bit, the two boys decide to take a break and tell me the men shooting at the cage are their main players so they weren’t really allowed to shoot with them at this time. HA! Screw that! I was on a roll and once the ball was in my hand, I just couldn’t resist the urge to do what I love most, shoot! So I playfully swim over to the men and a few of them say something to me in Croatian. Of course, it sounds like haba daba zchech bch and I don’t know what that means but it sounded hot! One of them is practicing the few words he knows like, “Very good” “Hullo” “You strong, yes.” I quickly waste no time and ask without hesitation if I can practice shooting with them and in unison like two bobble heads nodding up and down they say yes. One of them however seemed a little distant and quite possibly irritated that a female was going to attempt to indulge in a “mans” sport. Either way, round in a circle we go shooting at the Neanderthal goalie. So here was the moment I am probably going to make a total ass out of myself and demonstrate how out of shape I really am. Ball my way, egg beater up high, two quick pump fakes, rotate right shoulder, and bam, in flies a cross cage high corner shot. One guy, come to find out later is named Marco, smiles at me saying, “Good shot.” I think to myself hopefully this was not my one and only lucky shot because people are definitely looking now. Next shot, jump up, no fake, goalie predicting another cross cage shot, he is positioned too far left, thus skip shot ball into strong side low. Adrenaline rushes through my body as I remember how much I love water polo and that after all the years I played, my abilities have not flown out the window. My accident only a few months ago left me fearing that my pelvis and left knee and hand would forbid me to be able to rotate properly into an egg beater without a lot of pain therefore leaving me in an attempt to forget ever playing again even recreationally. Flashbacks of physical therapy in the pool when my knee refused to even bend 10 degrees to now rotating freely in full circular motions floods a note of triumph in me for a brief second. ‘How you learn shoot like this?’ questions Marco. I humbly reply that I used to play in college thinking this answer should suffice. ‘Yes, but how you do this, how you can shoot like this?’ I am laughing in my head thinking is this guy who is a natural born fish and on the champion Dubrovnik team seriously asking me how? And then I realize he and his teammates are dumb founded not because I am a good shooter who is outwitting their goalie but because I am a woman. Of course, daah women in Croatia really don’t play water polo even amongst each other let alone against a group of men. What a trip! Marco then obviously wanting to test me demands, ‘Now we play and you on my team. Go get on him.’ Oh shit here is where I am going to get my ass worked. Well sure enough, I managed to hold my own on a half court scrimmage out driving a few of the guys, stealing the ball a few times, and even better, actually scoring a couple of goals. At least Marco seemed pleased loudly announcing in front of the other team, ‘Ha ha you better then them. But, how you learn to shoot?’ Give it up Marco, I may be a female but I know how to hang with the boys! As happy as Charlie in the Chocolate Factory I had just lived the dream. Played water polo with the sexiest men alive, Croatian water polo players, in the rocky Adriatic sea, alongside a fortress, and icing on the cake managed to make plans tonight with Marco. A fun night certainly laid ahead!
Back at Francesca’s home we are just getting ready to leave by bus to Sarajevo and the dad is cheerfully writing down his number in my journal for us to call him when we are coming back. He then joyfully tells me, ‘Now, no calling early. I like lots sleep. I no work now, pension from government.’ I happily reply that’s great you don’t have to work sleep is much better.’ ‘Yes, the government give me pension because shooting my knees.” He then points to his thigh and both knees all the while still smiling. I naively say, ‘They shot your legs with a gun’ while role playing an actual gun shooting with my hand. ‘Yes, yes in the war” as he points to the mountains of Dubrovnik, ‘Serbs.’ My smile quickly transformed into a confused pitiful look as reality struck that the Defenders of Croatia exhibit at the museum we visited was such a recent tragedy for these wonderful people that I have become associated with. Only around thirteen years ago when I was a little teenager brat smoking dubees behind the school getting drunk off keg stands with Phoebe and Lily was this the same time a twenty something year old young man was fighting for his beloved Dubrovnik and family while having both of his knees blown to shit by the Serbians. The water polo guys were probably either off fighting as well or desperately struggling to keep their families alive from the massive bombing and shelling of the entire old town that now once again proudly stands without traces of destruction. So beautiful, strong, and resilient the town now shines just like its people. Once completely cut off from electricity, water, and food death lay along the city streets like road kill. The exhibit displayed pictures of all the young men killed and a slide show of pictures after the city was bombed. I stood there in shock seeing pictures of the same streets, homes, and churches that I had just walked through the past few days completely destroyed, blown to shreds, and on fire. Clearly with direct trade routes on the Adriatic Sea and massive wealth accumulated in this mercantile area its obvious to see why former Yugoslavia wanted it part of their “Greater Serbia” thus invading it so brutally when Croatia claimed complete independence. Amazingly enough, Croatia refused to back down and managed to tirelessly rebuild and restore their little paradise. One would imagine after such a tragedy their would be an aura of coldness amongst the Croatians considering this was all so recent. However it’s the complete opposite. They are the most wonderful and welcoming people in all of Europe. Not once did I feel a tinge of shadiness in terms of being scammed. I didn’t even think twice about my safety when happily sleeping over at their private homes, and never encountered anything but warm hearts and friendly conversations with the locals. I remind myself repeatedly during the day on my way to Sarajevo of just how privileged I am to never have had to deal with such an inhumane tragedy as the people of Croatia, Bosnia, and Serbia endured just a measly thirteen years ago.
MUSTAFA IN A NUT SHELL
Bosnia, how do I even begin to describe Bosnia? Well to start with, what were my expectations about Sarajevo in the first place? To be honest all I can remember as a teenager was seeing on CNN the tragedies of the Serbian armed forces siege on Sarajevo, women hugging their babies uncontrollably sobbing in the refugee camps, children’s schools bombed to pieces, and people of all ages lying dead on the blood drenched snow city streets with dark crimson pools seeping out around them. I recall fund raisers held to send food and aid to Sarajevo. Some place that I never imagined I would visit like its some far off universe that is unreachable and us Americans only have glimpses of it through a TV. set. There is something utterly twisted that for some reason, we can see war going on through a big silver plasma screen around the world, but can’t really identify or comprehend that these video captions and pictures are indeed really happening to real people like out brother, mom, or dad because its not happening on our own front lawn directly in our faces, to our own loved ones. Out of sight out of mind, why is that? Sure we are appalled when we hear of genocide and civil wars abroad but we are able to not let it affect us to the point of a complete break down as if it were happening live in front of us even though in reality, it is happening, we just don’t have to see it or deal with it if we choose not to. Not until the bus entered into the heart of the lush Bosnia countryside did I start seeing with my own eyes one building after another laced with bullet holes. Utterly fascinated with the holes of human invasion along the walls that I find myself unable to resist capturing one picture after another. Guilt rises inside me with the fact that I too was indeed guilty like many sheltered others in the western world that closed the blinds to the East’s massive human destruction years ago. Too absorbed in our own selfish lives to really understand the severity of lives being stolen from the Bosnians. What did I do to help these people in need? Lame excuses aside, the fact is, I did not do a damn thing. Just to think sure, I alone could not have made a difference but if everyone in the world including myself just did one little thing it may have been enough to put a quicker halt to this genocidal ethnic cleansing that rampaged their streets for years. Not until I physically entered into their lives am I able to clearly see just how selfish I was in my own Western world to not attempt to assist in putting an end to others suffering. Obviously what’s in the past is indeed history but I can only hope in the future I will do more then just be aware of what’s occurring abroad. Awareness of course is just the initial step but what are you going to do with that awareness? That’s a question that doesn’t really have an answer at this point in my life. I am not a sappy one to sing and chant Michael Jackson’s “Heal the world” but one thing is for sure, seeing Sarajevo hit me like a ton of bricks.
Arriving in Sarajevo and immediately we pass the Holiday Inn, in which the killing of ten people marked the start of the siege which lasted three and half never ending destructive years. When exiting the bus a perky aggressive woman asks us if we need accommodations and before being able to reply, tells us to come stay at her hostel. She speaks a mile a minute through a heavy tongued accent about her hostel being only three minutes from the city center, how clean it is, and that we only must share with two other Canadian girls. For only thirteen dollars a night Julie and I nod in agreement that we would take a look. I may be incompetent with a map but one thing I am is street smart. Right away I notice a shade of skepticism when we walk to the hostel instead of driving there as she originally said we would be doing. Next, arriving to a dingy brown bullet shot up building with a pile of bunk beds messily lined up in a living room, I ask her who else will be sleeping in this room and sure enough, the numbers from the original Canadian girls have some how increased. Julie looks unsure so I take the initiative to take action by kindly thanking her and telling her we are going to walk to the three minute away city center for a drink to decide whether or not to stay. Very sweetly she agrees and just tells to come back in twenty minutes if we are to stay. Off we head to the city center in the 100 degree hot weather with all of our luggage and the short three minute walk turns into a fifty minute long haul just to even reach the outskirts of the city center. Julie repeatedly thanks me for being suspicious of the hostel situation and I simply reply, can’t bull shit a bull shitter and that I could sense from the minute she slipped by offering empty promises that she was sketchy. Nevertheless respecting that fact that she has a business to run, no hard feelings towards her were left lingering.
The city center has a very modern section with boutiques lined up by cafes, yummy bakeries, and bars packed with people sitting outside. We enjoyed briefly watching a group of old men in deep thought and serious conversations playing life size figure chess outside in a park. Then we walked past the Opera House which had a huge Sarajevo Film Festival banner hanging on it. I thought to myself this is so exciting to be in Sarajevo during this time. During the war the people bravely continued to hold theatrical and musical performances not allowing war to stand in the way of their love for film and music. I can only imagine that these performances served as a very temporary escape from the harsh reality outside the theatre. Along the theatre walls there are numerous huge bullet holes from the entrance all the way up to the roof but the bright red film festival banner dangled high and proud dominates and does not allow the bullets to put a damper on the main attraction soon to come. The Turkish quarter where we found private accommodation with an old lady shifts to old cobble stone roads with numerous hookah bars and steak restaurants. Later on that evening we indulged in thick black Turkish coffee, goat cheese salads, and steak skewers that were so succulent that they literally fell off the stick. There is such a rich diversity of religions in Sarajevo that we made sure to visit each section and see the numerous mosques, Christian churches, and orthodox Jewish temples. What a sight to see; three religions intermingling freely in the cafes and on each corner stands a mosque, temple, or church like they are neighbors. Each intricately designed with such fine skill and detailed care for restoring what was bombed. The Turkish quarter, a melting pot of religious diversity with old thatched roof tops makes you feel like you are back in time. A few buildings here and there were still under repair from the shelling such as the National Library but for the most part, the Bosnians have done an amazing job repairing everything with such love and care that only the millions of bullet holes on every single building from the outskirts, to the modern section, over to the Turkish quarter are left to be touched up. One would think these bullet holes must be painful for the people to be forced to see on a daily basis. After all, the ones that were not able to escape through the underground tunnel made nearby the airport were left hiding in fear. Even crossing the street was dangerous. I saw pictures of mothers holding their babies with a group of others ducking by a UN military tank in attempt to shield them from the snipers when dashing across intersections. Markets and elementary schools were direct targets as well. In the museum I remember being in shock seeing a case filled with blood splattered children’s text books and markers. I recognized these pens and markers as the same ones I have used in my class, which makes it that more horrific knowing this is not evidence from some war way before my time. These are children’s belongings that were murdered just a few years ago! When I was sitting out on a bench with Julie an elderly woman walked over to us and just stared at us for what felt like minutes. She said something in Bosnian and we could not decipher what she wanted. I unfortunately pessimistically assumed by her gypsy attire that she was wanting money. Then she sat by us and as I was continuing my conversation with Julie pointing at the bullets in the walls, she began pointing at the bullets too saying something that clearly was related to the war by the sadness of her tone and shaking of her head. Then she waved good bye to us and continued on her way. I felt bad assuming she was wanting money when clearly she was just curious about us and was openly telling us something about the tragedy she endured. They are such strong and kind people that from what my eyes can see, they appear to be happy. It’s amazing how strong the human mind can be and how quickly one can recover from such trauma to continue living life to the fullest. When we were leaving Sarajevo waiting for the tram a young teenager came up to me and asked me something in Bosnian. As soon as he heard me speak English a huge smile stretched across his face and he said, “Oh great we can speak in English. I speak English and I was wondering if you knew when tram number one will be arriving.” We begin chatting and I found out he is a student in a private high academic Muslim school. His name is Mustafa and he lives in Tuzla, Bosnia. His English was immaculate and he was so thrilled to speak with me in English about California that he did not stop speaking the entire trip over to the bus station. He tells me his dream when he turns 18 in a few months is to travel to L.A. because he has this fascination with movies and Hollywood and oh yes, he loves the name Alex. I made sure to jokingly call him Alex from L.A. a few times which he got a kick out of. Of course I didn’t dare tell him that L.A. is a lot of superficial hype but did slip in that he should spend more time in sunny San Diego if he comes to California. It was so cute when he proudly pulled out of a folder he was carrying around of a certificate he won for an English speaking competition. He won first place in his school and carries around his certificate everywhere with him. When we arrived together at the bus station he insisted on carrying my heavy back pack and asked me if we could keep in touch via email. Of course I was happy to give him my email and after we said our goodbyes, he returned in a few minutes to give me some coca cola. Julie and I could not get over what a sweet heart he was and it was adorable when he emailed me that very day telling me that Julie and I were the most beautiful girls he ever met and that he wishes if he was a little bit older that he could make me his girlfriend.
The rich diversity and immense hospitality, happy to serve you in their restaurants and homes makes any traveler dying to get off the beaten path and away from tourist zones fall in love with Sarajevo. Imagine, Mustafa was basically born into a life of fear considering his first memories when he was only around four or five was encountering death terror and war. To think, such a terrifying childhood for his age group can create such a wonderful friendly person years later is totally mind blowing. Mustafa really is Bosnia for you in a nut shell.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Just me some Fish n' Chips and Maria in the land where safety has apparently decided to take the day off....
Well apparently safety has decided to take the day off at the Marrakech Airport. Dodging the nearby planes taking off right beside my feet, we walk as quickly as possible towards the entrance. After a little too quick of a transition through customs I am hopeful that leaving the country will be as smooth. Entering into the aggressive taxi territory waiting to wisp us off to the city center. “No biggie” I think to myself, I am used to negotiating rates with taxi drivers in Mexico and besides, there is a big bus we can jump on so we don’t even have to worry about being ripped off. So here I am with Mark and Kendel cruising down a big bumpy street with deserted homes, open vast dirt areas, and palm trees along the road, and once again I naively compare this to Ensenada, thinking they appear quite similar. The 105 degree heat infiltrates through the glass panes of the bus, the human smells of body odor circle around me, and the air is so dry it grabs a hold of my throat making me want to jump into a pool of cool water. Ten minutes later we circle around a bend and bam, I realize this is definitely nothing like Mexico! A million motorcycles with three or four people to a bike fly within inches of the bus, donkeys being whipped with hundreds of pounds of boxes piled on carts gallop by us, pedestrians flee in all directions in the middle of the traffic, fearless that within a flash of a second they could be hit due to the chaos of no direct pathways for the cars or even any traffic lights. Most of the women have their heads tightly wrapped, arms completely covered, and some even their hands sealed off. Immediately I feel shameful that I do not have more clothes to cover my body even though I am wearing sleeves and long pants. Attempting to tuck my hair as best as possible into my baseball cap, I realize these attempts are to no avail because either way, I will still be looked at as a flashy foreigner unless I invest in a full body burkha. To my relief I see a few women wearing regular jeans and flashy tops. The vibrant pink, Goldie yellow, piercing turquoise, and lilac purple colors of the flowing burkha that the women wear are eye candy, so appetizing, like seeing hard candy mixed up in a big bucket, that I just can’t pick my favorite. And they look so comfortable that I think to myself maybe I will wear one myself in attempt to also slightly blend in. The men have a variety of fashions going on themselves, some in full white robes with brightly colored wraps on their heads, while the others are in regular jeans and fake Emporio Armani t-shirt’s with flashy gold necklaces and stunna shades.
As the bus comes to a screeching halt the crowd pours off in different directions. I look around me and by the looks of the crowds of people walking towards a central square and towering mosque at the end, I assume we are in the city center of Marrakech known as Medina but where the hek are the street signs? I attempt to communicate with the bus driver in English and just my luck, no English. Next I try in Spanish, again nope, last pathetic desperate attempt German, nope the driver only speaks French or Arabic which I can’t speak a lick of. Well I clumsily show him on a map where I need to go and but of course he just points toward the main square so, off we go. While heading towards the city center my nose begins to follow the numerous lined up food stands piled with Lamb skewing on a stick, women patting down fresh hot thin bread that looks like Indian parratas, and fresh vegetables messily displayed on the tables. My mouth begins to water when we pass by the stands that have heaps of olives glazed in savory Moroccan spices soaked in olive oil but keeping in mind that the eye on the prize is to find Riad (House) Johanna, the roaring belly having a temper tantrum must be patient. While looking at a corner street hoping to see street signs I hear Kendel screeching 'Ahhhh holy shit!' While she claws into my flesh grabbing on to me for dear life, I quickly look to my left and sure enough there it is, three slimy black cobras doing a little neck stretching dance to the snake charmer’s hypnotizing flute type instrument while lurching forward every few minutes attempting to bite their owners. Chillin in the sun next to the aggressive cobras on a brightly colored Arabic rug is a gigantic yellow boa constructor that could not be bothered with all the chaos around him. Mr. Boa is taking a nap and enjoying the rays beating down its ten foot length back. The snake charmers, being very amused with Kendel and Marks cries began laughing and pointing at us. To our frightful delight the adobe brown sun baked man, who is missing a few very necessary teeth and has a snake tightly coiled around his neck, begins walking over towards us. I see that kind toothless smile but I am no fool bearing in mind there is a devilish glint deep within those dark eyes luring us over to his venomous cobras. Being direct bulls eyes without a chance in hell to blend in, we might as well have had American flags stuck to our heads. Calling out to the tall lone white Brit first, 'Hey Fish and Chips, come come.' 'Fish and Chips' I laugh hysterically while looking over at the very disgruntled Brit, 'That’s classic!' While the snake charmers join in on the laughter my other companion, Kendel, doesn’t quite get away without being renamed Maria. Somehow in a matter of seconds while I am telling myself that I am no fool to be lured into the snake pit, Fish n' Chips and I manage to have snakes put around our necks, which then proceeded with being lightly smacked on our head with the head of the snake being told repeatedly, 'For good luck madam, good luck.' Next, pockets being emptied out for a tip, and all in all we even manage to misplace our bad little Mexican girl Maria. Come to find out while I was being smacked by a snake and Mark was rocking back and forth in a fetal position in sheer terror while sucking on his thumb, Maria was kid knapped by a henna witch lady with spiky black hairy legs and mysterious grey eyes that inked up some trippy design on unwillingly Maria’s hand, which ended up looking like a glob of permanent poo. Let me tell you Maria was not happy with the fresh poo on her hand that left traces for weeks.
All around the center of Medina the locals huddle under umbrellas for shelter from the sweltering heat. Whether it be monkeys on chains jumping around doing tricks, women painting henna on hands and feet, fortune tellers sitting on rugs with bottles of crushed up bone, full sized dried lizards, goats and bulls horns neatly laid out by them, or teenage acrobats dressed in silky blue and red Aladdin looking pants flying through the air showing off their amazing skills, you name it, the Medina circus show was in full view and in your face. No time to lurk, we had to find our Riad Johanna. Off we set in one direction hopeful to see some kind of street sign in French. But whatever appeared to be a sign was in Arabic and therefore I began asking locals on the streets and merchants in the stores. A very small elderly man runs up to me and quickly gestures for us to start following him clearly demonstrating that he was volunteering to show us where Riad Johanna is. Hesitant and unsure whether or not we were being led into a trap we figured this man is about the size of my four foot grandma and there are three of us. Not that Fish n' Chips who’s width is about the size of my arm would be helpful, but at this point what other options did we have. As we walked out of one alley, the old man grabs his rick shaw and motions for all of us along with our luggage to jump in like we we’re his little toddlers going for a ride in the shiny red cart. I start shaking my head out of fear of breaking this poor mans back with our combined weight and so he nods his head with approval and again motions us to continue close behind him. After passing one multi-colored busy souk after another, pasting our bodies on the walls like fly’s so that the roaring motorbikes zooming within inches by us won’t hit us, and with the heat scorching throughout my body making me feel dizzy, everything began to quickly start blending in together and before we knew it, we were walking through a maze of alleys that had no people in them. Since I could not remember my ass from my elbow I certainly had no recollection of exactly which way was the exit to get back to the center. I pictured we were the mice in a famous science experiment in which you put the cheese at the end of two different mazes and place the mouse on the opposite end. One of the mice has been in a confined box filled with marijuana smoke resulting in inhaling a gargantuan amount of THC and the other is completely sober. In a stoners opinion you would think that the stoned mouse would find the cheese first because it has the munchies but in actuality, it’s the sober clear headed mouse that is able to navigate its way throughout the maze to get to the cheesy orange prize. Actually I just made that up. I don’t know if there has ever been such an experiment but I really did feel stoned and confused lost in a maze like a feeble mouse. Brown Kendel, now pale white in the face and palms sweating, has totally started freaking out yelling at Mark that she will never talk to him ever again for bringing us here and Mark is now looking at me to make the decision on whether or not we continue to follow this old man down another alley or cut our losses, loose the deposit, and head back to the main square in search of a cheap hotel. I look over at the old man and I now see he is talking with another man in Arabic. It appears that he is asking him where Riad Johanna is but for all I know he is plotting with his partner to let the other men know around the corner that now is the perfect time to mug us leaving us alone in Africa with no passport and money. Mark and I both make eye contact insinuating that we will not go down one more desolate alley and will be turning around in a matter of seconds. Count down three two one, and that’s it, I motion to them both we are going the other way. The strange looking man in the alley starts saying to me, 'Where you going, number 24 Riad Johanna, there, wrong way madam.' Then the old man starts waving his hands at us to keep following him, but at this point I am scared and am on the verge of panicking when all of a sudden he knocks on an iron door at the end of the alley and out pops a sweet females head about the age of thirty. They converse in Arabic for a second and the whole time she is nodding her head motioning for us to come into her home. Great so this is when she bands together with the men and rob us, right! But then in English she says, 'Yes this is Riad Johanna and I have reservation for you, share room. I have been expecting you.' I let out a loud sigh of relief along with Mark and Kendel and we very gratefully thank the strange looking man in the alley and the old four foot tall elderly one. Tipping him graciously in euro coins he walks off distraughtly examining the shiny coins in his palm confused as to what kind of currency we just gave him.
Part 2
I awake to the high pitched squeals of the snake charmers flutes less that a mile away in Medina. The merciless sun has marked its territory in my room and has left me feeling dehydrated and dizzy which was also attributed to an ungodly amount of wine and beer while laying out on the rooftop last night with Fish n' Chips, Maria, and a few fellow backpackers from Argentina. Before allowing myself to feel sorry for my own self liver abuse and aching headache, I quickly wash up in the sink which is outside our room in the courtyard. I guess there is some ringing truth when telling naughty children not to do something forbidden that automatically the allure and temptation to disobey increases ten times more. In our case, sure enough this saying apparently had validity. Last night when we excitedly rushed to the city center with a major beer thirst needing to be quenched, we were told in the cafes that alcohol is illegal in the city center and one must venture out of Medina to drink. In addition, in order to find alcohol we would most likely have to go to a nightclub outside the center and we were warned that women are not exactly considered very welcome unless of course we were planning on pulling a Julia Roberts in “Pretty Women.” Something told me that I am probably not going to meet Richard Gear in these nightclubs so I might as well follow the locals advice and stay clear. Where’s a Yardhouse with 150 fresh beers on tap to choose from when ya need a tall one? To our rescue, but of course, our dear Riad Johanna well equipped for drunken tourists, had a fully stocked fridge waiting for us at home. Before heading back to the Riad we decided to watch the lively night festivals taking place around the roasting lamb stands and drum circles. People everywhere were clapping hands, engaging their palettes with delicious Moroccan delights of seafood, lamb, nuts, followed by piercing bright oranges. Fortune tellers were sitting on rugs on the ground with their customers, grandiosely telling them their fortunes while crushing bones into colorful powders in exquisite jars and drinking Moroccan tea with fresh mint. As alive as this atmosphere was, I realized, something was very wrong. I looked to my left, then my right and was amazed to see that every single person aside from Maria, a few French tourists, and I, were men! Where were all the women? Am I to believe that the locals who obviously have an amazing spirit for festivity do not include their women? One, considered shameful and disrespectful to not be completely covered from head to toe in the sweltering heat: to ensure that other men can not look at you. Two, to always walk in the souks “supervised” with either a male relative or your husband by your side. Three, men may hold hands, any display of public affection between opposite sexes is taboo. Apparently this is how they run here. But am I really witnessing with my own eyes that women are shunned from such a joyous event? This whole concept is obviously so outlandish to my foreign eyes that I just can’t seem to justify this as normal and accept it as something I just can’t understand but seems to work just fine for them. After all, I view women and men as equals so how could I understand completely? In their defense, quite possibly maybe the women prefer to not engage in these male activities in the darkness of the night and instead, happily congregate amongst other fellow women free of their masking durkhas and shawls within the confinements of their sealed off homes. I guess I will never know, nor can I understand.
Chillaxin and stretching my legs out on the roof terrace, to my delight, Johanna has once again fixed us a delightful breakfast with fresh squeezed orange juice and crispy bread rolls. A little grub in the belly and I am ready to set off on a new adventure. Unfortunately Fish n' Chips and Maria look like dead logs unwilling to unlatch themselves from their comfortable nooks. I allow them to hibernate from the scorching sun and decide to follow my trusty Lonely Planet’s advice and find the tanneries. After all Morocco is very famous for their master skill in producing exquisite soft leathers so why not go check out the originals myself. Heading out of the curvy maze of peach alleys and I enter into the chaotic souks. Hundreds of people are bargaining at the stands for items such as spices, leather, meat, and pottery and the women are loading their bags with fresh produce. I stay clear of the zooming motorbikes bustling crowds and donkeys dashing within inches of me. Immediately I notice the local men are a lot more comfortable with allowing their eyes to wander freely across my body. Initially, I try to ignore the stares and snide flirtatious cat calling but within only a matter of minutes, I start feeling extremely self conscious and am very aware that I am “one of them.” “One of those” Western women that allow parts of their flesh to show freely and wander the streets unsupervised without a male baby sitter. Reluctantly, I have now resorted to keeping my eyes on the ground and head down low hoping that I will just evaporate into the ground or at the very least, receive less attention. I almost feel shameful like I have done something wrong leaving the Riad without Fish n' Chips and now I must face the consequences for not covering my exposed body in a burkah. Heading east, I realize I have no idea where the tanneries are even though according to the book, they are in this direction outside of the center. While trying to be invisible and independent by navigating my way around alone, my independence comes to an end when a man in a bright yellow shirt starts making friendly conversation asking me where I am trying to go. I politely tell him I am heading to the tanneries and continue on my way. Fortunately he is kind enough to point me in the right direction with out expectations for a tip. Just when I think how nice that he was just helping me out with no strings attached, he yells after me telling me his friend Abdul works there and since he is on his way to work, will show me the way. 'Shit' I think to myself how can I tell him no when the guy is apparently walking there too and its down what appears to be one straight road, so he will be on my tail either way. Without consenting for him to join me, Abdul with a sweet hearty smile introduces himself and starts walking by my side. Remembering reading in Lonely Planet that if you need assistance finding the tannery it is easy for a local to show you around and explain how the tanneries work with just a little tip, I think to myself I am fine with leaving a small tip so why not just enjoy Abduls company and let him show me how to get to the Tanneries.
Reaching the end of the road I realize there are no Tanneries in sight and we have been walking in the mid afternoon heat over dirt roads for over fifteen minutes. Abduls non stop chattering starts making me skeptical that maybe he was trying to distract me for some reason. But why? My guts begin churning and I start feeling the paranoia rise from the depths of my spine and grab a hold of my throat. Trying to remain cool and not show that my heart is beating a million miles an hour and perspiration from anxiety is formulating along my temple, I can’t help but think the worst can happen to me right now and if so, there is not a damn thing I can do about it. 'Why did you leave the Riad alone you retard! Damn it Alicia you are so stupid sometimes! Sure, try to be all adventurous and shit and now you have put yourself in a jam that you may not get your ass out of safely.' Abdul leads me through a few winding streets that go left and then right, then left, left, wait was it right, or then left, damn its starting to blend in, crap I can’t remember. Very alert of my surroundings at this point like a deer in headlights, I make sure to make mental notes of the landmarks that we are passing by to guide me back to safety if need be. I tell myself 'Okay take a chill pill Alicia.' After all, I am walking with a man that appears to be kind and although this is out of my character to go walking around with someone I don’t know anything at all about, he is just taking me to the Tanneries and then I can venture out again on my own once there.
Twenty minutes later and I smell a musky putrid aroma infiltrating the air. It is so pungent that I have to cover my mouth for a second thinking that the smell will dissipate within seconds of not breathing. Abdul seeing me struggling smirks and tells me, 'We are reaching the tanneries soon and this is the smell of the leather. Look up on the rooftops you can see the skins drying out.' There it is looming above my head, rotting cow skin boiling in the blazing sun on the rooftops. Scattered on the ground I see pieces of what appears to be pieces of black hair that used to be a cows tail. Passing by the stores I notice that they are not selling the typical goods as in the city but instead huge bottles of brightly colored liquids and sulfuric acid. The people somehow seem to have thinned out before my eyes but we have finally arrived at the Tanneries and since I have walked all this way, I figure I might as well capture a few pictures and see how this whole leather making thing works. Standing at the outdoor entrance is a man in a long white robe holding a parcel of fresh mint. He introduces himself in scattered Spanish and hands me the mint telling me I will need this to cope with the smell while he gives me the tour. Wait this can’t be the tour that I think the book mentioned. Or did the book even mention a tour? Where are all the other tourists with their dangling cameras and videos, spoiled bratty children loudly chirping creating unwanted attention, and maps falling out of their parents overloaded bags? For once in my life I actually want to be surrounded by the safety net of a bunch of obnoxious overly excited tourists. I must be loosing it! Instead, I am by myself now surrounded by two men and am about to be surrounded by many other men in the tanneries. As we enter in the huge outside walls about the size of a football field, I am in no ways prepared for what my eyes are about to see. Men, some older then my grandpa are waist deep in pools of brightly blue, red, orange, and purple dyes and are diligently working like slaves in the blistering heat. 'Smack smack' goes the cow flesh dipping into the pools then whacked onto the ground. Sulfuric acid mixed with rotting dead flesh infiltrates my nose and quickly reaches the back of my throat causing the sensation of immediate gagging. Nevertheless, I have to get some pictures of what I am actually seeing. Nauseas or not, this was inexplicable and I had to capture the moment with my camera. The guide explains the process of how the leather is made even though in reality, it was self explanatory and in your face. Lucky me, he made sure not to leave out what kinds of different animal piles of flesh were sloppily laid out within inches of my feet. Wowzers, let me just tell you the goat pile of flesh was definitely what sent me over the Titanic and although I was trying to pretend that everything was all gravy, clearly my face was probably turning sour green, thus the men politely escorted me out. Thinking that the quick tour that seemed like an anxiety filled eternity was finally over, I figured I would tip both men with the change in my pocket, thank them graciously, and be on my way. Well, maybe if we were in the Kansas Tanneries Toto and I could merrily meander off on the yellow brick road but not in Marrakech. Before I could turn my head Abdul rushes me into the nearby store packed with brightly colored fresh leather bags dangling on the ceiling, leather pillows and Moroccan rugs covering the floors, and a bulky glistening silver tea pot on the center table. 'Hello I am A Koos koos a boo boo and welcome to my store. Please have a seat and may I serve you some Moroccan tea with fresh mint.' Okay obviously that’s not how you spell his name but that’s what it sounded like. I blabber, 'Umm ahh nooo thanks, you have a beautiful store but I am sorry, I do not have money to spend.' Apparently either I was speaking German or A koos koos a boo boo is stone deaf because he did not even raise an eyebrow after my displeasing statement. “So let me tell you about my business. I journey to the border of Marrakech to trade my beautiful leathers for raw silk.” He then proudly grabbed a handful of magnificent piles of vibrant silk. I let the silk flow through my finger tips and sure enough it is the softest silk I have ever felt. Then proceeding to have his helper, no older then a 13 year old boy, throw a few rugs on the ground, he gets down on his knees and lights a flame on the rugs demonstrating that the magical rugs could not be lit on fire. At this point I was definitely impressed but keeping in mind I did not want to spend money, I tried my best to keep a polite smile but not infer that I wanted to purchase anything. Next, an elegant writing tablet laced with gold was placed on the table and I am told, “In Morocco there is no final price and this is how we shall bargain. You write your price on the right and I on the left.” Apparently I was bargaining for some camel leather pillow that you can sit on that had cool camel designs wrapped around in a circle. I glance outside the door to see if anyone may miraculously come to my rescue and see that there are three men waiting out front blocking off the exit. To my surprise there stands that man in the bright yellow shirt that initially pointed me in the direction of the Tanneries. Clearly he too was a part of the Tanneries business and had successfully worked his charm in convincing the stupid tourist to enter the sales pit. At this point I just write down 20 euros but A koos koos a boo boo is anything but delighted and quickly pulls out a cheaper cow leather pillow that has flashy red, white, and black triangles on an aged cream base. Well, I figure I have two options. Either I continue this torture and attempt to escape without purchasing anything or, I suck up my losses, buy the tacky flashy flesh and depart unharmed. Unsure of what to do, my instinct points my hand in the direction of writing down a slightly marked up price of 25 euros and to my relief, the tablet is closed and the deal has been made. Now I realize that I only have small change in euro coins to tip the two men outside so I hope that purchasing this pillow will suffice. “Not so fast little naïve one.” I have just entered out to three men with open palms waiting for their individual tips. So I grab the coins and place it in the dominant guides hand hoping they can either split it up or argue amongst one another. A distorted scrunched up look spreads across his face and I realize he does not know what the coins represent and as I am trying to explain to him that is all I have, and that it is Euros, he begins aggressively yelling in Arabic at Abdul. Fortunately the bright yellow t-shirt man calms the guide down explaining that the coins indeed do have value like printed paper currency and so he nods his head thanking me. The coast is clear and I realize this is my chance to get the hell out of this putrid smelling rotting flesh tannery and head back to my Fish n' Chips and Maria at the Riad. Nervously smiling and saying good bye to the intimidating men who have completely scammed me, tacky flashy flesh and I quickly head out on the road far away from them. While I am trying to calm myself down I recapture layer upon layer what just happened. Was I really in danger, meaning physical harm if I had just said flat out “No” and walked out of the store? What was the worst that the men could have done? Maybe yell at me for not tipping or wasting their time that I never asked for in the first place? Or, could the consequences have been much more dreadful? Just to imagine the unimaginable made me realize that I as a woman wandering around by myself, had made the right decision. Sure I would have been braver if I had friends by my side but alone was a whole other story. Suffice to say that it is an actual true statement that when traveling alone in Islamic regions a female tourist should always have her guard up and not walk alone or the result could possibly be unpleasant such as my experience? I really don’t have the answer but I do know that many female tourists do indeed travel alone to Northern Africa and probably have not encountered a dilemma such as mine. All I do know is for myself, I was scared, my blood was boiling out of fear which is ten times worse than out of anger, and that I was never so relieved as to when I was able to successfully navigate the trek back to Riad Johanna based on the landmarks and enter back to safety.
Entering back into Riad Johanna I set my eyes on the most amazing handcrafted tiled walls and floors with beautiful lamps dangling from the ceiling and I immediately start feeling at ease. A tinge of guilt hits me for being so nervous and skeptical of the kind old man who was just trying to help us find our home and the ruthless tannery sales men. After hearing so many horror stories the thought of being stripped of my passport in Africa or physically harmed is petrifying and I think it’s a shame that as a foreigner, I naturally have my guard up out of fear. Nevertheless Fish n' Chips, Maria and I share our stories in the courtyard and all agree that we have entered a Moroccan Paradise nestled in a brilliantly colorful city and on top of that, are staying in a spectacular private Riad for just 20 dollars a night. The Riad is three levels high with open courtyards on the top two levels. Each level has comfortable wooden patio furniture with intricately designed pillows to rest on. The roof terrace in particular overlooks the center of Medina in which the beats of the drums stretch far out above the colorful rooftops of the surrounding homes that have dangling Moroccan rugs and soaring red flags with a single bright green star in the center. The beats wisp throughout the four surrounding mosques and fill the air with a surreal warm aura. While capturing the stunning view through my lens, suddenly, the drums and cheering crowds all come to a dead abrupt halt within a flash of a second followed by a muffled crackling noise coming from within the north west mosque. A man begins singing Arabic hymns over the loudspeaker and within what appears to be a drawn out minute, the surrounding three mosques loudspeakers come on and I hear three other prevailing and mystifying voices loudly singing about Allah. They are calling their people to prayer and everyone in the entire city center including me has completely stopped what they are doing like in a trance like state in which time is standing still, and all in unison, intently listen to the Korans ancient words stretching out from the four mosques. Standing on the roof top slowly soaking in all of my surroundings, I watch the sun set over one of the grand majestic mosques with piles of smoke billowing behind, forming distorted animal shapes from the hundreds of kebab barbeque stands and think to myself, I have just entered an ancient mind-blowing world and can only imagine what lies ahead.
As the bus comes to a screeching halt the crowd pours off in different directions. I look around me and by the looks of the crowds of people walking towards a central square and towering mosque at the end, I assume we are in the city center of Marrakech known as Medina but where the hek are the street signs? I attempt to communicate with the bus driver in English and just my luck, no English. Next I try in Spanish, again nope, last pathetic desperate attempt German, nope the driver only speaks French or Arabic which I can’t speak a lick of. Well I clumsily show him on a map where I need to go and but of course he just points toward the main square so, off we go. While heading towards the city center my nose begins to follow the numerous lined up food stands piled with Lamb skewing on a stick, women patting down fresh hot thin bread that looks like Indian parratas, and fresh vegetables messily displayed on the tables. My mouth begins to water when we pass by the stands that have heaps of olives glazed in savory Moroccan spices soaked in olive oil but keeping in mind that the eye on the prize is to find Riad (House) Johanna, the roaring belly having a temper tantrum must be patient. While looking at a corner street hoping to see street signs I hear Kendel screeching 'Ahhhh holy shit!' While she claws into my flesh grabbing on to me for dear life, I quickly look to my left and sure enough there it is, three slimy black cobras doing a little neck stretching dance to the snake charmer’s hypnotizing flute type instrument while lurching forward every few minutes attempting to bite their owners. Chillin in the sun next to the aggressive cobras on a brightly colored Arabic rug is a gigantic yellow boa constructor that could not be bothered with all the chaos around him. Mr. Boa is taking a nap and enjoying the rays beating down its ten foot length back. The snake charmers, being very amused with Kendel and Marks cries began laughing and pointing at us. To our frightful delight the adobe brown sun baked man, who is missing a few very necessary teeth and has a snake tightly coiled around his neck, begins walking over towards us. I see that kind toothless smile but I am no fool bearing in mind there is a devilish glint deep within those dark eyes luring us over to his venomous cobras. Being direct bulls eyes without a chance in hell to blend in, we might as well have had American flags stuck to our heads. Calling out to the tall lone white Brit first, 'Hey Fish and Chips, come come.' 'Fish and Chips' I laugh hysterically while looking over at the very disgruntled Brit, 'That’s classic!' While the snake charmers join in on the laughter my other companion, Kendel, doesn’t quite get away without being renamed Maria. Somehow in a matter of seconds while I am telling myself that I am no fool to be lured into the snake pit, Fish n' Chips and I manage to have snakes put around our necks, which then proceeded with being lightly smacked on our head with the head of the snake being told repeatedly, 'For good luck madam, good luck.' Next, pockets being emptied out for a tip, and all in all we even manage to misplace our bad little Mexican girl Maria. Come to find out while I was being smacked by a snake and Mark was rocking back and forth in a fetal position in sheer terror while sucking on his thumb, Maria was kid knapped by a henna witch lady with spiky black hairy legs and mysterious grey eyes that inked up some trippy design on unwillingly Maria’s hand, which ended up looking like a glob of permanent poo. Let me tell you Maria was not happy with the fresh poo on her hand that left traces for weeks.
All around the center of Medina the locals huddle under umbrellas for shelter from the sweltering heat. Whether it be monkeys on chains jumping around doing tricks, women painting henna on hands and feet, fortune tellers sitting on rugs with bottles of crushed up bone, full sized dried lizards, goats and bulls horns neatly laid out by them, or teenage acrobats dressed in silky blue and red Aladdin looking pants flying through the air showing off their amazing skills, you name it, the Medina circus show was in full view and in your face. No time to lurk, we had to find our Riad Johanna. Off we set in one direction hopeful to see some kind of street sign in French. But whatever appeared to be a sign was in Arabic and therefore I began asking locals on the streets and merchants in the stores. A very small elderly man runs up to me and quickly gestures for us to start following him clearly demonstrating that he was volunteering to show us where Riad Johanna is. Hesitant and unsure whether or not we were being led into a trap we figured this man is about the size of my four foot grandma and there are three of us. Not that Fish n' Chips who’s width is about the size of my arm would be helpful, but at this point what other options did we have. As we walked out of one alley, the old man grabs his rick shaw and motions for all of us along with our luggage to jump in like we we’re his little toddlers going for a ride in the shiny red cart. I start shaking my head out of fear of breaking this poor mans back with our combined weight and so he nods his head with approval and again motions us to continue close behind him. After passing one multi-colored busy souk after another, pasting our bodies on the walls like fly’s so that the roaring motorbikes zooming within inches by us won’t hit us, and with the heat scorching throughout my body making me feel dizzy, everything began to quickly start blending in together and before we knew it, we were walking through a maze of alleys that had no people in them. Since I could not remember my ass from my elbow I certainly had no recollection of exactly which way was the exit to get back to the center. I pictured we were the mice in a famous science experiment in which you put the cheese at the end of two different mazes and place the mouse on the opposite end. One of the mice has been in a confined box filled with marijuana smoke resulting in inhaling a gargantuan amount of THC and the other is completely sober. In a stoners opinion you would think that the stoned mouse would find the cheese first because it has the munchies but in actuality, it’s the sober clear headed mouse that is able to navigate its way throughout the maze to get to the cheesy orange prize. Actually I just made that up. I don’t know if there has ever been such an experiment but I really did feel stoned and confused lost in a maze like a feeble mouse. Brown Kendel, now pale white in the face and palms sweating, has totally started freaking out yelling at Mark that she will never talk to him ever again for bringing us here and Mark is now looking at me to make the decision on whether or not we continue to follow this old man down another alley or cut our losses, loose the deposit, and head back to the main square in search of a cheap hotel. I look over at the old man and I now see he is talking with another man in Arabic. It appears that he is asking him where Riad Johanna is but for all I know he is plotting with his partner to let the other men know around the corner that now is the perfect time to mug us leaving us alone in Africa with no passport and money. Mark and I both make eye contact insinuating that we will not go down one more desolate alley and will be turning around in a matter of seconds. Count down three two one, and that’s it, I motion to them both we are going the other way. The strange looking man in the alley starts saying to me, 'Where you going, number 24 Riad Johanna, there, wrong way madam.' Then the old man starts waving his hands at us to keep following him, but at this point I am scared and am on the verge of panicking when all of a sudden he knocks on an iron door at the end of the alley and out pops a sweet females head about the age of thirty. They converse in Arabic for a second and the whole time she is nodding her head motioning for us to come into her home. Great so this is when she bands together with the men and rob us, right! But then in English she says, 'Yes this is Riad Johanna and I have reservation for you, share room. I have been expecting you.' I let out a loud sigh of relief along with Mark and Kendel and we very gratefully thank the strange looking man in the alley and the old four foot tall elderly one. Tipping him graciously in euro coins he walks off distraughtly examining the shiny coins in his palm confused as to what kind of currency we just gave him.
Part 2
I awake to the high pitched squeals of the snake charmers flutes less that a mile away in Medina. The merciless sun has marked its territory in my room and has left me feeling dehydrated and dizzy which was also attributed to an ungodly amount of wine and beer while laying out on the rooftop last night with Fish n' Chips, Maria, and a few fellow backpackers from Argentina. Before allowing myself to feel sorry for my own self liver abuse and aching headache, I quickly wash up in the sink which is outside our room in the courtyard. I guess there is some ringing truth when telling naughty children not to do something forbidden that automatically the allure and temptation to disobey increases ten times more. In our case, sure enough this saying apparently had validity. Last night when we excitedly rushed to the city center with a major beer thirst needing to be quenched, we were told in the cafes that alcohol is illegal in the city center and one must venture out of Medina to drink. In addition, in order to find alcohol we would most likely have to go to a nightclub outside the center and we were warned that women are not exactly considered very welcome unless of course we were planning on pulling a Julia Roberts in “Pretty Women.” Something told me that I am probably not going to meet Richard Gear in these nightclubs so I might as well follow the locals advice and stay clear. Where’s a Yardhouse with 150 fresh beers on tap to choose from when ya need a tall one? To our rescue, but of course, our dear Riad Johanna well equipped for drunken tourists, had a fully stocked fridge waiting for us at home. Before heading back to the Riad we decided to watch the lively night festivals taking place around the roasting lamb stands and drum circles. People everywhere were clapping hands, engaging their palettes with delicious Moroccan delights of seafood, lamb, nuts, followed by piercing bright oranges. Fortune tellers were sitting on rugs on the ground with their customers, grandiosely telling them their fortunes while crushing bones into colorful powders in exquisite jars and drinking Moroccan tea with fresh mint. As alive as this atmosphere was, I realized, something was very wrong. I looked to my left, then my right and was amazed to see that every single person aside from Maria, a few French tourists, and I, were men! Where were all the women? Am I to believe that the locals who obviously have an amazing spirit for festivity do not include their women? One, considered shameful and disrespectful to not be completely covered from head to toe in the sweltering heat: to ensure that other men can not look at you. Two, to always walk in the souks “supervised” with either a male relative or your husband by your side. Three, men may hold hands, any display of public affection between opposite sexes is taboo. Apparently this is how they run here. But am I really witnessing with my own eyes that women are shunned from such a joyous event? This whole concept is obviously so outlandish to my foreign eyes that I just can’t seem to justify this as normal and accept it as something I just can’t understand but seems to work just fine for them. After all, I view women and men as equals so how could I understand completely? In their defense, quite possibly maybe the women prefer to not engage in these male activities in the darkness of the night and instead, happily congregate amongst other fellow women free of their masking durkhas and shawls within the confinements of their sealed off homes. I guess I will never know, nor can I understand.
Chillaxin and stretching my legs out on the roof terrace, to my delight, Johanna has once again fixed us a delightful breakfast with fresh squeezed orange juice and crispy bread rolls. A little grub in the belly and I am ready to set off on a new adventure. Unfortunately Fish n' Chips and Maria look like dead logs unwilling to unlatch themselves from their comfortable nooks. I allow them to hibernate from the scorching sun and decide to follow my trusty Lonely Planet’s advice and find the tanneries. After all Morocco is very famous for their master skill in producing exquisite soft leathers so why not go check out the originals myself. Heading out of the curvy maze of peach alleys and I enter into the chaotic souks. Hundreds of people are bargaining at the stands for items such as spices, leather, meat, and pottery and the women are loading their bags with fresh produce. I stay clear of the zooming motorbikes bustling crowds and donkeys dashing within inches of me. Immediately I notice the local men are a lot more comfortable with allowing their eyes to wander freely across my body. Initially, I try to ignore the stares and snide flirtatious cat calling but within only a matter of minutes, I start feeling extremely self conscious and am very aware that I am “one of them.” “One of those” Western women that allow parts of their flesh to show freely and wander the streets unsupervised without a male baby sitter. Reluctantly, I have now resorted to keeping my eyes on the ground and head down low hoping that I will just evaporate into the ground or at the very least, receive less attention. I almost feel shameful like I have done something wrong leaving the Riad without Fish n' Chips and now I must face the consequences for not covering my exposed body in a burkah. Heading east, I realize I have no idea where the tanneries are even though according to the book, they are in this direction outside of the center. While trying to be invisible and independent by navigating my way around alone, my independence comes to an end when a man in a bright yellow shirt starts making friendly conversation asking me where I am trying to go. I politely tell him I am heading to the tanneries and continue on my way. Fortunately he is kind enough to point me in the right direction with out expectations for a tip. Just when I think how nice that he was just helping me out with no strings attached, he yells after me telling me his friend Abdul works there and since he is on his way to work, will show me the way. 'Shit' I think to myself how can I tell him no when the guy is apparently walking there too and its down what appears to be one straight road, so he will be on my tail either way. Without consenting for him to join me, Abdul with a sweet hearty smile introduces himself and starts walking by my side. Remembering reading in Lonely Planet that if you need assistance finding the tannery it is easy for a local to show you around and explain how the tanneries work with just a little tip, I think to myself I am fine with leaving a small tip so why not just enjoy Abduls company and let him show me how to get to the Tanneries.
Reaching the end of the road I realize there are no Tanneries in sight and we have been walking in the mid afternoon heat over dirt roads for over fifteen minutes. Abduls non stop chattering starts making me skeptical that maybe he was trying to distract me for some reason. But why? My guts begin churning and I start feeling the paranoia rise from the depths of my spine and grab a hold of my throat. Trying to remain cool and not show that my heart is beating a million miles an hour and perspiration from anxiety is formulating along my temple, I can’t help but think the worst can happen to me right now and if so, there is not a damn thing I can do about it. 'Why did you leave the Riad alone you retard! Damn it Alicia you are so stupid sometimes! Sure, try to be all adventurous and shit and now you have put yourself in a jam that you may not get your ass out of safely.' Abdul leads me through a few winding streets that go left and then right, then left, left, wait was it right, or then left, damn its starting to blend in, crap I can’t remember. Very alert of my surroundings at this point like a deer in headlights, I make sure to make mental notes of the landmarks that we are passing by to guide me back to safety if need be. I tell myself 'Okay take a chill pill Alicia.' After all, I am walking with a man that appears to be kind and although this is out of my character to go walking around with someone I don’t know anything at all about, he is just taking me to the Tanneries and then I can venture out again on my own once there.
Twenty minutes later and I smell a musky putrid aroma infiltrating the air. It is so pungent that I have to cover my mouth for a second thinking that the smell will dissipate within seconds of not breathing. Abdul seeing me struggling smirks and tells me, 'We are reaching the tanneries soon and this is the smell of the leather. Look up on the rooftops you can see the skins drying out.' There it is looming above my head, rotting cow skin boiling in the blazing sun on the rooftops. Scattered on the ground I see pieces of what appears to be pieces of black hair that used to be a cows tail. Passing by the stores I notice that they are not selling the typical goods as in the city but instead huge bottles of brightly colored liquids and sulfuric acid. The people somehow seem to have thinned out before my eyes but we have finally arrived at the Tanneries and since I have walked all this way, I figure I might as well capture a few pictures and see how this whole leather making thing works. Standing at the outdoor entrance is a man in a long white robe holding a parcel of fresh mint. He introduces himself in scattered Spanish and hands me the mint telling me I will need this to cope with the smell while he gives me the tour. Wait this can’t be the tour that I think the book mentioned. Or did the book even mention a tour? Where are all the other tourists with their dangling cameras and videos, spoiled bratty children loudly chirping creating unwanted attention, and maps falling out of their parents overloaded bags? For once in my life I actually want to be surrounded by the safety net of a bunch of obnoxious overly excited tourists. I must be loosing it! Instead, I am by myself now surrounded by two men and am about to be surrounded by many other men in the tanneries. As we enter in the huge outside walls about the size of a football field, I am in no ways prepared for what my eyes are about to see. Men, some older then my grandpa are waist deep in pools of brightly blue, red, orange, and purple dyes and are diligently working like slaves in the blistering heat. 'Smack smack' goes the cow flesh dipping into the pools then whacked onto the ground. Sulfuric acid mixed with rotting dead flesh infiltrates my nose and quickly reaches the back of my throat causing the sensation of immediate gagging. Nevertheless, I have to get some pictures of what I am actually seeing. Nauseas or not, this was inexplicable and I had to capture the moment with my camera. The guide explains the process of how the leather is made even though in reality, it was self explanatory and in your face. Lucky me, he made sure not to leave out what kinds of different animal piles of flesh were sloppily laid out within inches of my feet. Wowzers, let me just tell you the goat pile of flesh was definitely what sent me over the Titanic and although I was trying to pretend that everything was all gravy, clearly my face was probably turning sour green, thus the men politely escorted me out. Thinking that the quick tour that seemed like an anxiety filled eternity was finally over, I figured I would tip both men with the change in my pocket, thank them graciously, and be on my way. Well, maybe if we were in the Kansas Tanneries Toto and I could merrily meander off on the yellow brick road but not in Marrakech. Before I could turn my head Abdul rushes me into the nearby store packed with brightly colored fresh leather bags dangling on the ceiling, leather pillows and Moroccan rugs covering the floors, and a bulky glistening silver tea pot on the center table. 'Hello I am A Koos koos a boo boo and welcome to my store. Please have a seat and may I serve you some Moroccan tea with fresh mint.' Okay obviously that’s not how you spell his name but that’s what it sounded like. I blabber, 'Umm ahh nooo thanks, you have a beautiful store but I am sorry, I do not have money to spend.' Apparently either I was speaking German or A koos koos a boo boo is stone deaf because he did not even raise an eyebrow after my displeasing statement. “So let me tell you about my business. I journey to the border of Marrakech to trade my beautiful leathers for raw silk.” He then proudly grabbed a handful of magnificent piles of vibrant silk. I let the silk flow through my finger tips and sure enough it is the softest silk I have ever felt. Then proceeding to have his helper, no older then a 13 year old boy, throw a few rugs on the ground, he gets down on his knees and lights a flame on the rugs demonstrating that the magical rugs could not be lit on fire. At this point I was definitely impressed but keeping in mind I did not want to spend money, I tried my best to keep a polite smile but not infer that I wanted to purchase anything. Next, an elegant writing tablet laced with gold was placed on the table and I am told, “In Morocco there is no final price and this is how we shall bargain. You write your price on the right and I on the left.” Apparently I was bargaining for some camel leather pillow that you can sit on that had cool camel designs wrapped around in a circle. I glance outside the door to see if anyone may miraculously come to my rescue and see that there are three men waiting out front blocking off the exit. To my surprise there stands that man in the bright yellow shirt that initially pointed me in the direction of the Tanneries. Clearly he too was a part of the Tanneries business and had successfully worked his charm in convincing the stupid tourist to enter the sales pit. At this point I just write down 20 euros but A koos koos a boo boo is anything but delighted and quickly pulls out a cheaper cow leather pillow that has flashy red, white, and black triangles on an aged cream base. Well, I figure I have two options. Either I continue this torture and attempt to escape without purchasing anything or, I suck up my losses, buy the tacky flashy flesh and depart unharmed. Unsure of what to do, my instinct points my hand in the direction of writing down a slightly marked up price of 25 euros and to my relief, the tablet is closed and the deal has been made. Now I realize that I only have small change in euro coins to tip the two men outside so I hope that purchasing this pillow will suffice. “Not so fast little naïve one.” I have just entered out to three men with open palms waiting for their individual tips. So I grab the coins and place it in the dominant guides hand hoping they can either split it up or argue amongst one another. A distorted scrunched up look spreads across his face and I realize he does not know what the coins represent and as I am trying to explain to him that is all I have, and that it is Euros, he begins aggressively yelling in Arabic at Abdul. Fortunately the bright yellow t-shirt man calms the guide down explaining that the coins indeed do have value like printed paper currency and so he nods his head thanking me. The coast is clear and I realize this is my chance to get the hell out of this putrid smelling rotting flesh tannery and head back to my Fish n' Chips and Maria at the Riad. Nervously smiling and saying good bye to the intimidating men who have completely scammed me, tacky flashy flesh and I quickly head out on the road far away from them. While I am trying to calm myself down I recapture layer upon layer what just happened. Was I really in danger, meaning physical harm if I had just said flat out “No” and walked out of the store? What was the worst that the men could have done? Maybe yell at me for not tipping or wasting their time that I never asked for in the first place? Or, could the consequences have been much more dreadful? Just to imagine the unimaginable made me realize that I as a woman wandering around by myself, had made the right decision. Sure I would have been braver if I had friends by my side but alone was a whole other story. Suffice to say that it is an actual true statement that when traveling alone in Islamic regions a female tourist should always have her guard up and not walk alone or the result could possibly be unpleasant such as my experience? I really don’t have the answer but I do know that many female tourists do indeed travel alone to Northern Africa and probably have not encountered a dilemma such as mine. All I do know is for myself, I was scared, my blood was boiling out of fear which is ten times worse than out of anger, and that I was never so relieved as to when I was able to successfully navigate the trek back to Riad Johanna based on the landmarks and enter back to safety.
Entering back into Riad Johanna I set my eyes on the most amazing handcrafted tiled walls and floors with beautiful lamps dangling from the ceiling and I immediately start feeling at ease. A tinge of guilt hits me for being so nervous and skeptical of the kind old man who was just trying to help us find our home and the ruthless tannery sales men. After hearing so many horror stories the thought of being stripped of my passport in Africa or physically harmed is petrifying and I think it’s a shame that as a foreigner, I naturally have my guard up out of fear. Nevertheless Fish n' Chips, Maria and I share our stories in the courtyard and all agree that we have entered a Moroccan Paradise nestled in a brilliantly colorful city and on top of that, are staying in a spectacular private Riad for just 20 dollars a night. The Riad is three levels high with open courtyards on the top two levels. Each level has comfortable wooden patio furniture with intricately designed pillows to rest on. The roof terrace in particular overlooks the center of Medina in which the beats of the drums stretch far out above the colorful rooftops of the surrounding homes that have dangling Moroccan rugs and soaring red flags with a single bright green star in the center. The beats wisp throughout the four surrounding mosques and fill the air with a surreal warm aura. While capturing the stunning view through my lens, suddenly, the drums and cheering crowds all come to a dead abrupt halt within a flash of a second followed by a muffled crackling noise coming from within the north west mosque. A man begins singing Arabic hymns over the loudspeaker and within what appears to be a drawn out minute, the surrounding three mosques loudspeakers come on and I hear three other prevailing and mystifying voices loudly singing about Allah. They are calling their people to prayer and everyone in the entire city center including me has completely stopped what they are doing like in a trance like state in which time is standing still, and all in unison, intently listen to the Korans ancient words stretching out from the four mosques. Standing on the roof top slowly soaking in all of my surroundings, I watch the sun set over one of the grand majestic mosques with piles of smoke billowing behind, forming distorted animal shapes from the hundreds of kebab barbeque stands and think to myself, I have just entered an ancient mind-blowing world and can only imagine what lies ahead.
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