Marrakesh to Malaga

15.01.2005 20 °C

Continued...

After a couple of days ingesting Saharan dust, churned up from our "luxury" mini-bus, we stopped overnight in a Marrakchi riad, a beautifully designed house set around a courtyard with a fountain at its centrepiece. It was rather palatial after a night spent in the bitterly icy Sahara with putrid smelling camel blankets to keep us warm.

From here we caught a spiffy Supratours bus out to Essaouira, a charming coastal town, that is blindingly whitewashed in contrast to the warm ochre hues of Marrakesh. Its quaint surroundings have afforded it popularity amongst painters, writers, hippies, and package tourists sporting their knee-high socks with Birkenstocks, whilst the whipping Atlantic winds have brought it notoriety as a mecca for wind-surfing. Essaouira comes from the Arabic word for "walled", and its fortified ramparts, juxtaposed by the raging Atlantic waters, make for an immensely dramatic scene.

Unfortunately, our time here was short, and after a quick roam about the medina and fishing port, we made our way back to the bus stop, to return to Marrakesh.

As we hastened our pace toward the bus stop, I noted a sparkling Supratours bus accelerating toward us. Before we had a chance to even read the destination sign, the bus was gone, and we were faced with the inevitable horror that is catching a local bus.

Now I have done my fair share of dodgy local transport over the past couple of years: notably the marijuana fumed upstairs of Dublin's 77 bus; the overcrowded Laotian cargo boats plying the Mekong; and countless tuk tuks, pick-up trucks and motos across South East Asia. Really, it shouldn't bet that bad right?

Dear dear dear...our adventure began upon our arrival at the immaculate(ly grotty) city bus station where a cacophonic ranting of touts welcomed us by screaming out destinations at random (just for fun, try saying Agadir [Ah-guh-deer] in rapid succession for a couple of minutes), and following us around, with the hope that we may just follow them to their ticket booth and they collect a few dirhams commission. Eventually we bought "comfortable" tickets on one of the local buses back to Marrakesh, and boarded for our journey.

We were welcomed onto the bus by an elderly gentleman who walked the length of the bus, initially ranting about "the price of eggs in China", before bursting into a disharmonious rendition of The Star-Spangled Banner. It was a very hand-on-your-heart moment. Well, perhaps not. It is probable that he was praying to Allah for a safe journey. It is a lovely notion for one to
pray for a safe journey, though one must wonder if it is done out of thoughtfulness or dire necessity.

Aside from the repulsive odour of canine faeces wafting down the aisle, and the frequent honks of the bus driver's horn (a-la Vietnamese taxi drivers), the journey, though not particularly
"comfortable", was rather uneventful and we seemed to be chugging along just fine.

"Thud"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH"

Quickly, the ticket attendant flicked on the light to confirm what we suspected

It immediately became apparent that a mother in the seat opposite ours had fallen asleep with her baby daughter resting peacefully in her arms. As the mother had dozed off, the baby must have slid from her grasp, and fallen to the ground... eeeeek....She seemed to be ok, though I spent the remainder of the trip on the edge of my seat, in case the mother dozed off again.

Fortunately she didn't, and baby continued the journey sucking contentedly on her dummy, apparently obvlivious of what had happened.

After some kip back in Marrakesh, we opted to take a train up the coast, to Casablanca, the economic capital and most populous city in Morocco. I had heard that Casa was akin to any other city in the developing world - overpopulated, rife with social problems and a tad polluted. Polluted would be an understatement. The air in Casablanca is a national disgrace and sufficiently filthy to make one feel ill. Inhaling through the sleeve of my shirt dulled the intensity somewhat, but obnoxious it certainly was.

The main reason for our stop in Casablanca was to visit the Hassan II Mosque, the world's third-largest religious monument (I think Cambodia's Angkor temples are #1) capable of holding 25000 worshippers. Of course our last minute decision to stop here en route north meant that we happened to be passing through on a Friday, which as Muslim holy day, meant we were unable to visit the interior of the complex (d'oh) . So we settled for parking our buttocks on a seat outside the mosque and watching the throngs of worshippers come and go from it. As the sun began to sink in the late afternoon, the seaside area became decidedly seedy, so we made for our dingy hotel back in town, missing the spectacle of the late night laser show that is projected from the top of the 210m high minaret each night.

Unable to suffocate on anymore Casa fumes, we journeyed onward to Fes, home to the largest living medieval city in the Arab world. For hours at a time we wound our way about the medina, admiring locally crafted artisanal goods, trying on shoes and peering into the entrances of the many medersas (theological seminaries) and mosques. We went in search of the tanneries
where the famous leathergoods of Morocco are crafted today in the same manner that they have been for several thousands of years using the same stinky ingredients to treat the leather..... pigeon poo, cow urine, fish oils, animal brains etc... (no wonder mum's beautiful fuschia handbag has been relegated to its position on the back verandah).

We wandered through the colourful fruit and vegetable markets to the heady odours of meat markets where you can opt for fresh goat's head, if you aren't in the mood for chicken wings. We met loads of 7 year old boys who wanted to make a few dirham by guiding us to the tanneries (or to their uncle's best friend's cousin's business partner's shop), as well as a man who touted himself initially as an "official guide", before correcting himself and proclaiming himself to be a "hustler". And of course we met lots of friendly local boys who thought I might be interested in marrying one of them! Can't blame these guys for trying though. In a society where the local women are barely seen, and the images of women from the west are predominantly of the likes of Britney Spears cavorting about in her leather gear, western women really must seem like fair game to these lads. Still....it is very bothersome.

After escaping Fes without a husband (apparently I requested too many camels), we headed to the chilled out city of Meknes, home to the old imperial city of Moulay Ismail, a 17th century sultan who was famed not only for bringing widespread unification to Morocco, but for his tendency to chop off the heads of anyone who displeased him. You gotta give the guy some credit though as he built a pretty amazing city filled with spectacular gateways, medersas and palaces. He also built massive granaries to store vast quantities of food for the people as well as his 12 000 horses. As is the case with the kasbah of Ait Bennadhou, the granaries are popular with film-makers for their ancient atmosphere.

As much as Meknes was a delightful constrast to Casa and Fes, it was a nightmare to try and get a taxi here. Along with hundreds of locals, we waited at the Place el-Hedim to flag down a taxi. After watching the locals, it became pretty obvious what had to be done.

1. Spot a taxi
2. Sprint madly for it along with everyone else
3. Run along side the still moving taxi (preferably making contact with it the whole time)
4. Try and open the doors while it is still moving and climb in
5. Be assertive, even agressive - it is YOUR taxi
6. If you are foreign, sprint twice as fast
7. Push if necessary but not too hard
8. Be first into the taxi!

Exhausting? Absolutely! Took us half an hour to get a taxi back to the hotel! Yeah and I looked like a right eejit running after taxis too!

After a couple of hours wandering about the ancient ruins of Volubilis (settled by the Carthaginian trades around 3 BC), we returned to Tangier to board our ferry back to Spain...

No touts, no donkeys, no marriage proposals...... Just the joys of shopping, tapas and churrrrrrrrros!

Bel x

Marrakesh to Merzouga

15.01.2005 17 °C

Bonjour!

After a flight to Malaga, and an afternoon spent in the British settlement of Gibraltar chasing about the Barbary apes and devouring a some grand Pommie fodder (aka Fish and Chips), we made the long journey south to Marrakesh. This journey involved an early start to catch the 6am ferry from Algeciras to Tangier, a taxi ride to the Gare de Tangier Ville, a 5 hour train journey to Casablanca, and then another few hours on the train, sharing a carriage with Morocco's answer to Paris Hilton (sans coffieured chihuahua), before finally arriving in Marrakesh at around 7pm and heading straight into the heart of the medina at the Djemaa el-Fna.

The Djemaa el-Fna is the pulsating heart of Marrakesh throughout the day, and even moreso in the evenings. From the haze of smoke swirling through the air, to the drones of the snake charmers; from the stench of donkeys pottering through the square to the richness of the tajines stewing from the dozens of food stalls that line the square. Everywhere you look, constant activity and abundance of colour: the mariachi brother water sellers; henna tattooists and tarot card readers calling out for custom from behind their veils; dishevelled felines scrounging for scraps of food and basking in the warm afternoon sunshine; the constant flow of ewok-attired men on foot, bicycle, motorbike or donkey-drawn carts; exotic dancers (who happen to be men) trying to woo other men; men fishing for coke bottles....oh yes, it is truly bizarre...no pun intended!....

And then in the evenings, the square lights up with 100 or so stalls selling kebabs, salads, deep fried eggplant, olives, tajines, couscous etc. If you are a little more adventurous you can feast on some boiled snails, before topping it all off with fresh orange or grapefruit juice, or a cup of mint tea.

Aside from the incessant activity of the Djemaa al-Fna, there are of course the labyrinthine souqs, which lie at the centre of the ochre hued medina. The souqs are as fascinating and envigorating as they are bothersome. Anything you want, you can probably find: pointy turned-up fuschia coloured shoes; amethyst jewels encrusted in suspiciously shiny "silver"; handmade handbags straight from the tanneries; kaftans in a multitude of colours; chickens, chameleons, tortoises; chinaware; traditional berber medicine (even "la viagra, pour la rumba bumba" as one fourteen year old boy shouted out)...and the list goes on. Yeah, so it's great, but oh so tiresome. Every single shop you pass, the deal is the same.... (see bottom of page)...... plenty of hassle, everyone has the best quality products, everyone is your best friend as long as they think you will buy.....oh fond, fond memories of all the best friends I made in the markets of Vietnam.

Besides the constant hassle from the vendors in the souq, is the peril beset upon one who dares work his/her way around a corner without first peering ahead. No, it's not a monobrow- infested hairy belly dancer.....nor is it likely to be a moto, though it is not entirely impossible.....it's probably a hobbling mule carrying stacks of coke bottles on its back; the driver side-saddling the beast as he shouts "attencione" to forewarn (usually morelike a postwarning) pedestrians of his wished passage.

In addition to the surplus of mules in Morocco, are the surplus of lecherous young men who vilely prey upon golden-haired western females. Roughly 75% of Morocco's population are under 30, and if you based your male to female ratio on the amount of attention a western female receives on an average days wander about the town....you'd be thinking oh 97:3. The salutations range from the unimaginative ("Bonjour gazelle", "Salut!" "ça va?") to the positively proposterous ("Wanna come to my place?", "I make you very happy", "Wanna see my ______", yes, just think of the last one as a cloze exercise). We had a few followers, and one young lad who tried the tack of encircling us several times while he fluttered his eyelashes . Oh dear dear dear....

Away from the hustle and hassle of the souqs are a few places of relative calm, including: the remains of the Palais el-Badi, with storks nesting atop its high walls; the Saadian Tombs, a beautifully designed mausoleum; and the Jardin Marjorelle, a lavishly set garden owned by Yves Saint Laurent, and set about a royal blue villa.

Heading out from Marrakesh, we left behind the vivacity/cacophony of the medina, and made our way over the snow-capped High Atlas to the kasbah of Ait Benhaddou, which tumbles as a red sandstone maze of houses down a hillside amidst a palmeraie. Name not familiar? It's the kasbah which provides the backdrop for several films, including Lawrence of Arabia and Gladiator, and currently only accessible by donkey-back across a usually dried-up stream (to the ass-owners´ delight, it is now flowly vigorously).

Continuing on from here we wound our way past the lunar Anti- Atlas into the Dades gorge, which is rather spectacular, though ludicrously frosty when the sun goes down. Onwards we continued the next day to the Todra gorge, formed along a fault line, and then further onto the hammada (harsh stony desert). Save for the occasional berber shepherd tending his goat herd, or the life pouring from the intermittent kasbah, the journey from here out to the Sahara proper was relatively monotonous....

Until the rough stony plains turned into gentle sandy ripples, and eventually the ochre Saharan dunes of the late afternoon in Merzouga. As the sun set across the Erg Chebbi, we rode in caravan out to our bivouac for the night. As romantic as the notion of a camel-ride by caravan to a Saharan bivouac by sunset is, ooh it´s not very comfortable.......

Downright painful to be precise, but the luminous confetti of stars scattered delicately over the desert dunes was an astonishing sight to behold, and well worth the effort of getting there.

Upon rising early in the morning, we returned to the backs of the belching, bony camels, and made our way back to Merzouga, and then Marrakesh.

To be continued...

Belinda xo

Conversation with a souq salesman

15.01.2005 17 °C

Vendor: Bonjour mademoiselle/gazelle, ça va?
Me: ça va bien
Vendor: Français? Espanol? English, Belgique........Australian?
Me: Oui, je suis de Australien
Vendor: Ah le kangaroo, Welcome our country!
Me: Merçi
Vendor: What you want? Slipper? Bag? I make good price for you (interchangeable with "Prix democratique"). Very cheap.
Me: Just looking
Vendor: Ok only looking, looking free
Me: (nods, quick side-ways glance at a gorgeous handbag)
Vendor: (dexterous manoeuvre to remove it from its nail on the wall and opens it up to show me)
See, very nice, handmade, good quality. How much you pay?
Me: Only looking, looking free
Vendor: Ok ok, no problem my friend, I do you good price, today everything half price
Me: Everyday half price no?
Vendor: Special price today. Ok ok how much you pay?
Me: C'est combien?
Vendor: 370 dirham!
Me: Ooh la la!!! Trop cher! (turns away in disgust)
Vendor: Ok ok, how much you pay? How much maximum?
Me: hmmmm 50 dirham
Vendor: (looks away in disgust) ok no way miss, excuse-a me, serious price, how much you pay?....yadda yada yadda...until an agreeable price is decided...

Needless to say, I didn't buy a great deal in the souqs!!

Bonny Scotland

21.10.2004

Greetz to all

Well another long lag between updates....and again well there's been "nooten mooch ta rate hoom aboat" (as the folk in Wick would say).

After a quick trip to Norway (I think that was my last update back in July!?!?!), I settled into life in Edinburgh. After 2 weeks in a youth hostel in town, Kath (one of my good friend's from
school back in Oz) and I moved into a flat just up the street for a couple of weeks. Now aside from the gas-leak, mouse problem, constant dirty dishes, heating problems and marijuana smoking housemates, it was grand! Yes well, so we moved on to bigger and better things on the other side of town, in a Victorian flat with an Englishman who was so tight-arsed he would set the shower heater to a timer, and go and switch all the powerpoints in the house off after he thought everyone else was asleep. And to top it off, he talked like a psychopath... no offence to any of ye out there!

I managed to pick up temp work in Eds quite easily, though it wasn't the most exciting work. Firstly I temped with a recruitment agency for a week, then they offered me a temp position as an HR administrator (cause of all my experience right?!?!) for a further 6 weeks. Spent the whole month of August in Edinburgh for the Fringe (festival)....the biggest arts festival in the world with theatre, musicals, art exhibitions, book seminars etc.....all on at once. And then there's a load of free street theatre going on 24-7. Managed to hit about 10 different events during the festival, including Jimeoin, who seemed a little jet-lagged or something....not in his best form.

Aside from hitting a load of festival events while in Edinburgh, I visited some of the cities/towns nearby....

St Andrews - a medieval town with lots of winding alleyways (including the ridiculously named Butt's Wynd!), puttaphiles driving range rovers, dive-bombing steroid pumped seagulls and throngs of salivating teenage girls, trying to get a glimpse of St Andrew's most famous resident - the one and only Prince Willy! Sadly for the girls, Willy (let's call him "The Mighty" as all princes need a title) is seldom there as between semesters of studying art history at the university, he spends his hours cavorting about the Cote d'Azur with scantily clad society girls. Aside from having a wander about the town in search of "The Mighty", I visited the spiritual home of Golf at The Old Course, paid the patron saint of Scotland (St Andrew) a visit), and went for a run along West Sands (the beach where Chariots of Fire was filimed)

Stirling
Here I visited the splendid Stirling Castle, and paid my respects to the one and only William Wallace (think Braveheart). I was disgusted to learn that after being sentenced to death for charges of murder, robbery and treason, he was publicly executed by partial strangulation (they only seem to do things partially over here - even the sugar syrup in sweets is only partially inverted), before being disembowelled and then quartered.....

Perth - unfortunately not the one in Oz tho.....this Perth (pop. 40 000) was voted most liveable place in the UK in 2003 and it is quite nice. Visited St John's Kirk (where John Knox preached a serom against idolatry in the 16th century, causing the rascal multitude to strip all the local churches of their fittings and ornaments before stoning the preacher), and Scone Palace, sometime home of the Earl of Mansfield and his hideous collection of coiffured poddles, elephant skulls, and spades used by Royal Dignitaries from the world over to plant trees about the Palace. The scones they bake in the cafe at the palace aren't too shabby either.

After about 9 weeks in Edinburgh all up, I took up a locum position in a teeny tiny town called Wick (pop. 8,000), about as far North as you can go on the British mainland. Wick was originally a Viking settlement, and more recently a big fishing port, but nowdays, well it's become just another town on the road between Inverness (stopping off point to see a certain monster), and John O'Groats, a ghastly place overrun by tourbuses wanting to visit the most northerly point on "mainland" Britain....cept it's actually 10miles down the road at Dunnet head. Ah well....Wick and its surrounds are home to a plethora of good Indian restaurants (a lot of Indian doctors locum up in the far north), as well as a strange population of sheep with ears the size of rabbits. Could it be the nearby recently decommissioned nuclear reactor?? Or perhaps another batch of "Dolly the Sheep" sheep. The locals up here also talk about the the "coos in da feld" (cows in the field) and eat decadently tasty things like Macaroni pies (basically macaroni cheese baked into a scotch pastry shell...mmmmm)

So things up in Wick.....a tad on the quiet side but the work was ok (a little hectic) and I did get to see a lot of Northern Scotland, including Loch Ness (sans Monster), the Castle of Mey (the Queen Mum's former home) a re-enactment of the Battle of Culloden (last battle on British soil?), the Highland games (men in kilts throwing hammers over poles, playing bagpipes and running around like eejits), Dunrobin Castle (the biggest house in the highlands, filled with stuffed animals), the quaint little town of Dornoch (site of the last witch execution in Scotland) and Fort George (the base for George II's occupying army in the highlands).

I also made it across to the Orkney islands where I visited Skara Brae, the oldest prehistoric settlement in Europe (older than the Pyramids of Giza and Stonehenge); the Churchill barriers, used to prevent the passage of German ships onto Orkney's Mainland; the Italian Chapel, painted elegantly by Italian POWs during WW2); the Khyber Pass (there is a teeny tiny street named that in Stromness); and the Ring of Brogdar (a stone circle over 4500 yrs old).

After a few days in manky London, and a further few in lovely Cardiff (home to red dragons and the Millennium Stadium - where Oz claimed the 99 World Cup!), I'm now back over in Ireland....looking for a new home, settling back into work etc....I can't believe I'm missing the Aussie summer in place of the cold, wet, Irish winter.....crazy?? Nah, it's nice to be back again.

Anyway, gotta get going. It's a beautiful day outside today, hovering around 11C, slightly overcast...but not raining!!

Belinda
xo

Hilsen fra Norge

05.07.2004

Hilsen fra Norge!

After a rather underwhelming lunch of fish and chips in a Kilkenny pub last year, I decided to treat myself to a rather more interesting affair for my quarter-century attainment. I had originally fancied whisking off to the rambunctious metropolis of Rome, to see if both it and I had changed in the (almost) 7 years since I was last there. Rome had proven to be an endless source of vexation for me as I struggled to navigate my way around the cacophonic melange that is the eternal city of poco loco Vespa riders, warding off the incessant unsolicited advances of lecherous lotharios, whilst avoiding getting turned into minced-meat by the enslaught of perennial horn-honking obsessed Romans.

But it was never to be, as Ryan Air had sold out of their ridiculously low fares....but thanks to my move to bonny Scotland, I realised I had been afforded access to a plethora of cheap flights that were not previously available to me from Dublin.

So Norway it was to be.

Unfortunately only for a week - but bloody hell, that's all an impoverished, unemployed, sheila like me could ever hope to have afforded!

To give you some perspective on prices in Norway.....here's a rough guide...

Big Mac (not a meal) - €4.11/$AUD7.09
300ml Mocha - €3.75/$AUD6.50
500ml Coca-Cola - €4/$AUD6.70
Wrigleys 10 piece chewing gum - €1.20/$AUD2
1 litre unleaded petrol - €1.55/$AUD2.70
Dinner 2 people (no alcohol, basic Chinese) - €53/$AUD92
Laundry (one pair of smelly socks) - $AUD6.10 (I kid you not! oh and they weren't mine)
Taxi fare - 8km distance - €20/$AUD34.70
1 night hostel accomm - a bargain!! €17/£11.50/$AUD30

You get my drift hey?

As for some trivia on Norway:

*It is not an EU member but is party to various EEA arrangements which mean it has access to the European market, and is allowed to fish to its heart's content

*Norwegians are on average more aesthetically advantaged" than most nations of people - though I still think their Swedish neighbours are pipping them for the #1 title

*the Norwegian Vikings are responsible for settlements in places as far afield as Sicily, Greenland, Newfoundland (CA) and Dublin

*Two of its most famous sons were boath Roalds - Roald Dahl (who in addition to fathering the kooky model Sophie, wrote a few kiddies books on the side) and Roald Amundsen - the first man to reach the South Pole in 1911

*The average Norwegian eats 200 "polse" (hot dogs) a year

*Everyone in Norway is obsessed with gambling

*Lemmings in Norway do indeed go jumping over cliff-edges and plummet to their fate in the fjords below

*Norwegians drink a hell of a lot of alcohol, which is somewhat surprising considering the bizarre retail alcohol laws, as follows - In Norway, you can buy beer and nothing stronger, on weekdays only up until 8pm, and on Saturdays only until 6pm. After those times, or if you are in search of anything a little stronger, you must head to a Vinmonopolet. In what appears to be a borrowed concept from the former Soviet Union, you must first select your poison, take a number, queue for a long time, and then go to the counter where you will end up paying about 5 times what you would pay in any other country - Ireland included!

Anyway, back to my trip...

After a quick flight from Glasgow, I took another flight from Oslo, across Southern Norway's snow-mottled mountains that tumbled into turquoise hued fjords at their extremities, to arrive in Bergen , renowned not only as the gate-way to the Western fjords, but also for its absolutely deplorable weather (odds on heavy rain most days), to find an immaculate yacht-filled marina basking in glorious summer sunshine (good weather tends to follow me for some reason). Upon arrival I had a quick wander about the town before taking the Floibanen funicular up Mt Floyen ("The Vane") to be afforded a magnificient view down over Bergen and the surrounding fjordlands.

The next day I took the much-hyped, and a tad overpriced Norway in a Nutshell tour. It started with a 2 hour journey along the Bergen Railway line, before changing lines onto the 20km Flam Railway (an engineering masterpiece with 5 sets of brakes to prevent the train from sliding back down the mountainside) past spectacular waterfalls and mountain scenery, jumping on a 2 hour cruise through the Aurlandsfjord and Naeroyfjord (meaning of course "narrow fjord"), and then heading back across to Bergen. The cruise was splendid, and a source of great amusement as I was sitting amidst a large contingent of wealthy Japanese tourists, who in their Armani suits accessorized with Bally Shoes and Louis Vuitton Handbags (even the men!!), took great delight in reaching their hands up into the sky to feed the dive-bombing scavanging sea-gulls copious quantities of Pringles! (Of course with the soulful melodies of Grieg in the background, this made for quite a beautiful experience).

Back in Bergen the next day, I wound my way around the narrow cobble-stoned warrens that make up the present day city. Past the Bryggen, the gable-lined medieval waterfront village that was home to the Hanseatic merchants who traded beer and grain for fish; through the Torget's open-air fish market where the fishmongers show off their fresh daily catches of cod, herring, salmon and prawns; and up the passages of the Ovregaten - where a colourful mix of large 19th century villas curve up the hillside overlooking the city, providing a quiet respite from the bustle of the touristed centre below. I finished up the day with a quick visit to the Lepramuseet - a museum which is dedicated to the fight against leprosy in Norway - very strange indeed! According to the information provided at the museum, 3% of the population of Norway were classified as lepers at one point, and the Norwegian researcher, Hansen (leprosy is aka Hansen's disease) was responsible for identifying the leprosy bacillus. And in case you are really keen on learning about leprosy, the Norwegian word for hospital, derives from their word for leprosy - i.e. hospitals were places where lepers were housed; many for 30 or 40 years!

Stavanger was my next port of call to catch up with my old Saffa flatmate who is working there for a few months (as ya do!). Stavanger is essentially a port city founded on its oil industry, and is consequently home to a considerable number of wealthy ex-patriates with not too shabby yachts. It is surprisingly pleasant (for an oil city), and a little less tourist-swamped than Bergen. Still loads of Americans though - like everywhere else in Norway. Could it be all that oil perhaps?!?! Aside from watching the Rugby, we went on a hike up to Preikestolen ("the pulpit rock"), a large naturally formed 25 square metre plateau of rock which has sheer drops of 600m on three of its sides into the delightful Lysefjord below. It is thought that Preikestolen was given its name due to its possible significance as a sacrificial Viking site, but no-one really knows for sure. Pretty impressive drop down regardless.

A quick flight back East brought me to Oslo, purportedly the most sunny Scandinavian capital - a nice change from the eternal cloud/rain/wind/cold that has lingered in Edinburgh for the whole time I've been here! Upon arrival, I headed first to the Munch gallery...a most melancholic affair....his artworks typically portraying images of extremities of love, anxiety, death, anguish and despair. Here I saw his famous work "Skril" or "The scream" and all of its variations. After a quick wander through town, I wandered along King Johan's gate - the main pedestrian shopping area in downtown Oslo, before finishing the day with a little statue gazing at the wonderful Vigelandsparken, an open-aired statue park created as a means of celebrating the human form - an obelisk comprised of an entanglement of human figures is its centrepiece. The park is a favourite afternoon relaxation spot for locals and tourists alike - for a game of frisbee or football, sunbaking (yes, nude), roller-rapping, doggy walking etc.

I spent my final day in Oslo visiting the "must see" (hmmm but yeah kinda boring) VikingShip museum, detailing the history of Vikings from the Nordic countries and displaying the frames of the oldest Viking ships in the world. From here, a quick trip to the exceedingly more interesting Folksmuseum, before catching a ferry back across the harbour to the Aker Brygge, the former shipyard now home to loads of nice cafes and shops, going for a stroll through the Royal Palace gardens, and finally catching the train up to the Holmenkollen ski jump and its attached, interesting ski history museum. This ski jump is 110m long, and plays host to an annual ski jumping comp - considered a national holiday by most Norwegians, including the Royal Family who bag the best seats every year.

And now back in Edinburgh, doing temp secretarial work for absolutely horrendous pay - not bad work though. Eds is an absolutely grandiose city, though the weather is a national disgrace! Even the Scots are appalled by it. Apparently the temperature at the moment is 17 - let's just remember that this is Summer though - CRAZY!!

Anyway, greetz to all, hope all is well wherever you may be - Sydney, Melbourne, Tassie, Tassie (well there are two parts to each of you!), Eire, England etc etc........

Write back and let me know what you're all up to.

Cheers

Love Belinda