Bella Toscana

28.05.2005 - 04.06.2005 25 °C

Ciao bellas e bellos....and anyone who doesn't wish to be classified as either!

Having flitted through Italy more than 7 years ago at the end of a whirlwind European holiday, I was sad to have not had more time to soak up beautiful Tuscany, so, with the window of opportunity that finishing a job afforded me, I decided to take a week off to Bella Toscana.

After a delay in getting there - the Italian airport workers were on strike (Shock! Horror!) - I flew into the balmy Italian capital, where after rushing to catch the train to Florence, was dismayed to learn that my train was delayed by "a couple of hours" due to a bomb scare in Milano....Benvenuto a Italia!!!

Ah...so after a hiccup of a start, and a good night's sleep in Florence, I set about to explore the city, that is truly an open-aired tribute to the Renaissance. After a jitter-inducing macchiato, and resisting the temptation to savour some gelati before 10 in the morning, I meandered my way past the hoardes of African knock-off vendors in the Mercato Centrale and caught a glimpse of the gobsmackingly inspiring Duomo before arriving at the Galleria degli Uffizi, home to the world's greatest Italian art collection (as they so smugly proclaim).

As I wound around the corner to the main entrance to the Uffizi, I discovered that contrary to popular opinion, queuing is the true national sport of Italy (perhaps even moreso than in Ireland!)....in an admirable attempt to allow visitors to view the artwork without feeling like they are "running with the bulls" in Pamplona, the gallery curators curb the number of people in the gallery at any one time. Solution? Go to the other door, pay a few euro, tell yer man when you want to come back and you walk straight in - no wait!!

So I wandered about the Piazza della Signoria, once the centre of the city's political life, but nowdays, a bustling piazza where tourists flock (along with the pigeons) to queue for the Uffizi and gawk at Ammannati's Fontana di Nettuno, the replica of Michelangelo's David and the sculptures in the Loggia della Signoria. Even with the pigeons, caricature-painting artists, umbrella-waving tour guides and their name-badge wearing followers, it's a pretty amazing Piazza, and not a bad place for people-watching whilst savouring a coconut gelato...or two...

And then into the Uffizi I went where I saw Botticelli's Birth of Venus, several Michelangelos, Titians and Caravaggios, and far too many Madonna con Bambinos!! From here I wandered up Via Proconsola past the Palazzao Nonfinito ("Unfinished palace", the Florentina Abbey and the Duomo, to arrive at the Palazzo Medici-Riccardi with its simple courtyards and wonderfully beautiful frescoes.

The next day I journeyed through the hills to the city of Siena, which was purported to have been founded by the son of the wolf-twin Remus. Following a Birkenstock clad army downhill, I came to the Piazza del Campo at the heart of the medieval city. This fan-shaped slanting piazza is famous for "Il Palio", a wild horse race in which riders tear bareback around the square to win the "palio" - the banner - and the glory that comes with the victory.

At the bottom of the piazza lies the 13th Century and its 100m high bell tower which was a glorious place from which to peer down upon the coral Sienese rooftops and the verdant green hills that lay beyond the city walls.

After feasting on a delicious Porcini (wild mushroom) pizza, I stopped by Siena's city cathedral to marvel at its tri-colour exterior and exquisite interior with a vaulted celing decorated by a delicate splattering of gold stars across an indigo sky.

Back in Florence the following day, I went camera shopping (Yep, finally gone digital!) before perusing the jewellery shops on the charming Ponte Vecchio (the bridge spanning the Arno River), and wandering about the Boboli gardens that lay behind the Palazzo Pitti.

On my third day in Florence, I headed to see Michelangelo's incredible sculpture of David at the Accademia. Michelangelo managed to carve this spectacular sculpture out of a single 5m block of marble and to actually see it in the "flesh" (well it's pretty damn lifelike) was truly awesome. From there I feasted on what was absolutely the most delectable ravioli in the world (with butter and sage - simple yet exquisite) and possibly the most expensive Caffe con Panna in the world - €5.50! Damn fine coffee though.....and I'd do it all over again in a second....

In the afternoon I visited the Basilica di Santa Croce (where Dante, Machiavelli, and Michelangelo, among others, are buried), rubbed the nose of Il Porcellino (the boar) for good luck, and finally ventured inside Il Duomo and the Baptistery opposite it.

The Duomo is amazingly dominant in Florence with its red-tiled dome, and grandiose pink, white and green facade. Almost everywhere you go in the historic centre of Florence, you are able to feast on its majestic beauty. The Duomo took 150 years to complete and is the 4th largest cathedral in the world (I think after the cathedrals in Rome, London and Seville) - and would have to have one of the most beautiful exteriors. Upon venturing inside, the vastness is quite overwhelming, as are the frescoes which adorn the dome's interior, depicting The Last Judgement.

From the Duomo I crossed through the Gates of Paradise (the bronze doors decorated with intricate bas-reliefs) into the 5th Century Baptistery with its glittering mosaic-work fresco, before scaling the 400 odd steps to the top of the Campanile (bell tower) to have one last look down over Florence....as the next day I was heading out to San Gimignano, a smalll village perched on a hilltop, with wonderful views out over Tuscany....in San Gimi I did a loop around the medieval walls, wandered from piazza to piazza looking up at the town's many towers and viewed some (more) remarkable frescoes at the city's Cathedral.

After hot-footing it to Rome from San Gimignano, I spent my last day scouting about the major sites I had seen on my last trip...The Colosseum, Roman Forum, St Peter's Basilica, Borghese Gardens, Trastevere, Piazza del Campodoglio, Spanish Steps and Trevi Fountain.

And now it's back to work....til September...and then AFRICA!

Anyone wanna come along?

Ciao

Belinda xox

Wonderful Copenhagen

24.03.2005 - 29.03.2005 9 °C

Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen....so the song goes, and so it is....very lovely indeed.

Having been unable to find cheap flights to celebrate Xmas in Copenhagen last year, I felt rather obliged to make the most of my 5 day Easter break, so jumped on board a flight to Denmark.... with a few minor hiccups along the way: 1) getting stuck in horrendous Dublin traffic (a national disgrace!) and missing my flight! and 2) being put on stand-by for the flight the following morning and after gleefully accepting an upgrade to business class ("Yes I suppose that would be adequate") and boarding my flight, being informed that "Due to an excess of fog across much of Scandinavia, Copenhagen airport is presently closed, so we will have to sit here and wait for advice from air traffic control in Copenhagen before we are able to take off". Thankfully after a couple of hours, it lifted, and I arrived in Denmark.

Copenhagen is home to approximately 1.7 million people, including the Danish Royal Family, and in 2004 was placed at #5 on a list of the world's most livable cities, along with Sydney! Its charming, centuries old palaces and parks are juxtaposed by its stylish, yet ergonomically designed buildings and a space-age driverless metro. It's akin in many ways to Amsterdam with its gable-house lined canals, cycle-obsessed citizens, and scrumptious pastries - thankfully though, not a mob of Pommie stags to be seen (no offence to ye Pommie lads!). On the other hand, it had that Singaporean police-state aspect to it - it did seem a bit naughty to be seen to be jaywalking, and I would absolutely expect to see someone arrested should they dare spit on the pavement (NOT a bad idea!!)

I started my exploration of Copenhagen at the Radhuspladsen, the city square that is home to the monstrous red-brick Radhus (City Hall), flocks of manky pigeons and a proliferation of "polse" (hot-dog) eating people. The Danes seem to be even more obsessed with munching on hot dogs than the Norwegians and have all sorts of variations on the boring old mutilated mixed animal melange on a bun. If you fancy a hot dog with mustard, then so be it, but if you are more adventurous, you can also have a jalapeno pepper, Danish blue cheese and ketchup combo, or a Crown Prince Frederik Polse (don't ask), or even a Crown Princess Mary - complete with Vegemite!

From the Radhuspladsen I said G'day to Hans Christian Andersen, whose statue sits to the side of the square. Some 200 years after his birth, "Ho-See" remains a enormously popular national icon, and the whole city had gone a tad "Ho-See" mad in preparation for his 200th birthday with shops across the city selling out of his books faster than your local Spar (like a 7-11) can sell a batch of Cheese and Onion flavoured Taytos (for the uninitiated, a truly Irish obsession). Bidding Ho-See farewell, I made for the Danish Design Centre where I devoured my first fair dinkum "wienerbrod" before sampling some of the interactive art on show - a room full of funky, yet functionally designed chairs - when I got bored of sitting on the Pastil chair (a body-contoured chair which you can lounge about on in your swimming pool), I sat for a while on a Tipi chair (rather like sitting on an oversized featherless chicken), before moving onto the Tomato chair (a seat wedged between three tomato like spheres, and finally the Bubble chair - a large fibreglass bubble that floats from the ceiling!!

Anyway, back to the Wienerbrod I was munching on....what is so famously known the world over as the delectable Danish (in all its wonderful varieties), is referred to in Denmark as "Wienerbrod" (i.e. Vienna bread). Why? Well apparently, sometime in the 18th Century, a Danish pastry chef upped and moved to Vienna, where, in between copious coffee outings, and hanging with the Seccessionists, had time to perfect the "Danish" recipe. Ever since, the Danes have referred to the pastry as "wienerbrod". Incidentally, the Austrians still refer to them as "Danishes". Either way - very "Miam-my"!

With the afternoon sun finally rearing its puny little head, I skirted the periphery of the Tivoli amusement park (heavily padlocked for the winter), before roaming up to the quaint Nyhavn ("New harbour") canal, the former merchants' quarter of Copenhagen, and finishing the afternoon on a canal boat tour around the rapidly gentrifying dockland areas, where I got my first glimpse of Amalienborg Palace, the brand-spanking new Opera House, and the backside of the tiny "Little Mermaid" statue....

The following day I headed to the NY Carlsberg Glyptotek, a museum housing an interesting collection of Greek, Etruscan and Egyptian art, before heading up the Rundetarn, a 15th Century round tower, ducking my head into Vor Frue Kirke (where Crown Prince Frederik and Mary got hitched) and ambling down Stroget, a kilometre-long pedestrian shopping strip, replete with high-street fashion stores, eateries and souvenir shops selling Amber, trolls and postcards of the Danish Posh and Becks - aka Crown Prince Frederik and Crown Princess Mary.

So what's the story with the newlyweds then?? Well, apparently the "commoner" Mary Donaldson, a Tasmanian real estate agent, was hanging out in a Sydney bar during the Olympics, and decided she might try her luck with the dashing young man at the bar - this is where dear Frederik comes in. Of course, not really knowing much about Danish Royals, "Our Mary", didn't have a clue that "Our Frederik" was Denmark's most eligible bachelor at the time. Fast-track to 2005, and she's married to the fella and one of Denmark's most talked about women. A quick scan of the magazine racks in Copenhagen's Central station highlighted just how popular this woman has become.....from the headline screaming out the word's "Skandal" and "Schok" in "Mary's familien" to the pictures of her holding a baby (presumable evidence of her desire for motherhood), it is clear she is quite the Danish Superstar - right up there with Hans Christian Anderson and Aqua ("Barbie Girl").

With a few hours left to kill, I decided to pop over to Sweden for the afternoon - as you do After a quick ride on the train across the 7.8km Oresund bridge, I arrived in Malmo, where I spent a few hours exploring the Gamla Staden (old town) and the city parks which surround Malmo's little castle.

The next morning I headed to Slotsholmen, the present day site of the Danish government, and site of the former Royal Palace, Christiansborg. Feeling uninspired to pay more money to see another load of overly ostentatious reception chambers, I instead went for a walk through the charming Rosenborg Slot (Palace) gardens, and wound my way down to Amalienborg Palace, for the Changing of the Guards before continuing on to get a close-up look at the extremely poxy Little Mermaid Statue, and the hoardes of people clambering it over for that special Kodak moment.

In the afternoon I wandered across to Christianshavn to visit "The Free State of Christiania". Christiania was set up in the 70s as a "semi-utopian" community, which was self-governing, environmentally friendly, and free of the capitalist constraints of the then government. Even today, it remains tax-free and rent-free for its residents, and is a nice change from the fast pace of the rest of Copenhagen. After passing through the gate to "The Free State", the colour and liveliness of the place became apparent....unfortunately, so did the size of the mangy dogs (the mangiest I've seen since visiting Cambodia!), so I promptly departed through the gate, which warned me that "(I was) now entering the European Union" - truly scary stuff hey?

On my final morning in Copenhagen I visited the National Museum, to brush up on my Danish history (yeah, it's still pretty shoddy), before lunching at a quaint little cafe downtown. "Ida Davidson" is apparently "the best place in the world" to sample smorrebrod, Denmark's gourmet specialty. Smorrebrod is essentially an open-faced rye bread concoction, which can be topped with anything from roast beef to fjord prawns, and garnished with whatever you like! I settle for carpaccio beef, topped with a wonderfully bitey mustard, and some salad....boring?? Hell no....absolutely scrumptious....and yeah, at 12Euro, well you'd be jolly well hoping so!!

So now, back to life in Dublin for another month, then onward to England for a while!

Let me know what ye are all up to!

Adios

Belinda xo

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!!