Month: June 2013

After the last hectic two weeks, Madrid has been a slow, steady cruise, up late, not too much walking, a fair bit of sitting. Sitting in the Irish Pub off Plaza de la Cibeles watching the State of Origin, wandering through the excellent Botanical Gardens and ticking a few more paintings we wanted to see off our list in the Reina Sofia Gallery.

An exhibition of Dalis ticked dozens off in the old brown covered black and white illustrated art book from 1969, Joan Miro sculptures a few more and Picasso’s massive Guernica got the big tick of approval. He and others painted some powerful work during the thirties at the time of the Civil War. No photos, so had to draw a picture.

We’ve tested the Citroen out around the city a few times. Being brand new has no faults other than the driver, perhaps. Sharon has found that they make hand rests on the doors that mould perfectly to her hands and fingernails. Amazing French technology!

Last day in Madrid today, Sharon’s birthday. The young Spanish waiter from Salamanca asked if she was twenty. She bought a dress and is wearing the necklace I haggled from the Berber on top of Tizi-n-test in Morocco.

Off to the south tomorrow, Toledo perhaps.

 

Tom and I were enticed into a herbal shop by the promise of the chance of seeing a chameleon change colour. Little did we know it was nothing but a ploy to have us nibble on small green insects which the white robed gentleman explained was a Spanish Fly.

“Haves you heard of zee Spanish Fly, Sir?”

“My wife has told me of them,” I replied.

“Sir, you have to be careful with them. You can only take one at a time. They make your heart race,” he explained, pouring at least 50 into the lid of the container which held hundreds of Viagra on wings.

“One will keep you going all night,” he said, bending his elbow and raising his fist pumping it suggestively and winking.

The thought of having my arm pumping up and down all night was enough to have Tom and I disappear from the shop quick smart. My heart’s raced enough carrying all these bags already.

Monday, 3 June

The last few days have been spent on the road, firstly west to Essaouira then south to the ancient city of Taroudant in the Sous Valley, then north over the mightily impressive Tizi-n-Test in the High Atlas returning to Marrakech.

The Tizi-in Test is a pass in the High Atlas and was a highlight of the trip to Morocco. Although just one lane of badly potholed bitumen, the views and colours of the surrounding mountains, valleys and villages were incredible. I was told not to look at them but to keep my eyes on the road but managed to sneak a sideways glance now and then.

We stopped at a “café” near the top of the pass, 2100m, where a Berber man asked Sharon for medicine for his headache, and it was there that I bought her birthday present, a silver Berber necklace from the Sahara. Sharon was happy, he was happy, his headache was well gone by the time I had drained my wallet and filled his engraved leather satchel.

Everywhere we stayed, the hotels and riads, have been a respite from the street. Many Moroccans are poor and beg on the streets or try to make a living selling the smallest of things. In Marrakech, the sellers of leather goods, clothing, jewellery are very adept at haggling and although we leave shops feeling pleased with what we have bought in the equivalent Australian currency, the exuberant pleasure the dealer displays at the end of haggling, sealed always with a handshake, often leaves a hollow feeling that I could have done a better deal. That, notwithstanding, the “goods” we have purchased would seem to be good value had we bought them at home and that gives some comfort. And I guess the money the we have paid has helped support a family for a month or two.

As in many places around the world, throw away plastics shopping bags are a scourge, and nowhere is this more evident than in Morocco. Around the small villages in the countryside and larger cities they are caught on bushes, walls and blown in the hot winds. There has got to be a better way.

 

The land is dry and seemingly barren in many places but where we drove through the Atlas into the valleys where the rivers ran, not deep, but steadily over a gravelly bed, lush vegetation grew. We bought bananas, from a stall in a valley where large plantations grew small, sweet fruit and apricot trees grew on terraces on the river banks. Oranges abound and fresh orange juice in cafes is only second to green mint tea. We entered green courtyards off squalid street full of rubbish, drove through tree covered avenues that reminded us of France then crossed plains with hardly a plant.

We entered ancient mosques 800 years old and stayed in a riad in Taroudant that seemed to be as old, but was only built three years ago. Its gardens grew bananas around a swimming pool yet outside a bright blue painted door in a high wall was a dry and dusty area where a herd of goats chewed on plastic bags.

Morocco is a country of contrasts.

Tom has left us. He has flown back to Spain to continue his travels and we await our flight at the new departure lounge in Marrakech. Tonight we fly to Madrid and tomorrow pick up our car.

This afternoon, as I paid the taxi driver his fare, I smiled and said, ”See you next time.”

He said, “There won’t be a next time.”

There are other places to travel.