I Keep Saying I'm Not Coming Back Here...

Russia is the same as I remember it, only more expensive. In the two years since I was here last the price of everything has pretty much doubled. Metro fares, hostel prices, train tickets... Tourism must have had a serious boost as well. There are more maps and signs with English directions and notations. Though they seem to be stepping up the game to cater to the visitors, I don't think I will ever return to this country. It is discouraging after paying $40 for visa support (such a joke) and $100 for the visa itself to arrive in a country and realize how little any of its inhabitants want you there.

As it was two years ago, the border crossing was uneventful. All the fretting over facing the firing squad at immigration was unwarranted, of course.

St Petersburg was so warm! It was short sleeve weather most days. Ice had broken up and began to flow down the Neva River steadily. We sat down underneath the bridge and watched the masive bergs and sheets of ice lumber past. We took in the Russia culture section of the still incredible Hermitage and wandered Nevsky Prospect.

In Moscow we stayed in a central area close to Stockmann's, a Western grocery store that I believe saved our lives when Kip and I were here a few years ago. Our hostel was essentially just a small apartment that someone had decided would make good accommodation. There was rarely a staff member present and Jessica ended up checking in the majority of the guests who arrived after us. Not being a legimate hostel caused some problem as they had no travel services or registration capabilities. They had to send the registration out to a separate service and wanted to charge us 700 roubles each to register! We decided to take our chances with our outdated St Petersburg registration because the police are ruthless and often don't care if you've registered or not. Since the police presence was thick in our area we did little but arrange for onward travel from Moscow but did visit Red Square and St Basil's.

Next up: the No. 10 train from Moscow across Siberia to Irkutsk.

I'm Henry the Eighth I Am

After an uncomfortable flight on one of the world's worst airlines, Easyjet, we were greeted by Paul and Kip. They came to Gatwick to pick us up in the middle of the night which was so sweet. Kip fed us homemade ice cream and we stayed up into the early morning. She showed us her impressive collection of ringworm(s?) named Henry I-VIII, a souvenir from South America. She and Paul took very good care of us for a few days, even installing a new washing machine so we could wash away Morocco, and sent us off on a train to meet up with Gwill.

We were both really happy to be in London. The weather was beautiful nearly every day and we had a really great time. We rode the buses around almost exclusively, enjoying the view from the top deck. We visited a few museums and, in a city of extortionately priced entertainment, food, sights and transportation (4GBP to ride the tube ONE TIME?! That's close to $8!), we were pleasantly surprised to find admission was free. We travelled down to Greenwich and Royal Observatory and stood between the hemispheres. We walked down by the Tower Bridge and St. Katharine's dock, where my dad lived for awhile. We spent a small ransom on visas for Russia, China and Vietnam. Also, most importantly, we had a feast of sushi for Jessica's birthday.


As much as we enjoyed ourselves I have to say that London is a drastically frightening place in some respects. The adolescents are terri-fying and increasingly violent. There are a lot of spitting mad people walking the streets, breaking windows and stealing mobile phones like they will soon stop making them. On Saturday we walked past a phone booth and there was guy inside sparking up some heroin. His face illuminated in the otherwise pitch black capsule was eerie. I didn't feel safe walking around the streets at night in a way that was reminiscent of Tangier or Moscow.

Seeing Gwill after three years was very important to me and I feel lucky that London was a convenient stop on our tour. He graciously gave up his room to us so our backpacks could freely explode all over the floor, dresser and nightstand and when you are travelling that is a simple but immense pleasure.

After a chaotic St Patrick's day, which included us getting locked out of the house for the entire night, we packed frantically (as usual), caught a cab to Liverpool, were denied boarding on a bus to Stansted, ran downstairs to catch the train (which was delayed, naturally), got to the airport with barely enough time to check in, waited in a scandalously long security line, got fast tracked, got detained by a nasty security guard who needed to look at every article in my bursting day pack, ran to the train to the terminals (which almost left without us), ran up the stairs to our gate and nearly collapsed into incredibly uncomfortable seats.

Now we are in Tallinn, Estonia waiting for our bus to depart for St Petersburg.

Hello, Fish and Chips!

Wow.

I don't really know where to begin when describing our time in Morocco. I will cautiously say that I am glad to have been here and I would like to return someday. Developed from previous travels, I feel that I have a relatively strong ability to shake off the occasional provoking remark and not be bothered by pestering from shopkeepers, beggars or charlatans offering a sounds-too-good-to-be-true-and-is hotel/tour/meal. But the barrage of attention, primarily negative, is so astounding in volume that it is akin to being covered from head to toe in angry bees. (It is cathartic to write this down.)

We arrived by boat into Tangier and expected to be stung by many mosquitoes, as the touts are known. After a short, undisturbed walk from the ferry terminal to the medina we were feeling a bit too optimistic, I think, and the scent of assurance was sniffed out by our first annoying "helper". He was anxious to assist us in the securing of lodging and suggested most of the hotels listed in the Lonely Planet guidebook. If he were to lead us to a hotel the price would almost certainly be increased and he would be paid a commission, no doubt also expecting us to pay him for his services as an indispensable guide. We circled the medina, noting the location of several hotels we wished to look in to and tried to lose him. He was always right behind us asking us what else we might need; a mint tea, something to eat, a carpet. We were aware of being stared at by men who stood or sat along every available inch of street, along the tops of buildings and on medina walls. They called out either to us or in our general direction making comments about various parts of our bodies or asking us where we came from, where we were going, what we needed. We wandered outside the gates of the medina and hoped that our "friend" would have found someone else to bother or another area to haunt. No such luck. We turned a corner and there he was again with a helpful, "You have made circle. You are back at the beginning!" Somehow we eventually dodged him and ducked into the first hotel we saw, Pension Palace which had damp, cave-like rooms but opened onto a charming, airy courtyard with a fountain and a skylight. Not wanting to venture out with our backpacks on again we took the room and went out to find a bus schedule and to plan our escape.

The next day we rode to Chefchaouen and the second our bus departed Tangier I felt worlds better. From the window the Rif mountains rose up to the cloudless sky and dipped into cheerful valleys where sheep and children dotted the green spaces. Chefchaouen was as chilled out a place as Morocco can manage. The medina was built into the side of a mountain in a Spanish style and the streets were painted various shades of soothing blue. When wandering through the maze, the height and colours of the walls made it seem as if we were walking in an aquarium. There was still a fair bit of hassle from overly-interested young men and carpet sellers but mostly it was peaceful. The terrace of our hotel was calm and offered a view of the medina rising into the Rif. In Morocco we would come to find that a good terrace could be an effective bunker and we often retreated there when things were too heated and hectic for us in the streets below. On our final day we walked easterly through the town to the mountain spring, where washing facilities had been built and women scrubbed larger items such as carpets and blankets. From there we climbed up through pastures, past single hillside homes to an abandoned and ruined mosque. From here we had a view of the region; the town spread out beneath us and the region intending beyond the misting ranges.


Feeling invigorated and positive about the discoveries we had yet to make in the country we decided to take a tour of the kasbah in the main square. As we climbed the steps to the entrance a man rushed up behind us. We had spoken to him earlier in the day. He had accosted us after breakfast, explaining his affiliation with Hospitality Club and Couchsurfing.com (which I consistently misheard as GOATsurfing.com) and offering to drive us to some geological attraction 30km away. We had politely declined several times until he became so persistent that we left it at "maybe". Obviously this was a mistake. Now he accused us of lying, saying that we had promised to meet him in the square that afternoon. He said the least we could do was let him lead us around the kasbah. We declined and walked in alone. But after perhaps two minutes he appeared behind us again, pleading with us to let him show us around and then, when we still refused, he demanded that we all pose for a photo together. Then there was a big production of exchanging email addresses and the talk of many future fun times. Zohair was his name and he said it meant flower.

When he had finally left us we were approached by an American woman, Shannon, who had been in Morocco for 11 days and had spent every one of them in Chaouen after a terrifying entry through Ceuta. I wish I could adequately describe this woman, but she was a tough one. She had brightly dyed red hair and was ornately decorated around the eyes and hands with symbolic tattoos and she herself was a tattoo artist from LA. She was the type you don't mess with but she obviously possessed a gentle, curious and worldly spirit under the incredibly cool exterior. She asked how we were finding the country and then told us her story. Hearing it was a less heated border crossing, she and a female friend had taken a ferry from the Spanish mainland to Ceuta, a Spanish held port on the Moroccan coast. Apparently she did not find it a simple task. She described the border as remote, nothing and no one around you for miles except the dozens of touts and taxi drivers wanting to take you to Tetouan or beyond who swarm around you shouting and pulling at your things. They hopped in a grand taxi (old Mercedes) and made for Chefchaouen, their first stop. Shortly after leaving the border they pulled off into the middle of nowhere and the driver said they needed to have their passports checked. She watched him through the back window as he opened the trunk and stuck two fake passports into his pocket. He brought them to a small building where a giant man in a police uniform asked for her passport. She handed it over anxiously but when he said that he would take it inside to check she snatched it away, knowing she would never see it again if it left her sight. She stalked back to the taxi, having no other option but to depend of this man to get her to civilization. He returned to the taxi and, apparently realizing she was on to the scheme, started the car and drove them the rest of the way. They had cancelled the rest of their journey through Fes, Marrakech, etc and had decided to stay in the cool, comfortable confines of Chaouen until departure from the country. It was remarkable to hear her tell it and obviously a relief to her, being able to laugh about it with people who were also having a hard time. We wished her well and headed back to pack!

We were ready to move on and decided to take the earliest bus to Fes. The hotel listed a 7am bus so we woke well before dawn and walked through the dark streets to the bus station, which of course was mostly shut up. Also there was no bus to Fes until 8:30, naturally. While waiting for our bus to arrive we were greeted by Zohair, on his way to school in Tetouan. He made more accusations when I did not seem overjoyed to see him and he talked at us incessantly until his bus mercifully departed.

It had been noted that the touts in Fes are particularly aggressive so we had been dreading our arrival. At the bus station we met Tom, from England and we all walked through the medina gates together. What a difference walking with a man makes! We were barely acknowledged, let alone pestered, and made our way quickly to the very place we had been hoping to stay.


Fes was insane. The walls tower so high that the city feels very closed and impenetrable, like a fortress. I suppose this is fitting as it is one of the largest living medieval cities. I didn't care much for the city, but if we had more time it may have grown on me, as it is known to do. There were moments when I felt some joy: walking in the streets before the rush of the day, quiet on the freshly washed cobblestones or listening to the travelling musicians singing and dancing their way down the alleys, even watching the surprisingly silent and calm work of the leather dyers who stomped skins in brightly coloured vats. But mostly I was drained by the unwelcome touching on my arms and back and the constant shouts of "Hey flower!", "Are you from England? Are you fish and chips?", "Beautiful ass, eyes, hair, body", etc. I was ready for the desert.

We took a tourist class bus overnight from Fes to Rissani on which we met a Slovenian girl who was running from something or someone and appeared highly agitated. She asked to share a grand taxi with us to the desert towns south of Rissani and we agreed. After she lost her temper with our Berber driver, who spoke no English, we were driven to another part of town where several other drivers argued with us about price and destination until we were finally able to get on the road at about 6am (an extra 40 dirhams later). On the advice of Shauna, who had stayed in the area last May, we asked to be dropped at Wilderness Lodge in Hassi Labied. We pulled from the paved road onto a dusty piste and continued in the direction of the dunes as the sun rose with much splendor on the horizon. The town sprouted up around us in typical kasbah style and every building was built of hay and mud. It was very early still, but there was nowhere else to go so we entered the hotel and inquired about a room. The hotel owner, though infallibly sweet and accommodating, spoke no English. I tried to communicate in my terrible French as best as possible and she put us in a temporary room until a fresh one could be made later in the day. She also arranged for us to go on a camel trek and spend a night in the dunes. At least I hoped that's what was on the itinerary! My French is shameful.


We did enjoy an exceptional trek into the desert the next day. We were led from the hotel on the backs of camels and traipsed through the dramatic, shadowed sand dunes to a nomad camp. From our seat atop a dune we watched as the sun set the sand ablaze with golds and reds. Then we entered our nomad tent, made from camel hair cloth and enjoyed a tajine piled high with root vegetables, aubergine and potatoes, fresh bread and mint tea. Then we went out to admire the dazzling display of stars moving through the cloudless night sky. Sleeping was cold and painful on the hard ground, the mats and woollen blankets could not keep the chill off. We were grateful for morning and the brilliant sunrise that brought it.

It was hard to leave the desert, which had been relatively peaceful for us, especially as we had a long bus ride to look forward to. The overnight bus from Erfoud to Marrakech was on a second class, local bus and it was the typical ride I have come to expect when travelling in such a country. It smells. It is brightly illuminated though everyone is trying to sleep. It is loud both from the passengers and from the beat of whatever horrendous music the driver needs to keep him alert. And it stops every ten minutes for snacks and additional passengers. This bus offered a particularly heinous journey, as there was an ill man who vomited abundantly in numerous plastic bags and left them strewn about the floor.

I will say something positive about the ride, having now gotten the worst of it out of the way. We drove through the Atlas mountains and passed the gorges and valleys in their midst. It was magical to be clinging to the mountain roads in the darkness. The peaks clutched massive boulders tentatively, threatening to send them downhill at any time. The water in the valleys below shone in the moonlight. It was these images and sensations that I desperately clung to as we sped along the winding route.

Marrakech opened up before us when I thought I could not stomach another moment of the retching and hacking of my fellow travellers. While studying a map and attempting to get our bearings we were approached by Rino, a solitary Japanese girl. She shared a taxi into the medina with us and we soon adopted her. She spent a few days with us before she flew to Spain, exploring the souqs and the bustling square with its circus of snake charmers, storytellers, henna witches and orange juice sellers.

We have been very relaxed here as Marrakech is overrun with weekenders from the UK and the rest of Europe so we are the most appropriately dressed and well mannered of the bunch! There is, of course, the occasional hassle or call of "Hey, are you fish and chips?". We are dealing.

There is much to redeem Morocco and I am pleased to say we've found our share. But it has been the most stressful country I have ever travelled.

Tonight we fly to London and a bowl of homemade ice cream.