Green is the Colour

Wednesday October 20^th

If I ask myself the first word that springs to mind at the end of my first week in New Zealand, it is, without hesitation, “green”. Sometimes, as we drive through the twisting hills of vineyard-bedecked Kumeu some 30km north west of Auckland, I wonder if Singapore Airlines’ superb in-flight service extended to cybernetic eye enhancements in my sleep, so startlingly verdurous do the trees and fields appear to me. It is only “sometimes” because the unspoilt blue skies that give the landscape such crystal clarity have not been as habitual as I expected of a country coming in to its summer. Instead, I’ve been treated to the most schizophrenic weather patterns I have ever experienced – a bold claim, I know, from someone brought up with England’s own mercurial climate. Here, though, the rapidity of the shifts from dazzling sunshine to torrential downpours borders on the ridiculous. So I’ve learnt to savour the bright spells, when the countryside seems to be lifted out of some mythical landscape painting, and, more importantly, carry a brolly with me at all times.

The excitement for me is knowing that the really spectacular landscapes - the ones that first had me pining for this faraway land when I saw them used as the backdrop of some titanic battle between men and orcs in Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy - are still to come. In the coming days we aim to start mapping an itinerary for a driving tour from Auckland here on the North Island down to the Milford Sounds on the edge of the South, which will no doubt provide a picture postcard a minute for a virgin New Zealand traveller like myself. But for the time being I’m more than happy to explore locally, such is the richness of scenery in our immediate vicinity.

Ironically, the countryside around Kumeu, location of the inspiring self-built house where Holly’s mum and partner have been kind enough to allow us to stay, is not a million miles away from the green and pleasant land we left behind in England. That’s not to say, though, that discerning eyes would ever mistake it for some unexplored region of the Peak District or Pennines. For a start, the sheer diversity of flora, much of it indigenous to New Zealand, makes for an altogether more hotch-potch landscape. Familiar oaks rub shoulders with exotic palm trees in a manner I’ve never seen before, while the just-blossoming crimson flowers of the stunning Pohutukawa – otherwise known as the New Zealand Christmas Tree – provide an altogether new dimension. There are also, quite simply, fewer people here. While treks through even the remotest parts of the English countryside will soon yield at least some vestige of human civilisation, here you can drive for miles and miles without seeing a soul. When, at night, the only sound you can here is that of your own heartbeat (oh, and the scratching of myriad cats at the bedroom door), you know you are truly out in the sticks. And, heck, that isn’t half wonderful.

Jonny

Half Awake

11th October 2010

Finally, the day has arrived. Or has it? Our body clocks are in such a state of befuddlement after over 30 (almost entirely) sleep-deprived hours that it’s hard to know whether we’re coming or going (or have been). But the facts suggest that our arrival on New Zealand soil is now imminent as I sit here typing from the tranquil surroundings of Singapore airport waiting to board our flight to Auckland. Tranquil isn’t a word I’d usually associate with airports but after our traumatic experience at Paris Charles de Gaulle yesterday (or was that the day before yesterday?), Singapore Changi is a dreamy paradise. The failure of our pre-booked taxi to the airport to turn up, followed by Immigration’s initial reluctance to accept my NZ working holiday visa without proof of a return ticket, not to mention CDG’s general shabbiness, queue fetish and almost total lack of facilities, all conspired to make it a rather stressful end to our time in Europe but thankfully things have run a little smoother since then.

Singapore Airlines has turned out to be an inspired call, and even my dye-in-the-wool Air New Zealand flag waving girlfriend agrees it’s the best airline we’ve ever flown with. From the first class standards of service to the comfort of our seats (not to mention such wonderful little touches as the hot face flannels handed out throughout the journey), our first leg flight was excellent in every detail apart from its sheer length, but that’s not something we can really blame them for. Their eagerness to please and perfectionist tendencies appear to be an extension of Singapore itself, which has been incredibly friendly and welcoming in our all-too-brief day here. The taxi drivers, for example, completely overcame the need for any sort of tour guide or map, such was their eagerness to point out interesting sites and buildings and to discuss Singaporean life and culture with us on our journeys to and from the city. We were also amazed by how easy customs clearing was at the airport, not to mention booking a “day hotel” for a much-needed kip within minutes of our arrival. Quite why we didn’t plan to make a proper trip of it I don’t know but this has certainly given us a taste of Asian life (albeit a unique and admittedly westernised one) that leaves us hungry for more. We’ll be back – if only to experience the views from the architectural wonder that is the Marina Bay Sands, a mind-boggling construction that comprises a surfboard-shaped roof garden stretching right the way across the summits of three identical skyscrapers.

So, this is it. Holly is almost home and I’m almost at the start of my new life in New Zealand. Exciting, strange and mildly terrifying times for both of us – but I’d take that over the drudgery of recent working life anytime. Anyway, our gate awaits so I better rattle my dags!

Jonny

Castles Made of Sand

Tuesday 5^th October

Incredible though our time in Marrakech had been, we felt a certain amount of relief as our coach departed for the picturesque coastal town of Essaouira. Its complete bombardment of the senses did get rather overwhelming after a while and beyond the excitement of Jemaa El Fnar and the souks, there was not actually a whole lot else for the casual tourist to see. Thankfully, Essaouira, with its bewitching cocktail of sun, sea and sand, proved to be the perfect tonic to Marrakech’s urban maelstrom and our two day stay there was one of the highlights of our entire trip.

Immortalised (so the not-necessarily-accurate legend has it) by the Jimi Hendrix song that shares this blog’s title, Essaouira is no more than three hours’ coach ride from Marrakech but is definitely worth more than a day trip. After a pleasant, air-conditioned drive through parched, craggy landscapes punctuated by the occasional cluster of dwellings and souks, the sight of Essaouira came upon us suddenly as we emerged over the top of a hill. A mid-sized settlement stretching for two or three miles along the Atlantic coast, its most striking characteristic is its near-universal white and blue colour palette. The pink stone that dominates almost everywhere else in Morocco seemed to be outlawed here, though that’s not to say it doesn’t feel part of the same country – the hawkish taxi drivers and “tour guides” who tried to bully us into staying at their riads were testament to that.

Our own riad, Caverne D’Ali Baba, turned out to be a fine choice with everything from the jovial, bespectacled manager (Monsieur Ali Baba, presumably) to our elegantly decorated, split-level bedroom combining to make us feel completely at home. The only downer was a scuttling, late night cameo by an unfathomably large cockroach that (look away now, vegetarians) I ended up combating with my recently acquired jandals – but I don’t think it’s really fair to take off points for that. (For those of you who aren’t blessed with an encyclopaedic knowledge of Kiwi slang, “jandal” is the NZ term for flip-flop – I’m fully aware of how ridiculous I sound saying it and even more so wearing a pair, but I think I should at least be appauded for trying to embrace my soon-to-be home country’s fashions…)

Like Marrakech, Essaouira is somewhat lacking in traditional tourist sites but one could spend days exploring the intricate network of souk-laden streets and hidden squares. Here, the stall holders were far less pushy than their counterparts in the big city and we felt comfortable browsing and taking our time to consider purchases rather than being forced into snap decisions and tiresome haggling. The long pathway that follows the outer wall of the town – once heavily fortified – provided a particularly atmospheric walk with its abundance of local artists’ hideouts and stray, though seemingly tame, cats and kittens. The central square, though less bustling than Jemaa El Fnar, nevertheless acted as a fine focal point for our explorations and offered a welcome respite to our weary feet with its vibrant cafes and rooftop terrace bars.

What really sets Essaouira apart, though, is the sea. While temperatures in excess of 40 degrees had made much of our stay in Marrakech distinctly uncomfortable, the ocean breeze here made for a far more hospitable environment. It also provided some fantastic views out across the Atlantic, studied best from the old fortress tower that was more than worth the modest entry fee. As we watched the daily 3pm ritual of weary fisherman unloading their morning catch at the harbour and handing over to the market stall holders buckets-full of fish and seafood to cook and serve up fresh to locals and tourists alike, we quickly came to appreciate that the sea is Essaouira’s lifeblood: for the artists who sit on the medina walls painting it; for the seagulls who soar above it, waiting to swoop down and steal its fish; for the local school children who dive into and swim in its rocky inlets; for the tourists who windsurf on and sunbathe next to it; and, apparently, for Sherlock Holmes actor Benedict Cumberbatch, who we swear we saw wet-suited on the beach preparing for a kite surf on it…

Like all great towns, Essaouria boasts a surfeit of excellent drinking and dining establishments. The restaurant Taros was a definite highlight, with its rooftop terrace providing a great atmosphere for our last night meal, even if we did feel rather ridiculous wearing the ponchos that they provided to protect us from the chilly evening breeze. We also stumbled across a delightful Mexican-themed café called La Cantina, where we struck up a conversation with a fellow travelling couple from the Netherlands and which turned out to be run by a husband and wife team from Yorkshire. Adorned with a chalk board offering “tea and scones”, it momentarily transported me back to the homeland, spontaneously engendering feverish (though entirely private) thoughts of fry-ups, pasties and saveloy sausages…

Jonny

Rock the Kasbah

Thursday 14th October

Due to our enforced stint at the Golden Arches the previous evening, we alighted the train at Marrakech station scarcely more Morocco-savvy than when we had disembarked the ferry at Tangier. This time, though, we were at least better prepared for the predatory descent of local taxi drivers as we exhaustedly staggered into the forecourt, almost blinded by the startlingly intense sun. Our confidence slowly building, we gravitated towards the most friendly-looking driver and successfully negotiated down on the price of the ride to our hotel. We were, however, rather perturbed when he pulled up not outside the requested Hotel Sherazade but at the corner of the legendary Jemaa El Fnar Square, before gesturing towards a narrow gloomy alleyway leading off it. We quickly gathered that our hotel was not accessible by car – something not at all clear from our rather inept print-out from Google maps. Dismissing in our now customary fashion the “guide” who, as we opened the taxi doors, offered to lead us to the hotel himself, we hesitantly entered the alleyway, clueless as to exactly where our hotel was going to be.

Our previously sheltered lives had never thrown up a street quite like this one. Lined with beggars, overrun with cats, soundtracked by kids on mopeds and odorous with the stench of rotting meat, we had entered a world far removed from our own. We trudged through this melee feeling entirely fraudulent with our bags laden with western comforts but we had no choice but to press on, hoping and praying that our hotel would soon present itself. Thankfully, after a couple of minutes, it did, with an emblazoned sign directing us down a side-alley. Our hotel, or “riad” as they are termed locally, was a little oasis of calm compared to the madness outside. Built up around a series of ornate courtyards and decked out beautifully with tiled walls, fountains and plants, we felt safe and relaxed here and spent a couple of hours lying drowsily up on the terrace as we tried to recover our composure.

Sleep-deprived and sweltering in heat in excess of 40 degrees, we’d probably not been in the ideal state to confront this remarkable new land but after our rest, we felt refreshed enough to embark upon some proper exploring. The initial shock of the street outside began to wear off after a while, particularly when viewed in the context of the rest of the city. Jemaa El Fnar was every bit as weird and wonderful as the guidebooks had suggested. The sheer scale of the place was enough to impress (it was a good five minutes’ walk from end to end) but the amazing cast of characters that we found there provided people-watching opportunities far beyond anything else we had experienced on our travels. Not that we were allowed to restrict ourselves merely to watching the market traders here: the slightest eye contact would result in shouts and heckles, mostly in good humour but nonetheless aggressive and initially intimidating for the virgin Morocco tourist. We had been forewarned by friends to be especially wary of a group of monkey owners, who would not hold back from throwing their hyperactive pets on unsuspecting passers-by and only reclaiming them after an exchange of coinage. Snake-charmers and on-street, plier-wielding “dentists” further distinguished this market from your average local green grocer, but there was still a dazzling array of products on show that we’d have happily snapped up if we’d saved up a little bit more spending money.

Exploring the famous “souks”, a maze of undercover stalls and shops leading off from the back of the square, was undoubtedly the main highlight of our time in Marrakech. While the outdoor market revolves mostly around food stalls and circus acts, the souks offer a dazzling array of fabrics, animal skins and pottery. Illuminated by the shafts of sunlight that strike through the wooden slat roofing, the stalls are an intoxicating cocktail of colours and smells. We quickly realised that variations on a small handful of products - silk scarves, “baboosh” slippers, tagine pots and sheep skin bags – represented the vast majority of sales here but actually getting to the point of owning one was far from straightforward. For a start, any hope of “browsing” was immediately scuppered by the stallholders, who would bombard you with aggressive sales patter the moment you showed the slightest interest in a particular item. It made for a fairly fraught shopping experience, especially since Holly is not always the quickest to make a decision, especially when it comes to clothes and handbags... The next obstacle was negotiating blind on the price of the item as we understandably had little idea of its true value. After a while, we learnt to play the stallholders off against each other, suggesting to one, for example, that his mate down the street was offering the same product for a much cheaper price. Though aggressive, the negotiation process was usually good-humoured and we ended up acquiring a few bargains, including a sheepskin bag for which we paid under 40% of the original asking price.

After a couple of days, this at first intimidating country had become one of the most colourful, vibrant and sensory places we had ever visited. Once we’d acquired the confidence to banter back to the locals, there was a lot of fun to be had, especially for Holly, who delighted in some of the jibes and nicknames that were slung my way by the locals. Of particularly amusement was the constant mistaken belief that I was Irish, but at least that had a vague ring of truth, unlike the bizarre greeting I received from one market trader, who addressed me as the presumably ironic “Slim Shady”. Equally baffling was the claim of one to be simultaneously offering both “Primark” and “M&S” prices, though you had to admire their engagement with western culture.

Outside the square and souks, we found Marrakech to have few other points of genuine interest, though the mosque and surrounding gardens provided some wonderful dusky photo opportunities, and our evening of fine dining at the 5 star La Sultana Hotel – a gift from my former work colleagues at Walker Media – was one of the best meals we’ve ever had. Much as we came to love the place, though, our walk back to our hotel each day ensured we would never forget the poverty and poor life quality that afflicts so many here. While we felt two days represented the optimum length of time for a holiday here, we knew that was just a blink of an eye for the homeless and destitute that live here.

Jonny

Train for Tomorrow

Tuesday 28th September

It was just as well that our two day sojourn in Seville had been reasonably relaxing because the 24 hours of travelling that followed were anything but. A direct plane from Seville to Marrakech might have been our least torturous option but, mindful of our budget, we had instead settled upon a rather more circuitous route involving a possibly record-breaking number of different transport modes.

Our odyssey began at 7am with our easiest journey of the day - a short tram ride from outside Seville’s Cathedral to the Prado bus station. It was there that I experienced what I should, in retrospect, have taken as a portent of the day’s later stresses when my order of a bottle of water at the adjoining café was misunderstood and then presented to me as a nauseatingly milky coffee (FYI, I only ever drink black). In typically English style, I just smiled and mumbled “gracias”…

The three hour bus journey from Seville to the coastal town of Tarifa was trouble-free, though we were disappointed that the sun-bleached Andalucian countryside we had expected to see en route failed to materialise. Instead, rain-threatening grey skies conspired to produce a rather blander landscape, enlivened only by the occasional cluster of wind farms.

We arrived in Tarifa around midday and in typical fashion the threat of rain became a torrential reality the moment we stepped off the bus. Laden with baggage that had seemed to acquire an extra kilo in weight with every leg of our journey, we were forced to seek refuge in a café whose proprietor turned out to be a genial English lady. Apparently she had lived happily there for seven years but it felt to us like a rather shabby and forgotten town, with a distinct “end of the line” vibe and little to attract tourists beyond those using it as a stepping-stone to elsewhere like ourselves.

With four hours to kill before our ferry crossing to Tangier we were at a bit of a loose end and spent most of the afternoon hopping from café to café during the rare rain-free intervals. We eventually decided to amble down to the ferry terminal, which was so ugly and basic in its facilities that it made one pine for an airport departure lounge. We also found ourselves to be by far the youngest people there and were somewhat perturbed by the arrival of a ramshackle English tour party hosted by a guide who bore more than a passing resemblance to Roger Moore but whose patter was straight out of Hi-Di-Hi. Once on board the ferry, we were forced to spend the entire 45 minute crossing queuing to get our passports stamped by the Moroccan authorities, thus scuppering all our romantic notions of watching our arrival into Africa from the top deck. 

Though we’d been warned about the likelihood of being mobbed by the locals in Marrakech, we weren’t at all prepared for the greeting we received as we disembarked the ferry at Tangier. Firstly, we were ordered by a bunch of irate blokes in civvies to put our bags through the x-ray machines, even though none of the passengers in front of us had been asked to do so. We were then accosted by a man claiming to be from “the ministry of information”, who proceeded to grill us about where we’d come from and where we were going: in fact, he was nothing more than a taxi driver trying to intimidate us into taking a ride with him. Though we later learnt that such behaviour was not only commonplace in Morocco but more often than not completely harmless, at the time we were more than a little unnerved by our new surroundings.

As more taxi drivers flocked to us like wasps to jam we realised there was only one thing for it – ask Roger Moore what to do. Much as we had mocked him, his reassurance that we were fine to put our lives in the hands of one of those taxi drivers was invaluable.

We eventually took the plunge and opted to go with the driver who had pestered us the least, much to the chagrin of one of his rivals for our custom, who ended up gesticulating wildly and launching a cacophony of swear words towards us as we were sped away into the city. Our first (and, as it proved, last) port of call was the train station as we needed to buy our tickets for the overnight train to Marrakech. We suspected, perhaps unfairly this time, that the man at the ticket office was not being entirely honest when he appeared to quote us different prices for the same seats and we were further disheartened to learn that the only two sleeping “couchettes” still available for that evening’s train were in different carriages. Given how uncomfortable our subsequent night in upright “first class” seats proved to be, we probably should have accepted them…

With another five hours to kill before the departure of our overnight train to Marrakech and not particularly wishing to negotiate another journey back into the old town with our bags, we had no choice but to seek refuge in the only place that felt safe and familiar - the branch of McDonalds next door. Though possibly the episode of our trip that we are least proud of, it’s good to be able to confirm that a Moroccan Big Mac tastes exactly the same as they do everywhere else in the world.

And finally… with the day now seeming to have dragged on forever and our early start outside Seville’s Cathedral but a distant memory, we boarded the 21.35 train to Marrakech. Though certainly a step down from the sleek, modern carriages we’d become accustomed to in France and Spain, we were at least grateful to have a compartment car (with curtains!) rather than an open carriage. Our travelling companions in the six seat car were a friendly Mexican couple and a French-speaking local man who departed after only one stop. This left the two of us with a row of three seats from which to construct some kind of bed. On top of this the “air conditioning” was clearly suffering from some form of schizophrenia as it lurched violently from sweat-inducing heat to industrial freezer cold. Suffice to say, we had rarely experienced a less comfortable night’s sleep. After the lights were turned off we spent the next eight or so hours drifting in and out of consciousness while desperately trying to hold in our bladders after an earlier inspection of the toiletry situation had revealed facilities than even a dog might have balked at.

Around 6am local time, dawn began to break and we were finally able to study the landscape through which we were travelling. Though barren and rocky, its eerie stillness and the lemony early morning light lent it a strange beauty. Mountains roared up on both sides, while the occasional clutch of stone-built, windowless dwellings were a reminder that people actually lived on this desolate terrain. As we approached Marrakech, the buildings became larger and sturdier and we saw the first signs of native Moroccans going about their daily business, including a group of school children walking together across a dusty, rock-strewn field. Once within the border of the city, initial signs were off a dense and thriving urban metropolis but one very different from those we had encountered so far on our voyage…

Jonny

Seville in pictures

Spanish Sahara

Saturday 23^rd September

 

Flying from one Spanish city to another had felt like an unnecessarily luxurious way to travel but given the extortionate prices we were quoted for taking the train, catching a plane from Barcelona to Seville ended up being our only realistic option. While we had departed from Catalonia in a torrential downpour that had me fearing for the life of the laptop that was residing in my not entirely waterproof backpack, we emerged from Seville airport into a muggy, stifling heat. A short bus journey through a rather uninspiring network of modern hotels, shops and office blocks led us right up to the gateway of the old town, the park Prado de San Sebastian.

As had become customary with our first foray into a new city, we were insufficiently confident of our ability to navigate the public transport system straightaway so proceeded in search of our hotel on foot. Thankfully, it was a relatively straightforward route to Gloria, a charming hostal on the Calle de San Eloy authentically decked out with ornate tiles and, bizarrely, a plant that whistled every time you walked past it. We would have no hesitation in recommending the place to other travellers in search of cheap accommodation were it not for a bed that creaked deafeningly at the merest attempt to roll over (a nightmare scenario for a restless sleeper such as myself).

And while I’m on the subject of accommodation, a brief aside on the topic of showers in mainland Europe. Why oh why do none of them seem to possess a holder for the shower head? One would have thought that such a basic accessory would have been ubiquitous but in nearly all of the hotels where we stayed one was forced into feats of physical exertion that would have proved troublesome for an octopus. On one occasion, my valiant attempt to juggle shower head and shampoo bottle whilst simultaneously massaging said shampoo into my hair ended with all items slipping disastrously from my hands and a rather painful bruise on my right foot.

Anyway, back to Seville. We found the city to possess an entirely different atmosphere to Barcelona, with the seemingly perpetual sunshine clearly having influenced the design and colour of the squares and buildings. The pale yellow stone that dominates lends the city a bright and airy quality while even the narrow lanes felt warm and inviting compared to Barcelona’s, which could sometimes seem dark and dingy. While the backstreets provided hours’ worth of bargain shopping potential, the handful of squares were a perfect setting for drinking and dining. The area Barrio Santa Cruz quickly established itself as a favourite and we ended up returning to the café-bar Carmela on our second night on account of its excellent but very cheap tapas.

Sight-seeing wise, we were inevitably left in awe of the vast Cathedral and were grateful to the designers of the Giralda Tower for installing non-tiring ramps rather than steps for the ascent to the top, where the spectacular views over the city provided a major highlight of our visit. We almost didn’t bother with the Plaza de Espana and only did so because it was close the ticket office for the bus we needed to catch to Tarifa but thank god we did. A staggeringly giant semi-circle of ornate buildings representing all the cities of Spain, it resembled what the great piazzas of ancient Rome have always looked like in my imagination.

Finally, if anyone can tell us what the huge, futuristic structure they’re building near Larana is, we’d love to know, though if it’s anything other than a theme park tribute to The Jetsons I’ll be sorely disappointed.

Jonny