Alice in Wonderland- Less Alice More Wonderland, Marrakesh, Morocco, November 2009

Somehow I got lost in Morocco.  I started out as tourist and seem to have ended up as that tourist.  The tourist that hasn't left yet, who is always in danger of overstaying their welcome.  I used to hold these people in some sort of contempt, on the one hand jealous that they seemed so free of constraints but on the other hand wondering what they didn't have to go home for.  Maybe this was where I went wrong- home doesn't have to be where you grew up...home is where the heart is.  Or is it?  I don't know, as I said I am lost.


Casablanca isn't a magical city, it's not what I imagined Morocco to be- it's large and commercial with skyscrapers and traffic.  It certainly wasn't the place I expected to find the kindest of hearts and the most welcoming of arms, but find them I did.  The problem is it all happened so quickly- one week I was passing through trying to improve my French, the next I was looking for an apartment and thinking about Arabic lessons.


I needed to stop and think, get some perspective or reality or just something as I was clearly lacking all of those.  I went to Marrakesh- the jewel in Morocco's crown- I could think about things while being enveloped in the ancient beauty the city is famous for.  Marrakesh is undoubtedly beautiful; the new city is immaculate with tree lined boulevards and colossal palace like structures true to Morocco's Moorish roots.  There are many gardens scattered throughout, hidden by towering hedges, waiting to be discovered however none are as spectacular as the Majorelle- designed by a Frenchman and saved by none other than Yves Saint Laurent.  Blue walls with yellow details, orange pots line the walkways and plants from every continent.  Perfect to escape the midday heat, shaded by thick bamboos.  

The Plaza Jamaa el Fna is a hub of excitement, the pipes of snake charmers and the tinkle of tambourines invade your ears and glittering food stalls of dried fruits tantalise your appetite.  Every which way people are plying their trade, inviting you for just one look, showcasing bags, scarves, hats and shoes in every colour of the rainbow, turquoises, pinks, purples, blue, greens. The warmth of the day has only slightly dissipated so the night quivers in the shadows.  I knew I couldn;t stay but at that moment I was happy not to go.  

Cruising the Coast in Cambodia, Sihanoukville, July 2009

Cambodia is sly, it isn’t first apparent what all the fuss is about but it sneakily seeps under your skin until you couldn’t think of being anywhere else.

The Killing Fields

Phonm Penh is the saddest city in the world, the years of suffering under the Khymer Rouge is categorically and thoroughly documented in gruesome detail at the unassuming  secondary school which was bloodily transformed into a prison and the farm land now known as the ‘killing fields’.  Tuol Sleng  prison has been preserved  so precisely it feels still in use, like at any moment a cart load of prisoners might be marched through the front gates.  Each ‘classroom’ housed an inmate, the life sized photos illustrate how innocent people were chained to a metal framed bed, often so emaciated they would stay where had been dumped by the guards, whether they were all on the bed or not.  Implements of torture are still scattered, now numbered exhibits and pools of dried blood can still be seen.  Just in case you forget where you were, signs on the walls warned against smiling or laughing, although how anyone could even think of a happy memory is beyond me.  The atmosphere stuck to everything, even after we had left my clothes reeked of it and for days, and even sometimes now I am haunted by the images I was confronted with.  The ‘killing fields’ are out of town, not far by tuk tuk and if you weren’t quite aware of where you’d just been and where you were going to it might have been considered a scenic route.  At the centre of the site an imposing structure with glass walls stands, on closer inspection you see it is piled high with the skulls of those tortured and finally murdered on this land.  Each tree bears a plaque with the numbers of bodies found and how they were thought to have died.  Nothing makes you doubt human existence more than this, how can one human being possibly be so cruel to another?

Tuol Sleng

Despite all of this, everyone we spoke to was kind and helpful, not brash like the Vietnamese nor smiling like the Thai’s but quiet and unassuming, ready and willing to help.  The children touting wears in streets or on the beach were the exception to this rule, maybe reflecting the more desperate situation they found themselves in.  A common sight in the bars at night were young beautiful Cambodian girls sat elegant and smiling with Western men.  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand what kind of transaction was taking place and yet they managed to portray a stoic composure, when they walked past they did not glare, as I have experienced in so many other countries.

Sihanoukville Beach

Pnomh Penh will eventually suffocate you so we headed out to the coast- Sihanoukville gets mixed reviews, I for one am an ardent fan having some of the best days, and nights of my life there.  One particular day will stay forever etched on my memory.  It wasn’t particularly warm or sunny, it had rained constantly the previous night but the puddles were beginning to evaporate.  Instead of heading to the beach a group of us rented mopeds and decided to explore the coastal road- it wasn’t to disappoint.  White sand beaches and hidden forested groves on our left and undulating fields on our right, wooden shacks and monkeys, barely another soul in sight.  I don’t know what it was but I sense of anticipation and excitement sat in the pit of my stomach, none of us knew what to expect or what we might find.  It was like the feeling I used to get at the beginning of the school holidays- you didn’t know what was going to happen but whatever it was, it was going to be good!  Sitting on the back of that bike, wind catching my hair and slivers of sun on my face I didn’t want the road to end and for us to carry on forever, if I could have, I would have.  

Inca Initiation, Salkantay Trail, Peru, August 2004

View of Salkantay

It's 4am in the morning on the corner of deserted street in Cuzco, it may be August but the altitude ensures I’m shivering despite my new alpaca sweater underneath my jacket.  I’m sitting on my rucksack in the darkness crossing every digit, hoping that I haven’t just had my first experience of being ripped off.  Thankfully just as I am beginning to think hyperthermia is setting in, two headlights skid around the corner with a screech and bounce over the cobbles until the rickety van comes to stop next to me.  The side door is heaved open and out pops a small lean man with a shock of jet black hair and an utterly cheeky grin.  This was Jimmy, Jimmy was our guide for the next five days as he navigated us across a section of the Inca trail which lay opposite the majestic Salkantay peak.

It soon became clear that despite having Gold Duke of Edinburgh Award under my belt that I was going to have to seriously persevere, it wasn’t so much the constant inclines (but they certainly didn’t make it easier) but the false hope Jimmy would instil in us “one hour, one hour” he would cheerfully chirp- one Jimmy hour became the running joke.  Despite the constant build up of lactic acid it was the most spectacular trek I’ve ever done- everyday the landscape would change so dramatically it was if we’d walked through the wardrobe, except Narnia wouldn’t be able to quite compete.  Rolling hills speckled with grazing pastures would give way to sheer craggy cliffs and snow topped summits.  One minute we’d be walking along the spine of a range before sharply descending into a v-shaped valley, the sheer magnitude of the backdrop was inspiring, I’ve never felt so small as when we pitched our tiny tents on the first night in the shadow of the 6271m Salkantay, which translates as ‘savage’ mountain  As we ascended to 4600m next to this mighty zenith I understood its infamy, the snow swirled so tightly around us visibility disappeared and breathing became a challenge.  Despite being the youngest I was always trailing behind, so Jimmy initiated me into the ways of the Inca- chewing Coca leaves to give me the buzz I needed to carry on.  The bitter leaves form a mulch that is none too pleasant but after a while all is forgotten as you find your respiring evens and every step doesn’t take all of your will power.  Despite Coca leaves being the source of modern day cocaine, they are completely legal but Cocaine is strictly forbidden! 

Don't look down!

At the close of the second day we wound down a meandering path to the floor of a rainforest covered valley, feeling like Indiana Jones I peered into the undergrowth trying to catch a glimpse of the birds screeching nearby.  The trail on the following days was flatter and more inhabited.  We trudged through tiny villages with children running care free chasing anything that moved; chickens, puppies, butterflies.  At one point we were loaded into a truck, crammed in like sardines it was best not to look down at the drop we came all too close too while taking corners maybe just that little bit too fast.  On the approach to Aguas Calientes the scenery changed again, fast flowing rivers cascaded over polished beige rocks and parrots nested above the path.  We traversed along the railway track and rickety rope bridges before again sampling a unique form of transport- a basket pitched high above raging rapids, moved with pulleys back and forth, barely enough room for you let alone your rucksack as well!

Machu Picchu 

And then the morning of our visit to the ancient ruins dawned…rain.  Not just any rain, torrential showers in the middle of the dry season.  The mist hung low in the air which made the famous view from atop the Huayna Picchu impossible.  None the less the architecture can still be appreciated as a feat of human achievement; I just hope I get to go back before the hoards of tourist buses shift the stones of the city irreparably!