MARRAKECH - MOROCCO Part 2 - Market Mini-Series

Following on from last week's post - our next big city was Marrakech. 

Finding our way to the car park where Motorhomes can park overnight was a nightmare. My navigator role was tested to the limit – as was my driver husband’s. How he held his nerve as we kept teetering on the verge of being killed, I’ll never know. 
Imagine a cacophony of cars, mopeds, tuk-tuks, bicycles, trucks, buses and donkey carts - all ignoring the marked lanes, no indicating, no entering and exiting round-a-bouts correctly, jumping red lights… you name it – they were doing it.

And that’s not forgetting the pedestrians stepping into the road whilst looking the other way. Inshallah that they make it to other side.

We were almost hysterical – but found the whole challenge strangely exhilarating.

I could hardly believe it when we found our car park. 
We were directed to a quiet location round the back next to a lean-to containing sacks of garlic.

A few men were sitting in the shade opposite us. After we’d settled in, we gave them French walnuts in exchange for tiny glasses of teeth-clenchingly sweet tea.

In the heat the pungent smell of the garlic was rather overpowering. 

We were a short walk from the main action in the famous Marrakech square: Jemaa el Fna (spelt how you will!) 

There were African drummers, snake charmers, men with monkeys and hawks, women offering to paint Henna patterns on my hands, fortune tellers, storytellers, clowns, dancers, singers and beggars. 

The hustling was good natured and friendly. 

At dusk the food stalls cranked up the action. Tagines, couscous and kebabs were all on offer. We chose a non-touristy stall and ate ‘Arabic’ soup with small wooden ladles and sweet sesame pastries called Chabakia.

Mint is massive in Morocco. We saw the aromatic herb being sold everywhere.

We returned the following morning. Things were much quieter, with people restocking their stalls.

All in all, the iconic square in Marrakech is an unmissable stop on any itinerary to Morocco whether you’re in a Motorhome or not.

Next stop Ouzoud in the Atlas Mountains…

FEZ - MOROCCO Part 1 - Market mini-series

I spent a month touring Morocco in a motorhome. An account of that road trip, Africa for Softies, was published in the Writers Abroad anthology: Foreign and Far Away. 

Click here for the Amazon book link


The first big city on that trip was Fez. My husband and I spent many fascinating hours exploring - and losing ourselves - in the medina in the oldest part of the city.

The sights, sounds and smells were all-encompassing and very, very evocative. 
Fresh and dried fruits, vegetables and livestock jostled for our attention.

Spices and dried grains were on offer in huge sacks. The aroma from the spices was glorious.

And when the temperatures soared, we slaked our thirst with freshly squeezed orange juice from beautiful sweet Moroccan oranges.

The architecture was something to behold too.

Every now and then, I'd see something to make me smile, like this little cat watching the ladies at the fresh meat stall.








All in all, Fez was a fantastic introduction to Moroccan markets. Next stop, Marrakech.

HALONG BAY - VIETNAM Part 2 - Market mini-series

We travelled from Hanoi to Halong Bay for an overnight boat trip to see the karsts. It’s a world heritage site and the sight of hundreds of karsts rising from the water is amazing. The downside is there are far too many tourist boats and the waters of the bay are full of litter.

I was fascinated by the fact that the people of Halong Bay live in floating villages and, of course, travel everywhere by boat.

This also means that their market stalls are water borne. 
It seemed as if every time we dropped anchor, a little boat pulled alongside to sell us their wares. 

Unfortunately our boat captain took a dim view of this, although I’m not really sure why. We had paid for the ‘cruise’ up front so I couldn’t understand why he discouraged the floating market boats.

By way of protest, I bought fresh fruit from a couple of the ladies when the captain wasn’t looking!

HANOI - VIETNAM Part 1 - Market Mini-Series

The Old Quarter of Hanoi does boast a traditional indoor market, but the streets are full of hawkers and street vendors. It feels as if you’re exploring one big moveable feast.

The narrow streets, flanked by dilapidated French colonial buildings, bustle with people on foot, mopeds, bicycles, cyclos (bicycle rickshaws) and cars. The mopeds dominate to the extent that they park on the pavements, forcing pedestrians onto the crowded roads. 

The vehicles sound their horns constantly. The cacophony is unrelenting and exhausting. To cross the roads you just have to keep walking steadily between the vehicles and hope they won't hit you: it takes a leap of faith the first time you do it but everyone knows the system and it works.

As you pick your way hawkers call and cajole. Did I want a rickshaw ride, a t-shirt that reads “Good Morning, Vietnam” or a piece of pineapple from a hawker in a pointy hat carrying baskets dangling from cane poles?

It was February and it was very cold. I knew Hanoi would be cooler than most of South East Asia but we hadn’t realised just how far north the city is. I was able to buy a jacket on a market stall but my husband couldn’t find anything to fit him; the Vietnamese are tiny.

The locals eat on the streets in the Old Quarter. They sit on tiny plastic stools and use chopsticks to slurp soupy noodles out of big bowls. 

Some of the Vietnamese food choices on display are alarming for most western tastes. What we thought was the back end of a suckling pig turned out to be the back end of a dog. But we really drew the line when we saw a basket full of live toads… take your pick and they’ll prepare one or two for you on the spot.

ARMOURED GROUND CRICKET - Insect Mini-Series

Story number 7 in my insect mini-series

Morocco

It had been an exceptionally busy night, spent in the company of a virgin.

He had gone in search of a mate yesterday evening, working hard to attract female attention by rubbing his wings together – or stridulating if you want to get technical.

He rejected several plump females who responded to his calls, for the wily Armoured Ground Cricket knew that virgin crickets were slender little beauties.

Why a preference for a virgin? Because a first timer will mate once and lay her eggs, whereas the old pros mate and lay their eggs randomly. By sticking to the svelte virgins, he knew that a higher proportion of the offspring would be his.

Ouzoud, Morocco

When a slim young thing eventually turned up last night, he stridulated ardently and offered her his nuptial gift of a food sack together with his sperm pouch. She proved receptive and he carefully attached the spermatophore close to her genital opening. 

Job done.

However, having lost around 20% of his body weight, he needed to replenish his energy levels. It was sunrise. 

He staggered off in search of a meal. His appetite was eclectic, but he was partial to bird nestlings and headed across the desert scrub towards some likely looking shrubs.

In his weakened state, progress was slow, making him vulnerable. At almost 3 inches long, detection by predators was difficult to avoid.

When the lizard attacked and grabbed him, the cricket mobilised his defences and autohaemorrhaged, squirting pale green, acrid smelling blood into the lizard’s face. The predator immediately dropped him and scurried off in disgust.

Armoured Ground Cricket, Morocco

 The cricket climbed wearily onto a black rubber car tyre, perhaps in a bid to camouflage itself.

When the humans started to show an interest in him, he watched and waited. He didn’t have it in him to autohaemorrage again, but if that finger moved any closer he would unleash his final defence mechanism and vomit up his last meal all over it.

Malatapay - Philippines - Market Mini-Series

I spent a month based on the island of Negros in the Visayas region of the Philippines. 

After the trip I wrote an article titled: Meeting the Locals which was published in Paradise Magazine - Air Niugini’s in-flight magazine.

Here is an edited extract about my visit to a market:

About 20 kms along the coast from the town of Dumaguete is Malatapay Market. This market is unusual in that the buyers and sellers still use a traditional barter system; although I did see money changing hands too.

Farmers, fishermen and housewives from surrounding villages and the interior of Negros flock to Malatapay every week to do business and socialise. 

The livestock section was not for the faint hearted. As we approached the enclosure a strong smell of dung assailed us.

Water buffalo, goats, pigs, horses and cows were tethered to fences or vehicles. We picked our way through dung and slick mud to a cacophony of lowing, bleating, squealing livestock, belching vehicles and human shouts.

Pigs were being carted off – sometimes in sacks – squealing and struggling.

A hefty pig was showing great determination not to be loaded into a tricycle’s sidecar. He was pulling away so strongly, the men holding his ropes were sliding in the mud in a fierce Tug-of-War contest. We moved back from the action in case the pig won.

A big sow lay comatose and I thought she must be sick or dying. However she suddenly sat up with a shake that splattered mud in all directions and looked around perkily – she’d just been enjoying a wallow and snooze.

After a short wander we realised we were getting in the way of the serious traders. It was time to explore the rest of the market.

People were carrying bundles of chickens by their feet. The birds dangled quietly, seemingly philosophical about their fate.

We saw tricycles with cows, pigs or goats loaded into their sidecars. A particularly large pig was lying upside down on the back of a tricycle with his hooves lashed together. He was totally relaxed. 

Along with stalls selling tools, clothes, fruit and vegetables, we found dozens selling seafood, from fresh trevally to tiny dried sprats. There were tubs of what looked like mashed up shrimps in a gloopy, slimy liquid – I didn’t investigate too closely.

Cock fighting is popular in the Philippines. 

We came upon a group of men. Some were stroking flamboyantly beautiful cockerels. 

As part of their trading technique the men faced their birds up against each other for a brief scuffle to demonstrate the birds’ feistiness. I noticed that the men kept a firm hold of their charges to prevent full blown fights. 

On our amble back we stopped to buy freshly fried banana fritters, generously sprinkled with sugar and served on banana leaves. We risked scalding our mouths as we bit into the delicious sweet, crunchy batter.