February 28th, 2010
Why Do We Travel? – Part one
Originally printed in Good Teacher Magazine: Term 1, 2009, pages 32 – 36
After setting of from, Cappadocia as per my last musings, LOMLF and I arrived in Istanbul 18 hours later.
The bus trip was uneventful apart from the dog that was run over by the bus and the driver’s complete disregard for the rules of the road.
In Turkey they are meant to drive on the right side of the road but it seemed that our driver and all the others that we passed, and who passed us, had forgotten this.
The rule apparent was that you drive in the middle of the road and only pull over to the right when someone is coming the other way, or if a faster vehicle comes behind you and gives a polite tap of the horn, normally of 30 seconds duration. If you are coming to the brow of a hill then “ensha Allah” applies (“if God wills”). So it was only by the “Will of God” that Lomlf and I arrived at all. At the third or fourth near miss you tend to relax in a dazed adrenalin depleted stupor and allow life to wash over you.
So it was in a spirit of absolute mental exhaustion that on arriving in Istanbul. I heard that my father was very ill and that we were required to go home to New Zealand. Catching a flight home was the easy part as the family, knowing of our perilous financial plight had placed enough money in my account to pay for the tickets. Wanting to stay true to New Zealand, Lomlf and I winged our way to London and travelled cattle-class with Air New Zealand all the way home.
To cut a long story short we had to cancel our posting to Florence (much to the delight of the school I’m sure) and spend some time in New Zealand dealing with the family and other matters. Lomlf hadn’t met my family at this stage and I was really pleased that Dad was still alive to meet her. He was an interesting man with some very different ways of assessing a woman’s character.
When she walked into his room (he was at home – the cancer being very advanced) and I introduced the love of my life his first words were “she’s pretty tall for a woman isn’t she”, this was followed by the question he always asked, “Have you got your own teeth?’. He used to own racehorses and knew that good teeth meant good health.
He certainly was a character. After exchanging a few more pleasantries I asked him what his plans were for the rest of the day. Looking at his nurse he replied. “We’re going prick hunting”.
Apparently he an his nurse had taken his wife to the dentist the previous day. They had parked the car outside the dentist and two men in suits told him he had to park 100 metres down the road. He was going back today to ‘hunt the pricks down’. Who knows what his intentions were if he found them, but at least it keeps him happy.
Unfortunately a week later he died, much to everyone’s relief. It had been a long battle and I was lucky enough to be with him when he passed away.
Lomlf and I had left our details with a agency in London on the way home and we were very surprised to be offered a 2 week posting in Marrakech over the Christmas period. They were trying to replace two teachers who were going on holiday, and they couldn’t find anyone else.
One way tickets were supplied as was accommodation in the hotel opposite (the Myrium Hotel), breakfast included. The school was a private school and my class was of children between 14 and 16. Both Lomlf and I jumped at the chance to visit such an exciting place. We had heard on the grapvine that it was pretty wild but nothing we couldn’t cope with we were sure.
Our flight took us through London and then by Easyjet to Marrakech.
All the stories and TV programmes about Easyjet gave the impression that it was a disorganised airline staffed by rude incompetent people. Not so! We found that it was well organised and although you had to buy everything, the service was excellent. On a three hour flight they came through the aircraft three times with food and beverage trolleys.
We arrived in Marrakech in late afternoon as the sun was descending.
After going though immigration (one hour) we eventually staggered through customs (non-existent) tried to find a bank to get local currency (not open) tried a number of cash machines (none worked) and were eventually directed to the one cash machine in the airport that did work from where, armed with the required local currency we braved the taxi queue.
Lomlf and I had absorbed every word from Lonely Planet about Marrakech. We were indeed experts in the field. We knew the taxi fare to our hotel was 60 Durham. Yeah right!.
When our turn came in said taxis we were told the cost was 100 Durham. (5Durham = $1 NZ) I tried to argue that Lonely Planet said 60 Durham. All the drivers laughed at my ignorance and said yes that was for daytime. It’s now nightime and the cost goes up.
After a bit of toing and froing we agreed on 90 Durham. A massive saving of $2 NZ. We hopped in the old diesel Mercedes painted light brown (probably to blend in with the colour of the desert), and were driven to our hotel. Obviously the people who named it were unsure as to the spelling. This ranged from Myriam, Maryan or Merriam Hotel. However it was 4 stars and far as Lomlf and I were concerned was no less than we deserved.
We checked into our room after assuring staff that we were married and after passing the sign saying no food or alcohol was allowed into the rooms we proceeded to our room.
Time was ticking as they say and so we came downstairs for dinner. We were on a pretty tight budget and so the cost of $34NZ for a mediocre buffet was a bit steep. However it was all that was available so we persevered and had a moderately good meal.
The next morning, bright and early, we ventured across the road to meet our students. As Morocco is Muslim, Christmas means nothing to them. As our New Year hasn’t the significance it has in the West as they work with a different calendar. They have a holiday on New Years Day but apart from that the school year goes straight through.
It took me about fifteen minutes to reorganise the class into the traditional method I have always used. Me as the nucleus and the students as electrons floating around the outside.
The first morning was spent getting to know the kids and I discovered to my delight that we had an equal number of new kids (just arrived at this school) to ones who had been there for a while. As Lomlf and I were only there for two weeks and school was open six days a week, it meant I could use this as an excuse to go on numerous school trips. As I am sure you all know relieving is fairly difficult, especially when you try to carry on with the curriculum as approached by the previous teacher. If you don’t know the curriculum it is impossible to teach, Lomlf and I therefore decided we could go on trips. A trip one day, revise what we had seen the the morning of the next day and then plan for the next trip in the afternoon.
Our first trip was to the Souq. This is a large market area about as large as a rugby field, divided into hundreds of small alleys. Once you’re in there it’s almost impossible to find your way without help. No problems we thought. We’re descendents of Kupe and Maui by osmosis at least, two great navigators, and Captain Cook.
As dawn broke, we realised that the skies has opened and it was pissing down. Luckily most of the market is under cover so we rounded the kids up, loaded them into the school vans and we were off. You enter the Souq from the Medina (square) so we got the vans to park at the first alleyway and promised to be back at about four in the afternoon.
The Souq is an area that has been frozen in time. It could easily be the same as it was 500-1000 years ago. It’s cobbled but the shops are like eaves in the side of blank buildings. The alleys are about three metres wide and they are full of people. I had spoken to my treasures and told them, “Don’t bargain unless you intend to buy.” The stall owners get really septic when after hard bargaining they discover you have no money. It’s AK47’s at five paces. Although as Prince Harry famously said “These rag heads don’t use AK47’s, the weapon of choice is the Kalashnikov!”
After working our way past carpet stalls, spice stalls, lantern stalls, curio stalls we chanced apon a stall selling scarves. The charming gentleman accosted Lomlf by throwing a silk scarf around her neck and efficiently garrotting her. Not quite but almost. He was an excellent salesman and talked to the kids as though he was a teacher (He probably was). He showed us the difference between a badly dyed scarf (wet a little of the scarf and squeeze and the dye comes out). Whereas with a properly dyed scarf no dye comes out. He then proceeded to dress Lomlf and myself as Berber tribesmen.
After the kids had died laughing he took us all around the corner and showed us a small alley where all the wool and silk is dyed to make the scarves. Once dyed it is hung up in the rafters to dry. All of the dyes are natural and are made from local minerals, vegetables or flowers.
We then proceeded back to the stall for the piece de resistance. Sell these tourists a scarf. Both Lomlf and I have a Celtic streak so spending money is an anathema. When he told us Lomlf’s scarf was only 570 Dh, about $135 NZ we almost died laughing. So without a flicker of emotion he came back with the typical response… “What do you think it’s worth?” After some serious whispering I said 130 Dh. A look of shock appeared on his face. “Do you want my children to starve” he replied. I realised a diversion was in order. Leaving Lomlf to continue the struggle I took the kids aside and talked about how it’s really good to try before you buy and that trying on the scarves could be good fun. So with the kids grabbing the scarves and the shopkeepers attention suitably diverted we hit him with our final offer, 170 Dh. With a gulp and a last gasp 250 Dh he eventually accepted our offer. Really good buying we thought as he pocketed the money. The challenge was it was possibly his only sale of the day and he had to look after his wife and kids on that income. Hey why let poverty interfere with the money saved.
While this saga was unfolding the rain had started to soak through the roof and was mixing with the dust which was on and between the cobbles. Within half an hour there was about 1.5 cm of liquid mud flowing over the cobbles. Very unpleasant.
Time to move inside I though so I looked around for the nearest carpet shop. Luckily just down the alley, around the corner, down another alley was an older man dressed in a fine Jedi outfit. Luckily the hood was down so he was obviously one of the Goodies. “Like to buy some carpets for your wife (Lomlf) and children (students)?”
He oozed.
“We also have women weaving the carpets for you to watch” he offered generously. So in we trooped. Wet and bedraggled, with Lomlf and her new scarf.
I have always fancied myself as playing a character out of the Bible. Not JC himself but maybe David against Goliath or Moses parting the Red Sea. However as we came up the stairs into the lair where the carpets were I felt very much like Daniel in the Lions den. My head appeared over the balcony and I could hear and sense the expectation of the 7 men lounging on the settees along the walls. They slowly got to their feet and as they mentally licked their lips they padded over to us. “What a lovely family.” one smarmy carpet seller purred as we dripped all over his beautifully varnished wooden floor. Bugger I thought, we’re going to get eaten alive by these predators.
Thinking quickly I asked if they had any silk prayer rugs. “Of course your honourableness” he growled, prowling to the back of the room. He reappeared with 5 beautiful silk rugs. He placed them reverently onto the floor and stepped back expecting to see my look of wonder. “Boys” I said to the male students. “I’ll give 5 Durham to whichever of you can jump on one of these carpets and slide the furthest. With that the boys raced to the other end of the room, turned as one and sped towards the carpets. As if they were linked by an invisible steel rod they jumped onto the carpets and slid 10 – 15 metres across the very large room.
There was a shriek of anguish from the salesman as he saw the desecration of these sacred items. The salesmen roared and bared their teeth in anger as Lomlf, the kids and I beat a hasty retreat down the stairs and out to the rain and mud that had enveloped the market.
Looking at my watch I realised it was getting close to 3pm and about time to mosey back to the buses. One thing the stall owners are is polite. We asked how to get back to the Medina and they pointed us in the right direction. There had been a kid hanging around and following us for some time, One stall owner realised we were a group and told this kid to bugger off in no uncertain terms. He told me that there are two types of guides. The official kind who are always in front of you and the unofficial one who trail behind. If you don’t get rid of the unofficial ones they will demand money when you reach your destination. Anyway we got back to the buses without any further trouble and sped home.
*Why Do We Travel? will continue in Term Two.
The Travelling Teacher provided the images to accompany this story.
As usual, the Editor takes no responsibility for the Travelling Teacher’s meandering mind!