Strolling Through Southwark...

As I mentioned yesterday, I really plan to make the most out of my remaining time here—apparently, I was determined to prove that point by going all out today! And what an amazing time I had!

I kicked off today by meeting my friend BC for coffee at LJ’s. She and I first met during my trip to Morocco and, like me, she’s an American studying abroad (in Ireland). We spent about 2 hours, just catching up and chatting about the similarities of our experience over caffeinated beverages and ginger bread.

Eventually it was time to part ways and so, after bidding one another adieu, I set off on the rest of my adventure. I’ve been meaning to spend some time in the Southwark area since arriving, but time and energy have simply not been on my side. Determined to rectify this situation, I started walking in that direction from Soho. En route, I made a brief stop at Forbidden Planet, a comic shop I had spotted earlier but hadn’t had time to check out.

Oh. My. Stan. Lee!

In the first few minutes of being there, I had multiple nerdgasms! They had absolutely everything this geek could want: there was a diorama of Yoda’s hut (inside and out, and perfectly sized for the Star Wars toys); statues of various action heroes and villains; a wall of everything Doctor Who related; plush comic book characters and action figures; loads of Star Trek stuff; and, of course, actual comics, books, and related films. 

Being on a tight budget, I restricted myself to two items. One of these was the first book from the Game of Thrones series—I’ve caught up on the television adaptation, and cannot wait to find out what happens, so I’m going to read ahead. The second item I bought was a two-disk She-Ra, Princess of Power DVD set. It’s basically the same ‘Secret of the Sword / Best of…’ set that we got in the states, but what caught my attention was the cover artwork: the Sorceress of Castle Grayskull was on there. Based on that alone (well, that and the £4 pricetag), I knew I had to have it! Imagine my further delighted surprise then, when I opened the pack and found that the disk images were the Sorceress and Shadow Weaver—my two favorite POP characters! #YAY!

Eventually I pulled myself away from Forbidden Planet, and resumed my journey to Southwark. 

Ultimately, I decided to go by the Tate Modern finally. Now, I should preface all of this by saying that I’m not the world’s biggest modern art fan. In fact, I’m not even the world’s biggest tepid modern art fan. Bottom line: I’m not a fan. But, I knew that I had to give it a shot, as the Tate Modern is one of the most famous art museums in existence. 

Gettin' my modern on...

I confess to enjoying it more than I expected to. The Powers that Be do a really good job of curetting the exhibits—for the most part, it’s really accessible, and ‘they’ provide the necessary historical and artistic insights that make these works of arts understandable to a wider audience. In doing so, they challenge the typical, alienating sense of religiosity and awe contained in most museum settings. I'm a huge fan of this demystification process!

The only downside is that this encourages people to bring their children. Not only is this inconvenient due to their sticky fingers and high-pitched squeals but, also, there’s nothing quite as awkward as realizing that a three year old is staring at you as you admire Paul Delvaux’s ‘Sleeping Venus’ in all her naked glory—‘cause you just know that little brat thinks you’re looking at Venus’ prominently displayed no-no parts when, in fact, you’re attention is drawn to the chick with the fierce red hair who looks like she just stepped out of a Tim Burton film about drag queens. 

But I digress…

There were a couple of pieces I enjoyed, the aforementioned being one of them. Another was Do Ho Suh’s Staircase-III. I was amazed at how detailed it was—including ‘simple’ details like light switches made out of fabric—and how this piece made me feel like I was in some weird dreamlike state. In hindsight, I really regret not getting a photo of it. (A second trip might be required at some point solely for that reason.)

Another work I want to mention, which I enjoyed seeing mostly for the spectacle, was the notorious Damian Hirst’s ‘For the Love of God’ (a.k.a. the crystal skull piece). For those who aren’t familiar, 

For the Love of God is a life-size platinum cast of an eighteenth century human skull, covered by 8,601 flawless diamonds, inset with the original skull’s teeth. At the front of the cranium is a 52.4 carat pink diamond. Since it was first exhibited in 2007, For the Love of God has become one of the most widely recognised works of contemporary art. It represents the artist’s continued interest in mortality and notions of value. Alluding to the iconography of the skull in art as a memento mori—a reminder of the fragility of life—the work can be viewed alternatively as a glorious, devotional, defiant or provocative gesture in the face of death itself. (Tate Modern website)

'For the Love of God' [NB: This image is not mine!]

 

 Now, I’m not here to get into a whole debate about Hirst and his art—I don’t know enough about the man or the topic to do so. That being said, I confess to liking this piece. And it’s for the same reason I like some of his other work that I’ve seen photos of, and even the earlier-mentioned ‘Sleeping Venus’: 

I like my modern art grim. 

You see, I realized today that I’m much more willing to give modern art a chance if it’s filled with dark colors and abject(ified), Gothic imagery. If it’s all simple geometric shapes with no purpose, pained in neon oranges and pinks and yellows, then I want nothing to do with it. Give me depictions that tell a story—about death, or about how shit this life can be sometimes—with dark blacks, and blues, and purples. That, I can appreciate.

But I’ve gone on enough about art. I did a lot more today than just that!

After leaving the Tate, I continued eastward along the Thames, passing the (rebuilt) Globe Theatre along the way. Eventually, I reached the Clink Prison Museum. Nic and I caught a glimpse of this place when we were here back in 2008, but we weren’t able to go in for one reason or another (I think we had tickets to do something that night). I knew that I just had to go there this time.

The Clink is a subterranean prison that was in operation from c.12th Century until 1780. The origins of its name have been lost to time, but it has been speculated that the sound comes from sounds of chains being affixed to prisoners—furthermore, it is from this notorious gaol (jail) that the slang term ‘the clink’ came to symbolize modern jails.

Undoubtedly arrested for public drunkenness...

It’s reputed to be haunted, though I didn’t see any ghosts. Honestly, I was kind of underwhelmed. However, it was pretty interactive—I was able to handle actual (reproductions) of torture devices that were used—and I did learn some new things, too. 

For instance, another common prison-related term used today—‘the hole’—can be linked back to the Clink. Except, rather than being solitary confinement (as we might understand it today), this was literally a hole that prisoners were shoved into and forgotten about. 

At high tide, the polluted water from the Thames would fill the hole almost completely, but not enough to drown (most of) the prisoners—instead, they succumbed to either hunger or various diseases they contracted from the water (e.g., Dysentery). It was also not uncommon for prisoners in the hole to become so waterlogged that their skin would literally begin to rot while they were still living. Terrifying!

The Hole! (You can't see it here, but the pit is filled with water.)

After touring the Clink, I climbed back up to the street level and started toward my next destination. I wrapped around the Golden Hinde, crossed London Bridge (which thankfully did not fall), passed the Monument to the Great London Fire of 1666, and finally arrived at St Paul’s Cathedral.

I arrived in time for the Evensong Service, which meant that I didn’t have to pay to get in (the main reason I hadn’t visited prior). I was able to go in and look around a bit, but there wasn’t really anything interesting that caught my attention. 

Don’t get me wrong: it’s absolutely gorgeous inside, and reminded me of so many pictures of the Vatican that I’ve seen over the years. Everything was a crisp white, glistening gold, or polished onyx—a far cry from the stony interior of Westminster Abbey, for instance. Nonetheless, I just didn’t have a desire to stay, and so I sneaked out before the service started.

St Paul's Interior

 From there I made my way through Trafalgar Square—passing the Royal Courts of Justice en route—and down to the Horse Guards Parade and Whitehall / 10 Downing Street. 

Regarding the former, today this is where the annual Trooping the Colour ceremony—which officially marks the Sovereign’s birthday—takes place, but in the past it was used for other events as well (e.g., jousts held for King Henry VIII). 

The latter site is the home of Britain’s Prime Minister. Sadly, you cannot see his exact residence from the road—the gate at the edge of the street is as close as you can get.

And, finally, I concluded my day by taking a brief stroll through St James’s Park, where I once again snapped lots of bird photos. But I also did this for another reason: for myriad reasons, I’ve found myself in St James’s Park about once a month throughout my stay. The photos I’ve taken there somewhat show the changing of the seasons, and will serve as a nice, overarching reminder of my time here.

St James's Park with Buckingham Palace

Okay, it’s late and I’m exhausted—and no wonder: GoogleMaps tells me I walked over 8 miles today—time to wrap this up! 

Today's Trip

Until next time…

Thirty Days Left...

Thirty days. 

As of today—6 May 2012—that’s all I have left of my time in London. As usual, I’m behind with this thing, but didn’t want this milestone to pass by without saying a little something about it.

All in all, this timeframe marks the beginning of a period of transition—things here draw to a close, as I begin the trek back to my own weird version of ‘normality.’ And it’s not just the big things that are concluding, like my semester as a University of East London student. It’s also the little things, like the huge canister of coffee I’ve used throughout most of my stay finally drying up (the day after classes ended, ironically). Let’s ignore the coffee for a second, though, and look at my time as a student instead. 

UEL Docklands Campus

 Because the US Olympic team will be staying in UEL’s dorms, the entire semester calendar was out of whack. Basically, we turned in midterms, had two weeks of Easter Break, one week of classes, and then our finals were due. 

It was a whirlwind, crazy experience—and if you’ve been following me on Facebook, you know the experience was both taxing and moody-making. Nonetheless, I persevered, and in the end I think I handed in three strong final works.

Most likely, I won’t know how I did on those final projects until I’m back home, but I can talk about how I did on my midterms, as well as offer some final feedback on my experiences in the corresponding modules:

‘Cultural Politics: Power & Contemporary Social Change’ (CC1202; you can find the module description here): Though it served as mostly a refresher course for me, I did enjoy this course quite a bit. The instructors, SM and DS, were my favorites, and really knew what they were talking about. Also, I walked away feeling like I had a much better understanding of Marx—though I still prefer Foucault for his focus on questions of identity.

My CW1 (midterm) assignment was, literally, just the first draft of my final piece. A reflexive work, it explored gay men’s participation in the act of marthoning/triathloning as a form of body-modification and self-surveillance (in the Foucauldian sense) rooted in the discourse of HIV/AIDS and the idealized (gay) male form. On CW1 I scored First-Class marks (the equivalent of an ‘A’), and the assessor’s feedback listed my work as 'a very substantial and scholarly case study that uses excellent examples.’ Based on the early feedback I received on CW2, I’m fairly confident that I’ll receive First-Class marks on the completed work as well.

‘Realism, Fantasy & Utopia’ (CC2202; you can find the module description here): Whereas DS was the co-instructor in the aforementioned class, this module was solely hers. And it was amazing—by far, it was the most brilliant of the courses I took at UEL. My love of this class was not solely based on our phenomenal guide, however—equal credit goes to the amazing friends I’ve made therein, amongst them TvH, RAS, SV, and AR! 

As far as my midterm goes, I also received First-Class marks on this one. It was a rather easy assignment, wherein we merely had to explain the concepts of realism, fantasy, and utopia. As a funny aside, one of the critiques DS offered of my work was that she felt I was too quick to privilege the perspective of the artist/author—she and I have subsequently agreed to discuss this further, as this is an argument I tend to get into with everyone. I strongly feel that too much credit is already given to the reader, and that rather than privileging either the author or the reader, one needs to pay equal lip-service to both perspectives. After all, to overlook the author’s intent de-historicizes and depoliticizes the work. 

Based on the early feedback I received on my final essay—a critique of American Horror Story as a heteronorm-affirming Gothic text—I think DS and I are much more in-sync this time around. This second piece was approached from a Feminist and Queer theory perspective, and DS seemed really excited when she read the draft version. I’m hoping for First-Class marks on this essay and, with her help, I’m hoping to submit it to the Watercool Journal for publication—if accepted, that would be the second piece I’ve had electronically published in a peer-reviewed journal!

‘Culture, Power & Resistance in the 21st Century’ (CC3202; you can find the module description here): By far—by leaps and bounds, and fathoms and light-years—this was my least favorite of the three classes. The instructor was highly disorganized, often came across as condescending toward me, and lacked time-management skills. I highly recommend that Columbia students do not take this class. 

As a result of myriad problems I had in this class—which, to be completely fair, included the resistance I developed after one too many failures to meet what I consider good teaching practices—my CW1 assignment from this class only garnered a 68 (i.e., ‘B’ / 2.I classification). I don’t hold out hopes for a higher score from my CW2 assignment, as the instructor replied with his feedback right before the deadline—5 full days after the date he agreed to. Fortunately, I suspected something like that might happen, and so I asked DS for feedback as well. With her help, I was able to turn my work into something that should at least enable me to pass the class.

Overall, my experience with UEL was a good one. I definitely miss my home-uni, despite it’s countless problems—and I definitely miss CCC’s technology infrastructure, ‘cause UEL’s is atrocious—but the University of East London has been a nice classroom-away-from-home, and I will be eternally grateful for this amazing opportunity! 

So, what now?

Well, as I noted earlier, it’s a time of transition. The biggest thing on the horizon once I return to Chicago is my participation in the Chicago Marathon (26 miles). Given that I’ve never run that distance before—in addition to triathlons, I’ve only ever done a half-marathon—I’ve had to start training here. Yesterday I went for my first 3 mile run of the season. It wasn’t bad, but it was a bit chilly—9˚C/48˚F, with a cold drizzle—and a bit slower than I wanted. Ah, well. By the time I return to Chicago on 5 June, I’m supposed to be running 7 miles.

Speaking of the marathon, I should probably take a brief second to tell/remind folks why I’m doing it. You see, for the third year in a row, I am part of the amazing Team to End AIDS (T2) but, this year I’m putting my bike and wetsuit aside, and solely workin’ the running shoes! (Get it? ‘solely’ and ‘running shoes’? It’s a shoe-joke.)

Take a moment to watch this short video, as it tells you a little more about the journey I'm about to embark upon:

However, in order to train with T2 I have to raise (a minimum) of $1200 by July 1st for the AIDS Foundation of Chicago (AFC). HIV/AIDS continues to be a very real problem today, even though it’s not always talked about in the US. In fact, every 9 1/2 minutes someone in the United States is infected with HIV, and each year people grieve for loved ones whose lives have been claimed by the disease. Fortunately, AFC—which was founded in 1985 by community activists and physicians—is leading the fight against HIV/AIDS, and striving to improve the lives of people in the Chicago area who are affected by this pandemic. By funding prevention programs and vital services such as medical care, food and housing, AFC works to stop new infections while helping to keep people with HIV/AIDS alive until the day there’s a cure.

So here’s the skinny:

On top of wanting to overcome a new physical challenge (and achieve a fit-in-the-British-sense body), I desperately need help in raising $1200 for the AIDS Foundation of Chicago this year. As of right now, I only have $540 to go! Not only will sponsors be joining me in the fight against HIV/AIDS, but they will also be supporting me in the pursual of a personal goal that—even a year ago—I never considered possible.

All one has to do is visit my fundraising page and click on the ‘Sponsor Me’ button in the upper left-hand corner (or, if interested in making alternative payment arrangements—which includes sponsorship by volunteerism—just let me know). Any and all donations are appreciated, including those from people living outside of the U.S., and they’re tax deductible to boot!

AC, JD, AT, Nic, and Me after completing the 2011 Chicago Triathlon with T2.

Other than that, the plan is simply to make the most of my remaining 30 days abroad. 

I’ve certainly already started in regards to celebrating my time here—a certain less than stellar photo of me drinking a Mojito out of a suitcase attests to that (thanks, TvH and LD). But I’ve got some other things planned too. For instance, on Wednesday I’m going to go watch as The Queen and Duke of Edinburgh make their way to Westminster for the State Opening of Parliament. Also, I’m meeting my friend BC—she and I met during my trip to Morocco—for coffee tomorrow morning. And, finally, I’ve officially scheduled my final international sojourn during this trip: I’ll be going to the Netherlands (Amsterdam) from 13-16 May, and since I’m going by bus(!) I’ll have a chance to see the northern part of France and Belgium as well!

Amsterdam's Red Light District. [NB: This photo is not mine!]

Oh, yes, the next few weeks will be very exciting!

What's Curry Got To Do With It?

I’m back with another entry. Truth be told, everything I’m about to say deserves a lot more ‘oomph’ than what I’m about to give it—but, I’ve spent most of the last two weeks (including most of yesterday and today) writing about discursive representations of the intersection between gayness and AIDS as part of two separate final projects. 

In other words: my brain is so far beyond mush that words do not even exist to describe it.

Nonetheless, there’s a lot that I haven’t blogged about this month, and I’m feeling a lot of pressure from ‘Future Brett’ to document it all in one form or another while it’s relatively fresh in my mind. Thus, I offer the explosion of information presented here. 

Let’s get started, shall we…

On Sunday, 15 April, I accompanied EN to a theatre performance she’s been interning with throughout the semester. The show is called Soul Sister, and is the story of Tina Turner’s relationship with Ike, as told by the former while backstage during her ‘Private Dancer’ tour. 

Most people already know the troubled tale of Ike and Tina Turner, so I won’t go into that here (though I will say that the first act in particular was far more forgiving of Ike than I expected). Instead, I want to focus on two particular aspects of the show: the actress playing Tina, and the ending:

The role of Tina was given to Emi Wokoma (who, ironically, played the sister of Tameka Empson’s ‘Kim’ on EastEnders). The Guardian reviewed Wokoma’s turn as Turner thusly: 

[Wokoma’s] impersonation of Anna Mae Bullock, renamed Tina Turner when she started singing with Ike Turner, is startling. She's got that strange, stiff-legged dance – the one that looks like a man who's left the urinal too soon – and the flutters of the hands. And she's got a voice that can strip paint or sing a lullaby within the same bar. (Soul Sister Review)

I admit that I was a bit concerned with Wokoma at the start. The opening number is ‘Private Dancer,’ one of my favorites. Wokoma’s rendition wasn’t bad by any stretch of the imagination, but it also wasn’t great—I felt as if she wasn’t warmed up yet. Fortunately, after that number, the songs performed are basically in chronological order, and follow Anna Mae’s rise to prominence. This gave Wokoma the chance to warm-up her Turner impression, as her character also developed her unique style. By the time ‘River Deep, Mountain High’ was performed, audiences could be easily excused for forgetting that the real Tina wasn’t on stage.

[NB: This is not my photo.]

This brings us to the other point I wanted to bring up about the show: the ending. As previously noted, the story is told from the point-of-view of Turner, who is relating events to a friend backstage between sets. Upon concluding her tale, Turner returns to her (fictionalized) concert—whereupon the theatre audience becomes a concert audience!

The last 15-20 minutes of the show is just like a traditional concert. There is no narrative: just Wokoma—accompanied by a band, backup singers, and flashing laser-lights—recreating Turner’s early-80s comeback tour. Traditional Tina favorites—such as ‘Simply the Best’, ‘I Can't Stand the Rain’, ‘Help’, and, of course, ‘Proud Mary’—drove audiences to their feet. No lie. There were even encore songs, in true concert style: ‘Steamy Windows’ and ‘What’s Love Got to Do With It?’

‘Awesome’ doesn’t even begin to describe the experience. All I can say is that if you’re in London, and are even remotely a Tina Turner fan, you must see this show!

After Soul Sister, EN and I were ridin’ high, as concert goers typically are right after a show lets out. So, we headed over to Soho and a bar there called 79CXR. This particular bar was billed in one of the local rags as offering gay karaoke, and we thought it might be fun to check that out. 

I’d say we had a decent time: drinks were cheap even if the singing was painful. Also, it wasn’t crowded—almost always a perk. When the karaoke wrapped-up at around 9:00 PM, Bette Rinse (the drag queen emcee) organized a group of fellow queens and locals for a queer version of ‘Match Game.’ Sadly, it was all a bit lost on EN and I, as neither of us were familiar enough with the local drag scene to get the references to specific community members. Ah, well. It was still interesting.

Okay, I’m going to totally change topics now. (Like I said, there’s a lot to catch-up on!)

On Thursday, 19 April, two of my friends from Chicago—TS and his partner, BH—flew in to London for the latter’s birthday weekend. I was fortunate enough to see them on three of the four days they were here.

That first day (Thursday) was a bit rough for me. I didn’t sleep well the night before, and had zero desire to go to school that morning. Nonetheless, I made the long slog there…only to learn that one of my two classes that day had been cancelled. Now, this isn’t a problem in-and-of-itself. The class in question is my least favorite (‘Cultural Power & Resistance in the 21st Century’—not nearly as interesting as it sounds). Nonetheless, the scheduled lecture for that day would likely have been beneficial for my final essay. Ah, well. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I got caught in a downpour on my way home. I. Was. Drenched…and unhappy. 

Unhappy and Soaking Wet.

Fortunately, seeing two familiar faces was just the boon that my spirits needed. We headed into Soho to grab a couple of cocktails at Village, and from there we went to Maison Touareg for dinner. I was uber-excited for this, because I had wanted to check out Maison Touareg since coming back from Morocco, and was merely waiting for the right ‘excuse’ to do so. It was sooooo delicious! Wonderful company was made even better by amazing food and wine. My only complaint is that we were seated beneath the speakers, and the music grew a bit loud when the belly-dancer (whose skills were mostly lost on us) came out. Other than that, it was perfect!

Friday, 20 April, marked the last official day of classes at UEL! My exams aren’t due until this week, but classes have concluded. As my Friday class (‘Realism, Fantasy & Utopia’) was my favorite, this was a bit of a bittersweet moment. I’ll talk more about all that in a later entry, though. After class, I returned to my flat, where my housemates were already in weekend-party-mode. Ugh, it was so loud! For the second day in a row, I found myself highly agitated.

Fortunately, TS and BH invited me to join them once again! This time we went to Cinnamon, an Indian restaurant near Oxford Circus. Once again, I had an amazing time! The food was good (albeit a bit spicy): we shared a plate of ‘BALLS!’ (as listed)—potato, beef, vegetable, and Bangla-Scotch egg—and for the main course I ordered a plate of ‘Old Delhi-style tandoori fenugreek chicken’ (whatever all that means). 

Even better than the food, though, were the drinks. I stuck to water (I had to be up early the next day), but I did have a sip of both TS’ and BH’s drinks—if anyone’s interested, Cinnamon offers the best mojito in the history of forever. After dinner we headed over to the Duke of Wellington (another gay pub) for a last round of drinks going our separate ways.

I’m going to skip saying anything about Saturday, 21 April, as that will get its own entry owing to a trip to Windsor Castle. As for Sunday, I had one last opportunity to see TS and BH before they headed back to Chicago. We met for bagels and coffee at Beigel Bake in Shoreditch. Apparently, this is the oldest bagel place in London. It’s also one of the cheapest places I’ve been in London—but so worth it! I got an éclair (how could I resist?), and it was one of the most scrumptious sweets I’ve eaten since being here! Yummy-yummy! From there, we walked over to Old Spitalfields’ Market, where we walked around for a few minutes before bidding on another adieu! All in all, it was a wonderful visit, and so nice to see friends from home! 

And, on that happy note, I will also say farewell to this entry. I’ve finally gotten ‘Future Brett’ off my back for a bit, and can realx…for now—there’s still a lot to tell about, including my trip to Windsor, the results of my midterms, and my hurried escape from my flat!

But that’ll have to wait a bit longer…

Morocco: Shukran For the Memories...

I need to write something non-academic for a bit, so let’s finish-up on the Morocco trip, shall we?

For my last day in Marrakech (11 March 2012) I knew that I wanted to do something beyond sitting at the hostel and relaxing (as delightful as that was). Fortunately, JE, another member of the Djellaba Crew, was starting to feel the impending end of her trip as well, and so we made plans to go out and do a couple of touristy things.

However, before I get to all that:

I woke up early on the morning of the 11th, and so I decided that ‘now’ was as good a time as any to head to Djamaa el-Fna on my own. You see, I had yet to successfully navigate the twisting streets of the old medina on my own, and I wanted to do it at least once…and I succeeded!

From a distance / Brett is watching yoooooou...

Koutobia Mosque and Minaret (built 1150-90), one of the 'big three' minarets built by the Almohads.

Now, you probably noticed that the first photo was from a distance. There’s a reason for that: if any of the street performers (e.g., the guys with the cobras) notice you taking a photo that’s even remotely in their direction, they will demand payment. And since there are so many of said-performers, you practically have to stand in Algeria to get a decent shot. As such, any hope I had of snagging an iconic shot of Djamaa el-Fna was foiled—you can find one taken by someone else here, however.

Similarly, I wanted at least a photo of one of the souqs before I left. Again, I had to practice a bit of subterfuge to get this, and so it’s not great. Also, because it was so early in the morning most of the shops weren’t open and there wasn’t much foot-, bike-, and cart-traffic. Nonetheless…

(More representative photos, taken by others, can be found here and here.)

After my brief foray to Djamaa el-Fna and the souqs I returned to Waka Waka, where I enjoyed a yummy breakfast of coffee (about six cups—my goodness it was tasty!), crepes, and more apricot jam! M’mm, m’mm, good!

Once JE and I had both finished breakfast, we set off for our sightseeing excursion. Since I had to be at the airport by around 5:00 PM, and it was already noon, we didn’t have time to do too much. So, we decided to pay quick visits to El Bahia Palace and the Saadian Tombs…

It took us a while to reach El Bahia Palace for two reasons: first, many of the people we asked had no clue where it was; and, second, if they did know, they would only offer generalized directions so that we would inevitably have to ask someone else (e.g., ‘go down this way, make your first left, and then turn right’…without mentioning the three alleyways in between).

Regardless, we finally reached the palace…or, at least the small part, because the main section was closed for construction. Now, I can’t say too much about this—or the tombs—because all of the signage was in Arabic and/or French…and neither JE or I can read said-languages (though I did learn how to say both ‘thank you’—شكرا / shukran—and ‘no thank you’—لا شكرا / la shukran—in Arabic by the time I was done in Morocco).

Sadly, there’s also not too much information about the palace online either, other than what’s to be found at Wikipedia. Nonetheless, it was quite pretty—in particular the courtyards and gardens:

The first of many courtyards

 From El Bahia Palace we headed to the Saadian Tombs. Much like the palace, however, there’s not much information on the interwebs about them—just that they are the resting place of about 60 members of the Saadi Dynasty, and they date back to the late 1500s—and this time there wasn’t even signage for us to attempt to read. Again, though, they were pretty:

As near as I could tell, the triangular things on the ground are like headstones.

No camera manipulation here--this was the 'natural' lighting in this chamber.

 By the time JE and I left the tombs, my time was almost done—I only had about two hours left before I had to be at the airport. So, we stopped at a café near the Mellah (Jewish quarter) for a drink before heading back to Waka Waka so I could get my stuff. While at the café, however, I was able to snag some decent photos of the Atlas Mountains looming over the rooftops, as well as some pix of these giant birds that made their nests along the medina walls.

The Jewish quarter, with big birds and mighty mountains!

Finally, it was time…

Back at Waka Waka I grabbed my gear and bid a sad adieu to the Djellaba Crew—I really hope I cross paths with each of those wonderful folk again in the future! 

I made my way out of the medina, and arranged a cab ride to the airport for the low cost of 20DH / 2€ and a cigarette—clearly, I got much better at negotiating by the end of my trip. En route, I had a wonderful chat (in very broken English) with the driver about how beautiful Morocco was, and we even got into a bit of a discussion about Islam and Christianity: he initially assumed that I did not like Muslims because I am American and think they’re all like Bin Laden, and I told him that such was not the case, and how it was just as unfair to judge all Muslims by the actions Bin Laden as it is to judge all Christians by the hateful attitudes of Evangelicals. All-in-all it was a very nice conversation, and I walked away hoping that I had—at least in one person’s eyes—helped to dispel the notion that all Americans are like the Religious Right.

And on that positive note, I sadly bring a (textual) close to my time in Morocco. I can’t thank Nic enough for sending me there, and enabling me to take one of the most holidays of my lifetime! 

Palm trees and snow-capped mountains...

Goodbye Marrakech, Morocco!

Morocco: Goodbye, Sahara! I'll Be Back!

It was so warm beneath the mountain of furry blankets in my desert tent—I didn’t want to get up on 10 March. Nonetheless, I had a modicum of hope that I’d be able to catch the sunrise. Little did I know when I finally cast aside my blankets that the sun had been up for quite a while. Ah, well.

Around the same time, one of our hosts poked his head into our tent and informed us that breakfast was ready (another good excuse for getting up). So, after taking a few minutes to brush away the rum-, smoke-, and sleep-induced fuzz from our teeth, and then taking a few more moments to absorb the stunning starkness of our campsite and surroundings by daylight, we made our way once more to the dining tent.

Campsite

Two of the four beds in my tent. Mine is the one on the right, next to my bookbag. (The blankets are all piled on top of J. in another bed, in an effort to wake him up.)

 Breakfast was rather simple compared to the meal we had the night before, but delicious nonetheless. It consisted of bread, some kind of thick but creamy sweet-butter, apricot jam, and coffee.

Now, gurl, lemme tell you ’bout the jam and the coffee: Best. Damn. Coffee. And. Jam. Ever. 

Well, okay, in all honesty the coffee wasn’t the best ever—merely the best I’ve had since leaving the States. But the jam…my goodness, was it amazing! 

I’m not typically a fan of jellied things. (Stop right there—get your minds out of the damned gutter!) For as long as I can recall, I’ve eaten peanut butter and butter sandwiches because the texture of grape jelly grosses me out. Orange marmalade, in very small doses, is occasionally permissibly on hot, fresh morning biscuits, but that’s about it. 

During my desert excursion, however, I discovered that bread was merely a vessel for the consumption of apricot jam! First I went back for seconds…then thirds…and then, oh yes, I went back for forthsies. And don’t think that I didn’t take the last piece of bread during that final trip, because I damn well did.

At any rate, after breakfast it was time to get ready to head out, sadly. We returned to our tents and started to pack-up. I also asked JM to help me re-tie my tagelmust (which is a skill I still have not mastered even with the help of YouTube videos), resulting in the picture below.

Tagelmust: Before Photo

Now, I point out how my tagelmust looks here because, as you will soon see, it looked nothing like this only a short while later…

Which brings us to the next part of the story: Camel Ride (Part II). 

Sadly, by the time I made it to the area where our camels were housed for the return-trip, Coco had already been claimed by someone else in the group…meaning I had to settle for a different mount this time. But I didn’t name this camel. Why, you ask? Well, there are two reasons. 

First and foremost, for some inexplicable reason I had the song ‘A Horse With No Name’ stuck in my head. Now, I don’t think I’ve heard that song all the way through but once in my life, so what prompted its presence in my head that day is beyond me! Nonetheless, it was there, and so it seemed fitting at the time not to name my ride (despite the fact that he was camel and not a horse). 

The second reason I didn’t name my camel is because he was a bad camel. But since I didn’t hate him enough to send him to the glue factory (or whatever the equivalent is for camels) I did the next best thing: I stripped him of his identity by denying him a name. 

Now, I know that sounds harsh—way harsh—but you need to understand: he would not allow the saddle to be secured properly, meaning that every time I tried to reposition myself and give ‘the boys’ some comfort, the entire saddle would shift and I risked falling off. At one point, the guides actually made me dismount him completely so they could re-tie the saddle, but he must have been puffing up his belly or something, because it was even worse after that. 

Bruised cajones = bad camel.

 

Fortunately, the trip to where we met the bus was shorter than the trip to the campsite—only about 20 or 30 minutes. But it was a rough trip! I was jostled about so much that my poor tagelmust became hopelessly undone, and I couldn’t take my hand off the saddle’s yolk long enough to even attempt fixing it properly. This is why, in the ensuing pictures you see from this part of the trip, it looks like a ’fro-meets-thundercloud-meets-alien-thing is hanging over my head.

Of course, despite the bumping and jostling, after seeing one of my friends light-up while riding I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to indulge in a Camel while on a camel.

See what I mean about the tagelmust being a wreck!

This was its own hilarity-filled experience—have you ever tried to light a cigarette while rocking every which way on a relatively wild animal? (So help me, I just know that one of my gay friends is going to have a smart-ass answer to that question!) I’m surprised I still have eyebrows left. But I did it…

Watch out for the eyebrows!

 When I finally saw the bus it was a bittersweet moment. On one hand I was beyond thrilled to get off of my nameless camel. But, on the other hand, I was saddened that my time in the Sahara was already at an end.

There was still one final hurdle between us and departure, however: a group of children. 

[Image Courtesy of NJ and SP]

I look like some horrible taskmaster, don’t I? Or at the very least like a tourist who’s totally oblivious to the circumstances of his own life compared to those around him. At least that’s how I’m terribly afraid people will read it. 

And yet, in some regards, I secretly want people to have that knee-jerk reaction because maybe it will force them to interrogate their own social positions, which is why I’m posting it here like this. (Though, admittedly, a better way of inducing such reflection might be simply to encourage others to read Peggy McIntosh’s incredibly insightful and eye-opening White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack.) 

With that said, let me now give you the back story:

Yes, children—all trying to sell us homemade camels made out of palm fronds. 

What you’re actually seeing in the picture above is the look of someone (me) who’s incredibly uncomfortable and conflicted. I wanted to help them all, but knew that I couldn’t, so I gave a few of them some money (without taking the things they were selling so that they could hopefully sell them to someone else) and started toward the bus. 

Unfortunately, a gaggle of these kids was blocking my way, trying to sell their wares to my friends who had boarded already. I stood there behind them, both trying to make my way on and also smiling nervously because…well, I smile when I’m uncomfortable, and I was discomfited by the recognitions running through my head of all of the privileges I have in life compared to these children (e.g., the fact that I was able to spontaneously drop a not-inconsiderable sum on an excursion to an area that at least some of those kids will probably never leave). 

And, it was in that moment that my friend took the above photo.

Moving away from the heavy (albeit incredibly important) stuff, once aboard the bus we began the long trek home. There isn’t too much to say about the trip back—the only times we stopped really were at a couple of vistas, and twice for food (the first time at a place I never caught the name of and the second time in Ouarzazate). 

Yup, that's a real-life oasis behind me.

Tagelmust fixed (more or less).

We finally made it back to Marrakech at around 6 PM, at which point we moved en masse toward Djamaa el-Fna before saying our sad goodbyes. I would love to think that one day we will cross paths again.

Afterwards, I made my way back to Waka Waka, where I rejoined the Djellaba Crew on the rooftop. Once again, they immediately pulled me, and made me feel like I hadn’t missed a second.

You know, that’s one of the really incredible things about my time in Morocco—I feel like there were these long stretches of time that just came to an absolute standstill around me, so that you could just soak it all in. It was kind of like that whole ‘perfect moment’ scene from Star Trek: Insurrection. (And yes, I’m aware that from a critical Orientalist perspective that statement kind of plays into the whole ‘exotic-erotic’ myth, but the bit about time seeming to stand still for me is indescribable any other way!)

At any rate, three or four hours (and a few glasses of wine and smokes) later, we made our way back to Djamaa el-Fna for dinner at one of the stalls that’s set-up each night.

It really was a beautiful, fun-filled evening—perfect for my last night in Morocco!

Morocco: Desert Nights

Continued from my last Moroccan entry:

Once I was mounted atop Coco the Camel, and my new friends were situated on theirs (which included the likes of Harold, Kumar, and Madame), our guides began leading us from Zagora to our Saharan campsite. In total, the trip took about an hour to an hour-and-a-half (if I recall correctly). It may have just felt like that’s how long it took…

Allow me to digress for a moment here: much like the act or riding an elephant—which I've done twice in my lifetime—riding a camel is not fun. Oh, it’s a novelty (from our Westernized perspective) to be sure, and it’s an experience that I’m thrilled to have tucked under my belt...but in practice, it’s quite painful. 

And while I have no first-hand knowledge for making the following comparison, I would suggest that it’s probably at least a bit more painful for men than women, as there is the additional problem of pinching in addition to bruising. Especially for those of us—like me—who may have been wearing jeans that were slightly too tight. 

Ouchy-Pinchy-Hurty!

That's me sitting behind SP (the woman in the blue coat).
[Image Courtesy of: OS]

Regardless, most of us eventually figured out the least-problematic ways of riding our camels according to our varied…physical needs. This process, of course, involved a lot of laughing at one another (which undoubtedly created an even deeper level of intimacy amongst the group), and zero input from our guides (who probably derive amusement from watching tourists undergo this learning process on their own). 

So anyway, we continued plodding deeper into the Sahara (though sadly we never made it deep enough into the desert to completely lose sight of ‘civilization’). 

Gradually, the sun was setting quite spectacularly to our left.

Sunset in the Sahara

And yet, there was no sign of the moon. Just stars. Millions of stars—most stationary but some falling. More stars than I’ve ever seen before. 

The camera wasn’t able to capture it, unfortunately, so I can’t share it with you, but the memory of all of those stars will remain forever etched into my memory. This was also the first time where I was able to clearly understand the whole constellations thing. In the past, it’s always seemed like a dodgy concept to me, probably because I didn’t have access to so much of the celestial tapestry—but that night, 9 March, I was clearly able to make out Orion, the Dippers (which were on their sides, compared to what I’m used to), and even Scorpius. I suddenly understood how people living in ancient times could effectively navigate just by following the stars.

And the stars weren’t all that was in the heavens above. It was so clear that we were actually able to make out the man-made satellites hurtling around the Earth at breathtaking speeds. And planets, too: three of them! One of the planets, to the northeast (I think) possessed a distinctive reddish-brown glow, and we were all pretty convinced that this one was Mars. The other two planets, to the southwest (I think), were positioned fairly closely to one another from our perspective, and we decided that they were probably Venus and Jupiter. 

It was all quite breathtaking…and humbling!

By the time we reached the campsite, it was truly dark out. The moon wasn’t visible yet, and there was no sign of man-made lights for as far as the eye could see. It was into this environment that our guides helped us dismount from our camels…and then disappeared!

That’s right: they disappeared! Here we were, a group of tourists, suddenly abandoned in the pitch-blackness of the Sahara Desert at night. In between nervous titters about what we should do, we turned our attention to taking photos as a means of busying ourselves until we our guides returned.

For whatever reason I am not posed with Coco here, however, that is Coco behind me looking directly at the camera.

The guides did not return, but eventually another voice in the distance began calling to us. Slowly we made our way over, where we were greeted by one of the Berber men in charge of the campsite.

I don’t know what I really expected from the campsite. In many ways, what I got jived perfectly with what I expected—but in some other ways, I was a bit disappointed (and simultaneously relieved) by the ways in which it was geared towards tourists like myself. In regards to the former, the campsite consisted primarily of about 10 tents—each with (sand-filled?) sleeping-mats for four people and illuminated by oil-lamps—situated around a large, communal firepit and equally large communal tent for eating. In regards to the latter, there was a large white tent that served as the bathroom…complete with working toilets, sinks, etc.

We were instructed to put our stuff away in our sex-segregated tents (I bunked with JM, RG, and J), and then to make our way to the dining tent. Once there, in keeping with local customs we were served some delicious touareg tea. The tea was followed by a delicious lentil soup (that I believe is called Harira), which was itself followed by a tajin containing chicken and a host of other ingredients. And, of course, the food was accompanied here (as with all other meals) by a lovely basket of kesra for sopping up any of the delicious juices that were been left behind!

Touareg Toast! [Left to Right: KB, DB, MD, OS, me, JM / Image courtesy of OS]

Post-soup tajin. [Left to Right: host, me, JM / Image courtesy of DB]

After stuffing ourselves, all guests were invited out to the firepit—now ablaze—where our hosts regaled us with ‘traditional Berber songs and music’ (as billed by the company sponsoring this trip). Some of us were even invited to join-in on the festivities, and encouraged to play drums and/or tambourines.

I also 'played' the black and silver drum and tambourine seen here. [Left to Right: DB, me, OS, JM / Photo courtesy of OS]

The night grew deeper, and the moon finally made its dazzling appearance around what felt like 9:00 or 10:00 PM, blotting out most of the stars with its own brilliance (much to my dismay). Gradually, various people began wandering off to their tents for bed, but a small group of us stayed around the campfire, encouraged to do so by our hosts who were quick to remind us of the rarity of such an opportunity. 

While the air grew chiller and the fire dwindled, we started telling riddles, which was itself quite comical because of the various language barriers. Typically, a riddle would be told in its first language, then translated for someone else in a second language, and then re-translated for someone else in a third language (with linguistic clarifications by another party). Then, the process would have to work in reverse once someone thought they had an answer! Fortunately, JM was fluent enough in Spanish and French that he was able to act as the group’s primary translator here—although, I do still think that one or two riddles got lost in translation somewhere along the line.

And then there were three…at about 3:00 AM (or so it felt). After a long while of telling riddles, only JM, myself, and one other gent remained around the campfire, everyone else having gone to bed. The three of us stretched out on the cold desert sands (slightly warmed by a bottle of rum, etc.), and just stared at the sky above, doing our best to take-in the once-in-a-lifetimeness of it all.

Sadly (right around the time we decided that the moon kind of looked like Sid from Ice Age if you squint just right), the cold became too much, and so it was time to turn in…on a pillow seemingly filled with sand, and under six or seven heavy, thick, furry blankets.

Nonetheless, what an amazing journey into the Sahara and first night once there!