CASABLANCA - NOT THE MOVIE

Casablanca  in Spanish means White House.   Not the Pennsylvania Avenue White house, more excitingly Morocco’s business and industrial capital.    Of souks, lamb tajine and scary bearded looking men, quite disturbingly, all the houses in Casablanca seem to have pinkish and orange tone.   

Facing the Atlantic, Casablanca from the air as Ethihad banks left descending into Mohammed V Airport with early morning sunrise making the sand dunes of the Sahara dessert take on a reddish orangey hue.

Somehow Casablanca, because of its movie association of a love story set in a night club gambling den of Ricky’s bar , did not prepare me for  its Islamic sensibilities.  Walking around the city wearing a scarf around my head was necessary as we were visiting the  Hassan II Mosque.  Unveiled in 1993, the Mosque built on both land and reclaimed land from the Atlantic Ocean is that King Hussan believed that God’s throne is on the water so that those coming to pray, to praise the creator on firm soil, at the same time contemplate God’s sky and ocean. 

Hunger is creeping and having been promised a true Moroccan dinner, Café Maure is just around the corner.   It promises to be a true Moroccan meal with lamb tajine  and chicken cooked with pomegranate molasses.  Washing down this tasty tajine isn’t what one would expect.   Moroccan’s do not drink alcohol.  So although the tajine would’ve gone down well with a bordeau but on offer was a delightfully refreshing mint tea.  

Crushed mint is brewed along with a pot of  black tea and poured into glasses stuffed with fresh mint leaves.   

Chicken with Pomagrante Molasses

Chicken with pomegranate molasses was superb.  Grilled Chicken pieces swimming in a dark brownish red tart sauce,  mopped up with thickish unleavened bread.  Very messy, and alarmingly addictive – just could not get enough.  My stomach said no, but my brain kept egging me on for more. 

Carpet store in the Souk

Incidences occurs when you least expect it.   Living in a world of considerable freedom governed by democratic evolution and modernistic social customs, what I witnessed in the market of Marakesh did take my breath away.  For I used my own values, and compared it against the local customs.

The intricate walkways and paths within the souks were in itself like a maze.   Look left, and there was a tea merchant selling tea in gunny sacks, look right, and a shop with Tajine pots. It was teeming with people mostly bearded men, in their white tunic and women in burquas. The scene was colourful and mesmeric until I saw a beautiful Russian model, extremely fair complexion wearing a blue strapless gown, leaning against a mosaic door being photographed.   It was a photo shoot, seen a hundred times over in places like London, Paris or New York.  The backdrop was an archway leading to an Arabian tearoom.  Surrounding the model were makeup artists, stylists and a multitude of people fussing around.  To the photographers back, a huge crowd of young pre-pubescent boys encouraged by older men jeering at the model – whipped out their privates and started an activity usually done under blankets and giggling at the same time.   No adult put a stop to this.   The model posing sexily was unaware that her nude shoulders were causing emotional turmoil amongst these young boys. 

Realization within the photo shoot team quickly put the episode to rest as the model was whisked away to a secure place and the incident passed without confrontation. The crowd dispersed averting what could have been a very unpleasant outcome.

Beduoin Tent for the night

On the way to Rabat, although only a few hours away, it was more exciting to go the longer route to Fez  which would have  completed the Moroccan experience with one  night in the  Sahara dessert sleeping in a Bedouin tent 

complete with Camels.   The Bedouin toothless chief offered 1000 camels as exchange for my beautiful and exotic companion from Thailand.  When the proposal  was declined, the bargaining went as high as 50,000 camels.  My companion sighed, if only each camel were converted into Ferraris or Porches then there might have been a consideration, toothless or not.

Nothing prepared me for the pitch darkness with only the stars as my guide, and the errily wind gushing in the cold.  Before turning in with a  hot flask of almond mint tea I share with you the sights and sounds of the most astonishing place I am about to rest my head. As I roam the earth in search for breathtaking sites, I am humbled by the insignficance of me against the beauty of our planet.   Tonight with the wind howling, a small sand storm moving in,  the vastness of the desert, I am at one with nature.

THE MALE ORGAN

When science overrides nature in the form of IVF, GIFT, with a variety of ways to induce pregnancy,  barren women pay homage to clinics professing results. Assisted Reproduction Clinics has found ways to combat nature’s inability to multiply.   The need to reproduce is in everyone, at some point in his or her lives.  When what God intended failed; inadequacy, impotency, blame and sadness befalls these unlucky people.   Promises of  ZIFT, Surgical Sperm Recovery, Ovarian Stimulation and perhaps even the most off putting – Assisted Hatching, can cause great hope to those inflicted.   One such fertility clinic is Jetanin Assisted Reproduction Clinic in the city center of Bangkok. 

Rows of dolls and paper machè giraffes are paid homage to the spirit house in front of this very modern building.  It reflects the intense longing denied, and that this country, Thailand, is a mystical and spiritual nation.  Sometimes there are no reasons as to why certain things are and Thais generally do not question the wherefores.  

For those wishing to multiply their families, allow me to show you how the spiritual side sometimes outweighs science.

Five hundred meters to the east of this particular clinic, Chao Mae Tuptim or Goddess Tuptim shrine, situated quietly by Klong Sansaeb in the grounds of the Nai Lert Swiss Hotel, tells much of how Bangkokians feel about spiritual needs. The shrine dedicated to the Goddess is a female fertility spirit for granting wishes of barren women to conceive.   Its not that they don’t know “how to”, more to the point practice does not make perfect, and when assisted reproduction failed, what else is there to do?

Chao Mae Tuptim is the place to go.   

Although hidden from view, tucked away in the corner grounds by the canal, infertile women who are desperate to conceive, worship this shrine.  They bring along jasmine flowers, candles and joss sticks and pray.   The success stories are accounted by many and their offering upon returning to the shrine is to thank Goddess Tuptim by placing phallic symbols large and small in the grounds near to the shrine. Chao Mae Tuptim has been known to prefer phallic symbols although dolls have been left around the shrine representing the babies that were conceived as a result of the prayers.  Men also go there to pray for money as the phallic symbol also signifies financial prosperity

The grounds are scattered with penis symbols that come in many forms and sizes made from wood, stone or even plastic, decorated with ribbons and flowers.  Some are an inch long and some giant sizes as tall as 7 ft. and as many as 300 reside with the spirit.

Legend has it that there was once a woman who had trouble getting pregnant.  After trying all possible ways of conceiving, she finally went to the shrine to ask for Chao Mae Tuptim’s help.   Eventually she gave birth to a healthy baby boy and as a sign of gratitude, she offered a large wooden phallus to the goddess, others followed suit thus creating a tradition.

God's will, Man's determination or Spirtual intervention .......

                                                                       you decide!

The fight for life

COMING HOME

SPEEDBIRD RUNWAY L27  APPROACH 500FT 400FT   300FT  200FT 100FT  -  TOUCHDOWN

WELCOM TO HEATHROW LONDON, WELCOME HOME

Flying in to London Heathrow, nostalgia revisits as this time I enter the country as a visitor.  Previous journey’s have been on different conditions, as they were returning home trips.  

 Speedbird landed on runway no. L27  at what should be the crack of dawn but unfortunately its as dark as midnight.  Terminal 3 seems to have grown smaller or perhaps there are more people, distorting area awareness.  

Ravenous,  I know that the only meal worth enjoying in the UK is the English breakfast.   It was a toss up between a  motorway café truck driver’s nosh  (which I might add is terrific) or for the exclusive, expensive Piccadilly style.  I opt for Piccadilly as the best English breakfast can only be had  (besides my mother-in-law's) is at The Wolsely, and they open at 7:00am, unusually early for British time.  It offers everything you could wish for within an incredible setting in the heart of Piccadilly.

The assumption of this travel blog may be the result of my working in the industry of airlines or tour packages is a massive stretch from the truth.  Unfortunately, no such luck. Hundreds of thousands of miles have been crisscrossed, and it seems this is my destiny.  Time frame is always a question mark.  Some are fleeting visits, some require pitching tent for longer periods, and some whizz by without registering the cerebral cortex.

London has been home for me at different times of my life; as a small child, a teenager, a married woman and now it’s a place I go back for a good fix when life is a little off kilter.  

Drummed into my head that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, The Wolesley menu indeed fixed my cravings in ways you cannot imagine.  White tablecloth, white napkins, tea and coffee in silver pots, and plates of Wedgewood china with silver cutlery that has been shiningly polished.  Civilised.  This settles me because in  my world of fast speed internet, deadlines, tired looking sandwiches on the go, catching planes, meeting wonderful and not so wonderful people, I have little time to stop to smell the roses.  If I were my own therapist, this is what remedies my soul.

Green Park, London

No need to embelish what a great breakfast can do - my walk in Green Park does the next best thing.  Skipping & playing hopscotch through Green Park as a child, I feel young again just by being there.   The morning light coming through and spring is in the air.  Tulips just sprouting, and the nippy air keeps my jetlag at bay.

Tonight is reserved for something very special, so rest my head I will, jetlag demands it.



Having made it to the seventh year level of ballet, I have seen just about every production the Royal Ballet had to offer.  My excitement is even more pronounced when I knew that I would be seeing La Bayadere at the Royal Opera House.  It was performed in 1961 in Paris by Rudolf Nureyev, then with the Kirov Ballet but I was too young at the time.   Now my chance to totally absorb all  150 minutes choreographed by Natalia Makarova will be just magic.  And magic it was.

Weekend country house retreat requires being equipped with walking shoes and it only seems right to get kitted out at Harrods.  Two hours and finally we were out of  Knightsbridge heading north on the M1 in time for tea.  Coming home, feet up, BBC1 turned on with an episode of Cornonation Street, logs crackling in the fireplace and a cup of Brooks Bond, darkness enveloping the outside air and it is only 5pm, it cannot get better than this.