This will be my last blog post from the wondrous country of Morocco - at least for this trip. I tell you now I will return one day to this land.... but next time I'll come equipped with two empty suitcases and whopping great wadges of cash.
That's right people, Morocco is a shopping Mecca - as opposed to Mecca, which is a Muslim Mecca (forgive the bad Islamic puns). I have been remarkably restrained if I do say so myself. Mind you, not having space in the pack or money to spare helped! My important purchases include:
--My Chefchaouen throw - still my best buy I think. Gorgeous for 230 dirhams.
--A sweet silver and mother-of-pearl-ish ring from Essaouira. Bargain buying for 60 dirhams and my biro (seriously).
--A shitload of Argan Oil, which I WILL use, no matter what Greg tells you. 90dh total.
--Perfume blocks, scented rose, jasmine and sandalwood. Mmm, I smell so good for 30dh per block.
--A camel-skin wall lampshade from Marrakech. My last big spend - 130dh. It will look super on the new balcony.
Anyways. Our end-of-tour bash in Marrakech went off. I met some wonderful people on the trip - and I hope to stay in touch. I should also give a shout out to our guide Craig, who admirably put up with my constant whinging about hiking, trekking, walking (basically any physical activity that didn't involve a camel). Sure, Greg had to put up with that too, but that's his full-time job. ;)
We left Marrakech yesterday, taking the overnight sleeper train to Tangiers. We returned to the hotel we'd stayed here a week previous, and have had a nice relaxing day. I haven't even bought anything - can you believe it?
I want to write more about the sights, sounds, smells and squat toilets of Morocco, but I'm running out of net time. Soon, my friends, soon! For now, I say a final 'messalama', and prepare to go all Don Quixote in Spain!
Nov 27, 2006
Nov 21, 2006
Squatting for Australia!
Salaam ali-khum, my good friends!
It's been over a week since my last communication - and in that time I have traversed much of the Moroccan landscape. I was planning to post from Chefchaouen (hash capital of the Rif Mountains - "I got good stuff for you to smoke, yes?") last Tuesday, but I was overcome at the keyboard with a reoccurence of my sore throat. Damn and blast! I have only just now recovered from that nagging twinge somewhere behind my tonsils, to be ready to enthrall and delight you with tales of my exotic adventures. That's exotic, not erotic - I described the hammam in the last post!
As already mentioned, we found ourselves last Monday in the charming hillside town of Chefchaouen, which means "Look at the Peaks". It was founded by Arabs and Jews fleeing the Reconquista in Spain in the late 1400s, and was isolated from Westerners for some centuries. To be brutally honest, you can kinda tell that there's been a fair bit of inbreeding over the years. The locals were lovely, but all had a certain 'look' about them that I hadn't previously seen in other Moroccan cities. And boy do they want to get you high! Most of Europe's supply of marijuana is grown in the surrounding Rif Mountains, and the government has to turn a blind eye to much of it because it provides employment for so many people. But it does get frustrating being asked every five minutes as you wander along your merry way, 'Do you want to get high?". Men get asked more than women - in fact I was lucky enough to be left alone when I wasn't walking with Greg.
Chefchaouen has a very pretty blue and white-washed medina, and we spent tzo pleasant days (apart from that sore throat) wandering the hilly streets. Weaving is the skill particular to the region, and I wound up buying a beautiful red-and-black throw for my new flat. We got it from a lovely man who didn't haggle much or pressure us at all. He was definitely the guy who made the throa too, as his loom was right there in the shop and he had to stop to serve us. He was also resolute about not going too low in price - a sure sign the final price is a good one. Many merchants demand, for example, 150 dirhams for an item they claim is incredibly valuable - but when you leave the shop will quickly agree to your price of 40 or 50 dirhams!
We proceeded via local bus from Chefchaouen to Tangier, the most northern city in Morocco, and Africa's gateway to Europe. You can look out over the water and see the southern-most tip of Spain just 13km away. We did that on our second day there, as on our first, it absolutely pissed down with rain! Tangier has been extensively renovated in recent years - the boardwalk has a bit of a Gold Coast tourist strip feel to it - but in the pouring rain it was a bit grim. When the sun came out though, so too did the atmosphere - street vendors, food markets, sheep and goats popping up in public gardens... it's a very eclectic toan, a leftover from its time as a base for many European powers.
On Friday night we took the overnight train from Tangier to Marrakech - and encountered another bizarre coincedence. We ran into two people we know from Brisbane!!! Evan and Carly, to be precise. They're friends from the librarian/medieval re-enacters sphere, and are travelling through Morocco and Spain for six weeks. We were luckily in the same sleeper carriage, and stayed up half the night catching up - which thankfully took our minds off the vile French woman who was sharing Greg and I's cabin. We said adieu at Marrakech train station, and hope to catch up again, if and when Dame Fortune decides!
We spent the weekend at the little town of Imlil, in the High Atlas Mountains. It's gorgeous scenery there - with snow now capping the high mountains behind the village. I must admit to getting a bit grumpy with the challenge of hiking up hills - as you all know, I hate exercise, and walking up hills is the worst. I was also too worried about what the rest of the group thought of me - they were all keen for walking while I just wanted to crash out with some chips and a book.
In the end I did a two hour walk uphill to see the next valley over. I managed to hitch part of the way on mule, but the rest was all my own effort. I was happy xith what I did, and not jealous at all of Greg, who joined a few of the other blokes for a further five-hour hike around a whole mountain!
Tonight I sit in Essouraira, a coastal town about 3 hours south of Marrakech. I was quite distressed on arrival to find ther are only SQUAT TOILETS in our hotel!!! The absolute grossness of squats is something I'll dwell on another time. But I have done some recon and found a nearby cafe with a seat toilet, and coupled with the delightful seaside atmos and delectable shopping, am in a much better frame of mind.
And so I leave you now, to talk again soon. Inshallah.
It's been over a week since my last communication - and in that time I have traversed much of the Moroccan landscape. I was planning to post from Chefchaouen (hash capital of the Rif Mountains - "I got good stuff for you to smoke, yes?") last Tuesday, but I was overcome at the keyboard with a reoccurence of my sore throat. Damn and blast! I have only just now recovered from that nagging twinge somewhere behind my tonsils, to be ready to enthrall and delight you with tales of my exotic adventures. That's exotic, not erotic - I described the hammam in the last post!
As already mentioned, we found ourselves last Monday in the charming hillside town of Chefchaouen, which means "Look at the Peaks". It was founded by Arabs and Jews fleeing the Reconquista in Spain in the late 1400s, and was isolated from Westerners for some centuries. To be brutally honest, you can kinda tell that there's been a fair bit of inbreeding over the years. The locals were lovely, but all had a certain 'look' about them that I hadn't previously seen in other Moroccan cities. And boy do they want to get you high! Most of Europe's supply of marijuana is grown in the surrounding Rif Mountains, and the government has to turn a blind eye to much of it because it provides employment for so many people. But it does get frustrating being asked every five minutes as you wander along your merry way, 'Do you want to get high?". Men get asked more than women - in fact I was lucky enough to be left alone when I wasn't walking with Greg.
Chefchaouen has a very pretty blue and white-washed medina, and we spent tzo pleasant days (apart from that sore throat) wandering the hilly streets. Weaving is the skill particular to the region, and I wound up buying a beautiful red-and-black throw for my new flat. We got it from a lovely man who didn't haggle much or pressure us at all. He was definitely the guy who made the throa too, as his loom was right there in the shop and he had to stop to serve us. He was also resolute about not going too low in price - a sure sign the final price is a good one. Many merchants demand, for example, 150 dirhams for an item they claim is incredibly valuable - but when you leave the shop will quickly agree to your price of 40 or 50 dirhams!
We proceeded via local bus from Chefchaouen to Tangier, the most northern city in Morocco, and Africa's gateway to Europe. You can look out over the water and see the southern-most tip of Spain just 13km away. We did that on our second day there, as on our first, it absolutely pissed down with rain! Tangier has been extensively renovated in recent years - the boardwalk has a bit of a Gold Coast tourist strip feel to it - but in the pouring rain it was a bit grim. When the sun came out though, so too did the atmosphere - street vendors, food markets, sheep and goats popping up in public gardens... it's a very eclectic toan, a leftover from its time as a base for many European powers.
On Friday night we took the overnight train from Tangier to Marrakech - and encountered another bizarre coincedence. We ran into two people we know from Brisbane!!! Evan and Carly, to be precise. They're friends from the librarian/medieval re-enacters sphere, and are travelling through Morocco and Spain for six weeks. We were luckily in the same sleeper carriage, and stayed up half the night catching up - which thankfully took our minds off the vile French woman who was sharing Greg and I's cabin. We said adieu at Marrakech train station, and hope to catch up again, if and when Dame Fortune decides!
We spent the weekend at the little town of Imlil, in the High Atlas Mountains. It's gorgeous scenery there - with snow now capping the high mountains behind the village. I must admit to getting a bit grumpy with the challenge of hiking up hills - as you all know, I hate exercise, and walking up hills is the worst. I was also too worried about what the rest of the group thought of me - they were all keen for walking while I just wanted to crash out with some chips and a book.
In the end I did a two hour walk uphill to see the next valley over. I managed to hitch part of the way on mule, but the rest was all my own effort. I was happy xith what I did, and not jealous at all of Greg, who joined a few of the other blokes for a further five-hour hike around a whole mountain!
Tonight I sit in Essouraira, a coastal town about 3 hours south of Marrakech. I was quite distressed on arrival to find ther are only SQUAT TOILETS in our hotel!!! The absolute grossness of squats is something I'll dwell on another time. But I have done some recon and found a nearby cafe with a seat toilet, and coupled with the delightful seaside atmos and delectable shopping, am in a much better frame of mind.
And so I leave you now, to talk again soon. Inshallah.
Nov 13, 2006
A Fes to Remember
As I lay face down and half-naked on the warm wet floor - my buttocks being heartily loofahed by an ancient-looking topless masseuse, and being carefully watched over by two nubile air hostesses wearing only G-strings - I thought to myself:
"Well, this is not what I expected to be doing in Morocco!"
I'm talking, ladies and gentlemen, not of a sudden foray into low-budget pornography, but of my Saturday evening in a hammam, or traditional Moroccan bath.
We arrived in Fes - once the capital of the country and still reknowned as its spiritual and gastronomic heart - on Friday night, after a long mini-bus ride up from the Sahara Desert (where we beaten the floods and food poisioning to make an awesome desert sunrise and camel ride). We spent Saturday in the company of Hakima, a famous local guide (she's even listed in the Morocco Lonely Planet), touring the even more famous Fes medina. Inside the walls of Old Fes exist over 10 000 streets. Street is actually a misleading description, as most would struggle to qualify as crawl space, and one can easily get lost, or worse, barrelled over by one of the many donkeys that replace cars as the vehicle of choice for moving merchandise inside the medina.
Our visit included trips to see: carpet-making (my goodness, but the girls are fast with their knot-tying - watching them string their Australian merino wool into memorised patterns was like watching a harpist on amphetamines); the tanneries (where they dye leather after soaking it in a scrumptious batch of pigeon poo); the weaving (pretty scarves made out of cactus silk!); and the herbalist (who made a small fortune out of my love of yummy smelling things for my skin).
So after all that most of the group felt like they needed to relax - it was only as we walked into the hammam to pay that I realised I was the only girl going in. The sexes bathe in different rooms, and understandably I was nervous. Actually, terrified would be more accurate - especially after I realised Moroccan women didn't seem to share my body hang-ups and were letting it all...well, hang out. Boobs everywhere! Once I stripped down to my athing suit and entered the steam rooms, I didn't know where to look or what to do. I had paid 50 dirhams (about 8 bucks) for a steam and a massage, but with my knowledge or Arabic and French extremely limited, I was having trouble working out what I was supposed to do, beynd nabbing myself a few buckets filled with hot water.
Then Allah smiled on me. Two gorgeous young women asked if I would like to sit with them. "Yes, please!" I cried in relief. They turned out to be Miriam and Schiamae, two flight attendants with Royal Air Maroc. They offered me cleansers and shampoos, and made sure I eventually got my massage. While we waited, I asked them about their lives as young Muslim women - they said that Morocco was quite liberal, and they could live their lives as they pleased. This included having boyfriends, although they respect their families by leaving cohabitation until after marriage. They also reinforced the fact that wearing the hijab is a Muslim women's own choice - and that in Islam it's whats in your heart that counts. (Although they did admit that life is harsher in other countries like Iran). I spoke a bit about Australia, and admitted once again ashamedly that I don't speak a second language.
All the while the two girls were topless.
Now I say this not just to be titillating, but to show the friendly social nature of the hammam. It's a place where you can just be - no clothes, no worries. Still, I was clinging on to the hope that I could keep my bikini top on during my massage - even though Miriam had started being pummelled and loofahed all over while we were speaking.
Then it was my turn.
My masseuse lady arrived, bring more buckets of hot and cold water. She grabbed some olive soap and pushed me to the floor, face up. She pulled down the straps of my biki top then wham! down came the whole thing, right to my midriff. Eeek! I was bare-chested! However I was now in the hands of this woman, and I had no choice but to obey her commands of sit up, lie down, roll over. She rubbed me all over with the soap, then poured buckets of water over me to rinse. She then grabbed some of Schiamae's Pantene, and scrubbed at my head. More buckets. She disappeared for a moment, and I asked Schiamae if it was over.
"No, you must wait. There is more."
She came back with more water and a loofah, pushed me to the floor again, and got to work. Scruff, scruff, scruff. My skin hadn't felt that sort of treatment since...ever. I exfoliate at home but not with such force! She loofahed my legs, arms, torso and yes, buttocks and breasts. For someone like me, who spends most of her time trying to cover up those parts of my body, it was confronting being so exposed. I wouldn't say it was liberating (once a prude, always a prude), but I can see the enjoyment local women derive from it. Nobody was judging me; nobody cared. That's always a good realisation.
The scrub ended with another bucket dousing, and then I bade farewell to my new flight attendant friends. After being scared to go in alone, I'm glad I did, as I met two great Moroccan women and really got to mix it with the locals.
Oh yeah, and my skin was nice and soft, too. ;)
"Well, this is not what I expected to be doing in Morocco!"
I'm talking, ladies and gentlemen, not of a sudden foray into low-budget pornography, but of my Saturday evening in a hammam, or traditional Moroccan bath.
We arrived in Fes - once the capital of the country and still reknowned as its spiritual and gastronomic heart - on Friday night, after a long mini-bus ride up from the Sahara Desert (where we beaten the floods and food poisioning to make an awesome desert sunrise and camel ride). We spent Saturday in the company of Hakima, a famous local guide (she's even listed in the Morocco Lonely Planet), touring the even more famous Fes medina. Inside the walls of Old Fes exist over 10 000 streets. Street is actually a misleading description, as most would struggle to qualify as crawl space, and one can easily get lost, or worse, barrelled over by one of the many donkeys that replace cars as the vehicle of choice for moving merchandise inside the medina.
Our visit included trips to see: carpet-making (my goodness, but the girls are fast with their knot-tying - watching them string their Australian merino wool into memorised patterns was like watching a harpist on amphetamines); the tanneries (where they dye leather after soaking it in a scrumptious batch of pigeon poo); the weaving (pretty scarves made out of cactus silk!); and the herbalist (who made a small fortune out of my love of yummy smelling things for my skin).
So after all that most of the group felt like they needed to relax - it was only as we walked into the hammam to pay that I realised I was the only girl going in. The sexes bathe in different rooms, and understandably I was nervous. Actually, terrified would be more accurate - especially after I realised Moroccan women didn't seem to share my body hang-ups and were letting it all...well, hang out. Boobs everywhere! Once I stripped down to my athing suit and entered the steam rooms, I didn't know where to look or what to do. I had paid 50 dirhams (about 8 bucks) for a steam and a massage, but with my knowledge or Arabic and French extremely limited, I was having trouble working out what I was supposed to do, beynd nabbing myself a few buckets filled with hot water.
Then Allah smiled on me. Two gorgeous young women asked if I would like to sit with them. "Yes, please!" I cried in relief. They turned out to be Miriam and Schiamae, two flight attendants with Royal Air Maroc. They offered me cleansers and shampoos, and made sure I eventually got my massage. While we waited, I asked them about their lives as young Muslim women - they said that Morocco was quite liberal, and they could live their lives as they pleased. This included having boyfriends, although they respect their families by leaving cohabitation until after marriage. They also reinforced the fact that wearing the hijab is a Muslim women's own choice - and that in Islam it's whats in your heart that counts. (Although they did admit that life is harsher in other countries like Iran). I spoke a bit about Australia, and admitted once again ashamedly that I don't speak a second language.
All the while the two girls were topless.
Now I say this not just to be titillating, but to show the friendly social nature of the hammam. It's a place where you can just be - no clothes, no worries. Still, I was clinging on to the hope that I could keep my bikini top on during my massage - even though Miriam had started being pummelled and loofahed all over while we were speaking.
Then it was my turn.
My masseuse lady arrived, bring more buckets of hot and cold water. She grabbed some olive soap and pushed me to the floor, face up. She pulled down the straps of my biki top then wham! down came the whole thing, right to my midriff. Eeek! I was bare-chested! However I was now in the hands of this woman, and I had no choice but to obey her commands of sit up, lie down, roll over. She rubbed me all over with the soap, then poured buckets of water over me to rinse. She then grabbed some of Schiamae's Pantene, and scrubbed at my head. More buckets. She disappeared for a moment, and I asked Schiamae if it was over.
"No, you must wait. There is more."
She came back with more water and a loofah, pushed me to the floor again, and got to work. Scruff, scruff, scruff. My skin hadn't felt that sort of treatment since...ever. I exfoliate at home but not with such force! She loofahed my legs, arms, torso and yes, buttocks and breasts. For someone like me, who spends most of her time trying to cover up those parts of my body, it was confronting being so exposed. I wouldn't say it was liberating (once a prude, always a prude), but I can see the enjoyment local women derive from it. Nobody was judging me; nobody cared. That's always a good realisation.
The scrub ended with another bucket dousing, and then I bade farewell to my new flight attendant friends. After being scared to go in alone, I'm glad I did, as I met two great Moroccan women and really got to mix it with the locals.
Oh yeah, and my skin was nice and soft, too. ;)
Nov 9, 2006
Floods and Food Poisoning!
Ah, it's one of the joys of modern travel that you can be just about anywhere and find an internet cafe. Or at the very least, a net connection. I'm currently sitting in what looks kind of like a library room, in a house in the village below Todra Gorge, one of Morocco's famous natural landmarks. And lo, here is the internet! Moroccans have actually really take to the web, so it's probably not that surprising!
We began our trip in Ouarzazate, a 4.5 hour bus ride east of Marrakech through some spectacular scenery courtesy of the High Atlas Mountains. I was a bit nervous on some of the precarious roads, especially as the bus driver seemed to be chatting on his mobile most of the time. But true professional as he was, he got us into town alive and washed Tuesday we headed east again towards Todra Gorge. Heavy rains in the region has made life pretty interesting, with many roads and bridges washed away by floods. We actually spent two hours at the side of one low bridge, waiting for the flooded 40 or 50 metre stretch to drop down. Luckily there was a small cafe on our side, and I was able to grab some cookies for sustenance!
We eventually got across, but flooding up here around Todra meant we had to stay in the nearby village of Teneghir instead. We had a lovely paella supper, but unfortunately Greg's vego oner didn't agree with him and he wound up with a bout of food poisioning! However he was well enough to get on our small truck to come up to Todra this morning, and he's sleeping it off now. There's actually not much else to do here at the moment: the Gorge is spectacular but due to continuing rain quite dangerous to climb. I've settled instead for a walk through the village.
It's been fun trying to chat to locals in French - so many of our fellow travellers are multi-lingual though that it makes me feel terribly ashamed!
Better go now as the rain is still pouring and I have to trek back up to our hotel for dinner.
Cheers all, Natalie.
We began our trip in Ouarzazate, a 4.5 hour bus ride east of Marrakech through some spectacular scenery courtesy of the High Atlas Mountains. I was a bit nervous on some of the precarious roads, especially as the bus driver seemed to be chatting on his mobile most of the time. But true professional as he was, he got us into town alive and washed Tuesday we headed east again towards Todra Gorge. Heavy rains in the region has made life pretty interesting, with many roads and bridges washed away by floods. We actually spent two hours at the side of one low bridge, waiting for the flooded 40 or 50 metre stretch to drop down. Luckily there was a small cafe on our side, and I was able to grab some cookies for sustenance!
We eventually got across, but flooding up here around Todra meant we had to stay in the nearby village of Teneghir instead. We had a lovely paella supper, but unfortunately Greg's vego oner didn't agree with him and he wound up with a bout of food poisioning! However he was well enough to get on our small truck to come up to Todra this morning, and he's sleeping it off now. There's actually not much else to do here at the moment: the Gorge is spectacular but due to continuing rain quite dangerous to climb. I've settled instead for a walk through the village.
It's been fun trying to chat to locals in French - so many of our fellow travellers are multi-lingual though that it makes me feel terribly ashamed!
Better go now as the rain is still pouring and I have to trek back up to our hotel for dinner.
Cheers all, Natalie.
Nov 6, 2006
Assembling in the Place of the Dead
The Wah and I are currently sitting just off the Djemaa al-Fna, Marakech's most famous square. The Arabic name translates as "Assembly of the Dead", and historically the square was used for displaying the heads of those unfortunate enough to be executed there. These days the most frightening thing you will come across is an angry cobra, thankfully de-fanged by its owner, who spends his days poking at the snake for the benefit of tourists.
The suare is the heart and soul of Morocco's third-largest city, also known as the "Pink City" due to the peach hue of the surrounding earth used to construct the city's buildings. Along with the snake charmers there's a whirlwind of musicians, dancers, story-tellers, boxers, henna tattoists, beggars, steaming food stalls and cheery orange juice salesmen. It's a marvel of life, colour and energy, and that's BEFORE you venture into the souks - the famous twisting maze of narrow streets, along which are lined stores selling silks, dyed cottons, leather handbags and pouffes, beautiful wrought-iron and glass lights, wooden carved soccer balls and chess sets... there seems to be an amazing variety, but actually after a while you feel like you've seen it all. Then it's time to haggle.
So far Greg and I have done reasonably well, although I came very close to laying out 500 dirhams (almost 100 dollars) on a beautiful and huge red-and-gold throw.... luckily I realised what I was doing! There's a certain magic about the souk, and you do have to watch yourself sometimes to make sure you don't get too caught up in the ritual of bargaining!
Tonight we met our 12-strong Intrepid tour group - mostly Aussies, but with a couple of Canadians, a Kiwi and a Belgian thrown in for good measure. Our group leader is a chilled-out Aussie named Craig, and I think he'll make sure we have a good time.
We're off in the morning so I'd better go... will write again when I next find a net cafe!
Cheers, Natalie.
The suare is the heart and soul of Morocco's third-largest city, also known as the "Pink City" due to the peach hue of the surrounding earth used to construct the city's buildings. Along with the snake charmers there's a whirlwind of musicians, dancers, story-tellers, boxers, henna tattoists, beggars, steaming food stalls and cheery orange juice salesmen. It's a marvel of life, colour and energy, and that's BEFORE you venture into the souks - the famous twisting maze of narrow streets, along which are lined stores selling silks, dyed cottons, leather handbags and pouffes, beautiful wrought-iron and glass lights, wooden carved soccer balls and chess sets... there seems to be an amazing variety, but actually after a while you feel like you've seen it all. Then it's time to haggle.
So far Greg and I have done reasonably well, although I came very close to laying out 500 dirhams (almost 100 dollars) on a beautiful and huge red-and-gold throw.... luckily I realised what I was doing! There's a certain magic about the souk, and you do have to watch yourself sometimes to make sure you don't get too caught up in the ritual of bargaining!
Tonight we met our 12-strong Intrepid tour group - mostly Aussies, but with a couple of Canadians, a Kiwi and a Belgian thrown in for good measure. Our group leader is a chilled-out Aussie named Craig, and I think he'll make sure we have a good time.
We're off in the morning so I'd better go... will write again when I next find a net cafe!
Cheers, Natalie.
Nov 3, 2006
Tintin & Waterloo
Hey all!
We're off to London tomorrow (Friday), and then onwards to Marrakesh on Saturday, so I don't have time for a big blog post I'm afraid.
We spent Monday to Thursday in Brussels, the capital of Belgium and also of the European Union. Lots of people in suits with briefcases wandering around talking on mobile phones, looking very important! Also, tons of beautiful Belgian chocolate, sugary sweet waffles, the Manaken-Pis fountain (they're obsessed with a pee-ing boy!) and....
TINTIN!!!
That's right. My childhood hero himself, along with Captain Haddock and Professor Cuthbert Calculus. This is me at the Belgium Comic Strip Centre - Belgium being home of Herge, Tintin's creator (as well as a hotbed of comic creativity - did you know, for instance, that the Smurfs were invented by a Belgian artist named Peyo?). The almost-lifesize models here are wearing the spacesuits they donned in "Explorers on the Moon" (Tintin, being of course, the first man on the Moon, back in the 50s!).
I've always loved Tintin and it was great to have a look at the artwork on show at the Centre. Comics really are under-rated as an art form. They're so detailed, and mean so much to those who read them!
Finally meeting my Waterloo...
Cheesy Abba jokes aside, what a marvellously preserved battlefield. It's been kept virtually intact since that fateful day - 18 June 1815, when the Duke of Wellington lined up the Allied forces along a ridge, facing Napoleon's troops about a kilometre away. (The ridge you can see in the pic is where Boney lined up his artillery).
The weather in this shot is beautifully clear, but it was an odd day, with showers constantly moving across the fields. Waterloo, by the way, is the nearest town to this area of farmland; it's where Wellington sent his dispatch after the Allies (British, Dutch-Belgians & fearsome Prussians) managed the victory. 9500 men died; 12 000 horses & 30 000 men were wounded. Boney fled, only to surrender himself to the British fleet a few days later. He died in 1821 in exile on St Helena. The Duke of Wellington lived on until 1852 - he was even present at the opening of London's famous Great Exhibition in 1851!
Well, that's enough bollocking on I guess - time for some precious sleep.
Cheers, all!
P.S. Oh yeah, and my flat is going to be the BIGGEST geek house when I get back....details later...
We're off to London tomorrow (Friday), and then onwards to Marrakesh on Saturday, so I don't have time for a big blog post I'm afraid.
We spent Monday to Thursday in Brussels, the capital of Belgium and also of the European Union. Lots of people in suits with briefcases wandering around talking on mobile phones, looking very important! Also, tons of beautiful Belgian chocolate, sugary sweet waffles, the Manaken-Pis fountain (they're obsessed with a pee-ing boy!) and....
TINTIN!!!
That's right. My childhood hero himself, along with Captain Haddock and Professor Cuthbert Calculus. This is me at the Belgium Comic Strip Centre - Belgium being home of Herge, Tintin's creator (as well as a hotbed of comic creativity - did you know, for instance, that the Smurfs were invented by a Belgian artist named Peyo?). The almost-lifesize models here are wearing the spacesuits they donned in "Explorers on the Moon" (Tintin, being of course, the first man on the Moon, back in the 50s!).
I've always loved Tintin and it was great to have a look at the artwork on show at the Centre. Comics really are under-rated as an art form. They're so detailed, and mean so much to those who read them!
Finally meeting my Waterloo...
Cheesy Abba jokes aside, what a marvellously preserved battlefield. It's been kept virtually intact since that fateful day - 18 June 1815, when the Duke of Wellington lined up the Allied forces along a ridge, facing Napoleon's troops about a kilometre away. (The ridge you can see in the pic is where Boney lined up his artillery).
The weather in this shot is beautifully clear, but it was an odd day, with showers constantly moving across the fields. Waterloo, by the way, is the nearest town to this area of farmland; it's where Wellington sent his dispatch after the Allies (British, Dutch-Belgians & fearsome Prussians) managed the victory. 9500 men died; 12 000 horses & 30 000 men were wounded. Boney fled, only to surrender himself to the British fleet a few days later. He died in 1821 in exile on St Helena. The Duke of Wellington lived on until 1852 - he was even present at the opening of London's famous Great Exhibition in 1851!
Well, that's enough bollocking on I guess - time for some precious sleep.
Cheers, all!
P.S. Oh yeah, and my flat is going to be the BIGGEST geek house when I get back....details later...
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