50 Shades of Blue

I’ve got the blues as we drive away from the fairy-tale that is Chefchaouen; a picturesque citadel in North Morocco known for its beautiful blue buildings that fill the old medina. In the 1930’s after escaping persecution in Spain, Jewish refugees painted the walls of Chefchaouen blue as a symbol of the sky and heaven. Entering the old medina truly feels like stumbling into a castle in the sky, I have no doubt that it inspired many fairy tales.

Instead of trying to describe the magical sensation,

For which there is no appropriate explanation,

Let me rewind, into my childish mind

And tell you a story.

Behind a castle wall in a pocket in the sky, there lived an old man. His house was at the top of a long, winding staircase inside a skinny blue building that looked onto the surrounding streets of Chefchaouen. When he stood on the cracked blue tile at the back of his terrace he could see the mosque; every evening against the midnight blue the lights would come on and he’d look upon it feeling it’s grandeur as it stood in the spotlight. Every morning he’d shower, dress and walk to work through the Kasbah (town square) passed each of the colourful flowerpots that were hung daintily against the faded blue walls. As he reached the square the first of five calls to prayer would sound; he’d dutifully join his fellow men in removing their leather slippers and bowing their heads to enter the mosque, their sacred place of worship.

When he stepped out and slipped his foot back into his slippers, he’d walk away leaving a trail of gold dust behind him; his heart expanding with love for his fellow men and his magical town. He’d humbly bow his head with gratefulness and with kind eyes, walk back along the windy street and under a low archway. The shades of surrounding blue would wash over him, cleansing away the last of the gold dust. As he looked up a young foreigner in a bright orange dress caught his eye and he smiled, holding his right hand to his heart he spoke softly “Murhaba” – he welcomed her to his home. He returned to his stall where his silk scarves were strewn, shimmering against the sunlight that had escaped through the crack of cobalt roof above him. The designs on the scarves made him think of his father’s stories when he was young; they were Berber designs, made and worn by the indigenous people of North Africa. They lived in different regions all over the country from the Draa valley to the Atlas Mountains; as nomads they would travel across mountains and deserts on camels, migrating around the availability of food, water and shelter. The men often took care of the livestock while the women looked after the family and made beautiful handicrafts to be sold in the town souks (markets). His grandfather had instilled pride into him through his stories that he could still recite word for word.

A group of long haired travellers in baggie trousers were meandering along the blue street now with wide, hungry eyes. They scanned the scarves on his stall, adding colourful condiments to their visual feast – the mass of geometric patterns made their heads spin. “20 Durham?” One of the girls held a scarf towards him but her gaze had drifted towards the blue postcards on the stall next door. He gently shook his head, straightening the scarves and sighing with a smile; in broken English he explained that they were worth far more than 20 Durham. She put down the scarf and began to walk away,“Shukran” a quiet thank you could be heard as her orange trousers disappeared down the alley. He sat down on his stool and picked up his glass of sweet, mint tea that was almost cool enough to drink.

It was almost lunchtime now so he pulled out his kiefe (a light mixture of marijuana, local tobacco and dried herbs) to pack into the small clay head of his wooden pipe. He stepped inside his friends neighbouring shop to light it, inhaled a long, deep breath and felt the tension at the back of his head evaporate. One more deep inhale and he blew out sharply into his pipe, watching the embers fall to the ground. A thought popped into his head, it was Friday! The day his sister made cous cous for the family – he had to remember to pick up the bread like he had promised…

Business had been slow today, there was no harm in going to lunch earlier this way he would have time to greet his brother before the next call to prayer. He had a last sip of mint tea, leaving the sediment at the bottom of the glass and walked back under the archway. A group of ginger kittens ran between his legs and he looked up at their mother who was sitting regally on the indigo windowsill above them. Mahmoud was sat in his usual place surrounded by bundles of dried herbs – it seemed business had also been slow. As they talked a light breeze picked up and the sun was veiled by a large wisp of cloud that transformed the indigos, aquas and pastel blues to nameless shades as the call to prayer again, filled the alleys of Chefchaouen. The medina was filling up with smells of harrira and tagine as the cloud blew over, unveiling the last of the sun. The blue of Chefchaouen was expanding now to the surrounding valleys and its blue lagoons, up the mountains, into the waterfalls and out into the expanse of blue sky. And just like in any other fairytale the people of Chefchaouen continued to live happily, ever after. 

Cambodia: Day 5 (the day of death)

Ridiculous rules

Today shall be referred to as the day of death. As i write this I sit on a straw Cambodian mats on a raised platform in our guest room at the Bodhi leaf guest house. Opposite resides the S-21 prison in which thousands of detainees were held, questioned, tortured and killed in the most awful and harrowing conditions. This was one of the most fascinating aspects of Cambodia for me before we visited, the talk of the traumatic killing fields was something I’d always wanted to experience; the idea of death is such a foreign concept, it fascinates me hearing stories about what happened to people, of course it shocks the soul that humans just like you or I are capable of subjecting other individuals to such torture.

Khmer Rouge soldiers - look how young they are

The prison chambers were ridiculously small, some rooms contained just a metal bed on which a metal bar that was used for beating the prisoners lay. A cast iron box was there for their excrements (that some were made to ingest) and glass on the windows to try and contain the screams of the prisoners as they were bludgeoned, hacked and lashed. Large wooden boxes lay in other rooms in which paintings on the walls illustrated the story of how the prisoners were to lie in the boxes full of water as electric shocks passed through them continuously but never to the point of death, as that would destroy the massachistic purpose of the Khmer Rouge.

The man responsible - Pol Pot

We learnt that 1000 prisoners were taken their every day, the numbers on each prisoner was to be re-used after they were killed so as not to waste any material. The prison was divided into three buildings, the third of which was untouched, with the mesh and barbed wire still lining any chance for the prisoners to escape through the doors to commit suicide – a far less painful idea than what awaited them. The rooms were divided into tiny sections by wooden or cement walls for each individual prisoner, and walking through the dark corridors sent shivers down my spine as I envisioned the unimaginable pain they must’ve gone through. In the ‘B’ building there were mostly biographies of prisoners or soldiers of the Khmer Rouge. Portrait photographs of Cambodian women, men and children stared out at us with a range of emotions on their faces – from pure shock to hatred to happiness to pain.

One of many prisoners

The individuals weren’t always aware of what they were going to experience before the photographs were taken, while some had their prisoner numbers pinned into their necks, with the rule being that no tear of pain was to be shed otherwise further torture would commence. The soldiers were so young, little girls and boys from the ages of 8 – 19 were everywhere, all wearing their monotonous black uniform and red and white chequered scarves. There were other photographs of victims after their torture, bloated, swollen, skeletal, blood stained, lashed, burnt, the list goes on. Mothers watched their children being smashed against walls, brothers watched their sisters having their heads drilled in and all of them must have heard the screams of their inmates.

One of the cells

 I can only imagine their fear, as they conjured up the next ‘fake’ story to stay alive when they were questioned about what they’d done wrong – these stories included supposedly working for the CIA or KGB, stealing rice or burning down another’s house. When one ran out of these ‘confessions’, they were killed. The goal being to create a sense of guilt and shame in everyone for no valid reason. Every viewer in the prison wore their heart on their faces as they walked around, absorbing the shock of this painful reality that ended a mere 30 years ago.

Behind the wire mesh (so prisoners couldn't commit suicide)

One of the babies killed

At the killing fields we were aided by an audio tape, a recording of an individual who had escaped the killing fields and was able to describe the torturous events of every corner of the area, from the grave where 250 individuals were bludgeoned to death to avoid wasting bullets, to the torture chamber, to the tree where babies were smashed against. Mum teared up, as it held more sentimental value to her, and I slid off my pink string bracelet to hang on the fence surrounding the grave as a symbol of peace and sorrow. We listened to recordings of survivors who’d experienced rape, witnessed murder or those that were forced to issue torture to others.

'The magic tree' where babies were whacked against
in front of their mothers before being thrown into a pit

The bones and skulls were stacked high in a memorial stupa for the thousands that had been killed. Pol pot, a sick man that had himself had the priveledge of an education, killed all those with glasses, soft hands, intellectual capabilities or talent, and everyone related to them – he managed, in his (almost) four years as the leader of Cambodia, to murder a quarter of the population – over 2 million individuals. What’s so shocking is that some of the Khmer Rouge leaders are still on trial today, with the thousands of deaths that hang over their heads, charges have still not been decided. A sense of oppression has fallen upon my mother and I today, of betrayal and pain and sadness. Knowing that most people in Cambodia today are probably linked with a victim of this period of Genocide. And while life goes on, the earth continues pushing out bones and clothes of the victims from 30 years ago as a constant reminder that these people existed. I suppose we feel humility at the moment, an appreciation for life and for the circumstances we’re in now. This event is not the only one either, Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Genocide in Ruwanda, North Korea, Libya, the list continues – all events, places and people that demonstrate this sickness, this hunger for power and money at the expense of  innocents. That was during the Piscean age, as we move into the age of aquarius, hopefully this pattern will stop. As I close my eyes i mutter a few words of thanks, to whatever energy surrounds me, and I truly hope that the spirits and souls of all those lost unfairly in the Genocide are freed and at peace.

The killing fields - the grooves in the ground are graves

The Khmer Rouge uniform

Foods ability to console the mind and the body is something to be praised and respected. The meals of the ‘day of death’ shed a bit of light over a very dark day – breakfast not so much, though the guest house we were staying at was charming, the non-functioning AC, constant sound of drilling and poor service and food didn’t give the place a very good rep in our heads. But for lunch we had a delicious clear Taiwanese wanton soup with fresh greens, and for dinner we walked along the sea-front, choosing a French restaurant called ‘bouganvillier’... I walked along to the restaurant with my stomach clenched and my eyes darting to every tuk tuk driver in the area... having scored earlier from our tuk tuk driver, who i’d made the mistake of asking as he knew where we were living – i was quite nervous not knowing whether he was linked to the police, I could imagine returning to our hotel room with five men in uniform ready to tear all my bas apart.. due to the mass corruptness of the police in this country (just a tip, if buying weed, always be wary that the locals could easily be working with the po po which would result in a bit of an unpleasant confrontation and a lot of money) ... I really didn't want the responsibility of ruining our bonding Cambodian holiday – the hurricane of butterflies in my stomach increased in number and i could feel their tiny wings batting everywhere, the constipation from travelling and moving around so much not being of any service to the my nervous state!
A quick skype sesh with my boyfriend only got my heart racing more so as we walked along passed the pubs and restaurants before choosing Bouganvillier, my mind was scattered and my heart was pumping in my stomach. The ambience of the restaurant was odd, we had a group of French and Cambodian people sitting near us eating from the French-Cambodian buffet, waiters floated around in tail coats but no other customers were in the restaurant creating a slightly ghostly vibe.
 We ordered a glass of red wine to share, duck confit for mum and pan fried salmon with ratatouille for me. The wine was great, and the fresh French bread was delicious, but the food could’ve been vamped up just a tad – dry duck and oily salsa verde wasn’t a good look. We had a treat of ice cream at ‘the blue pumpkin’ a few blocks down, I chose chocolate rocky road (with almonds and raisins) and vanilla with brownie in a cup. Mum treated herself with just one scoop of rocky road in a cone. Mmm sitting by the sea with our ice cream, nostalgically running through childhood stories of sneaking lots of ice cream toppings into my cone under the scoop of ice cream so mum could never see. The grass situation turned out to be fine and I had nothing to worry about, but getting rid of the tuk tuk driver allowed me to breath a deep sigh of relief.


Recipe of the day: Grilled Salmon with Ratatouille
http://culinaryarts.about.com/od/fishseafood/r/salmonrata.htm

Cambodia: Day 1

Fresh ginger tea, morning Cambodia

Tour guide Tan

One of the 'Gods' or 'Angels' holding the serpent

Our second mother-daughter bonding experience had begun. As we strolled out of the airport with our wheel-along bags and fake mulberry’s from good ‘ol Hong Kong, i noticed carriage like vehicles, powered by motorbikes. My eyes widened at the thought of riding in one, they almost looked like Cinderella carriages in war-struck Cambodia, it was bizarre but a lovely touch. A man stood with our names on a sign-board, for the first time everything was spelt correctly, a very good sign indeed. To my delight we sat in one of the Cinderella carriages, with the warning of clinging on tightly to any valuable bags due to bag snatchers and the like. We stopped for a local sim card and made our way to our lovely guest house in Siem-Reap called ‘seven candles’, highly recommended! The rooms were basic but did have AC, a small TV, dvd player and lovely service. An entertaining laminated poster within the bathroom read ‘cambodian potty training’ and instructed us to not place any unnatural waste (tissue paper) into the toilet as the drainage system in Cambodia couldn’t deal with it yet. Back to basics. Luckily, my Asian upbringing meant that this kind of thing wasn’t that unusual, and a bum-hose was a daily routine and not an alien device.

Mum and I

A Lingum in a Yoni

 It was 8:30am so we munched on apples and muesli bars and then head off with another Cinderella carriage (i later learnt that they are called  motor-roteks, the Cambodian version of a tuk tuk), a tour guide and lots of water to sight-see and appreciate the lovely temples of Angkor. The first day we completed ‘the grand circuit’ – as we hadn’t seen any of them before, they were fascinating, the stories related to the elaborate detail on every inch of the temples was so interesting – and not dissimilar from what i remember acting out from 1^st – 3^rd grade when I attended the British school of new Dheli. The hindu gods Brahma, Shiva, Vishnu, Laxmi and Hannuman. Shiva the destroyer, Vishnu the sustainer of life and Brahma the creator. Laxmi the goddess of wealth and prosperity and all the other wives and women who served as the feminine energy to balance out the overpowering sense of masculinity.

 The animal symbolism was also interesting, there were many serpents, especially at the entrance of the temples, on our left, stone statues of the gods held the strong serpent body and on the right, just as yin and yang has light and dark, the devils held up the other snake body of the snake. The head of the serpent, or Naga, rose to a higher level and the tails twined to symbolize the churning of the sea of milk, the elixir of life, evoking immortality for the divine. Square Yoni’s (meaning the female vagina) lay everywhere, with Lingums (round stones) in their centres. Due to vandalism, greed and war, many of the lingums had been taken and many of the heads of Buddha’s or stone statues had also been cut off.

Hand-like almost

Without a guide, all of the picture stories that smothered the stone would not have been nearly as interesting. Some of the stories were gruesome, i remember the picture of Krishna standing strong and mighty, with pyramids of servants below him. When i asked what this meant we were told the story. Krishna had been brought up by his uncle, and led to believe that he was an only child and therefore the rightful king, with servants surrounding him left and right. Many of the servants were in fact his siblings but his uncle kept this from him, when Krishna found out he stormed towards his uncle in rage and tore his body in two. The violence within these stories was revealingly apparent. We visited the crematorium where bodies used to be burnt, face down mind you as if they were face up the nerves would cause the body to sit up, and due to lack of understanding the ancients must have thought the individuals spirit was coming back – a somewhat scary thought! We learnt about the tradition that still continues today, following ones cremation. The ashes are cleansed in king coconut water (seven king coconuts to be precise!) and everyone must drink a small amount of this water in order to feel connected to the deceased relative – not a tradition i’d feel comfortable taking part in but an interesting one nevertheless.

Amazing tree

It struck me how linked hunduism and Buddhism were on these temple walls, the hindu positioning of the Buddha sitting in meditation with his knees up and hands in prayer position against the sternum, was transformed into the Buddhist positioning of legs down and hands resting on his knees. Vishnu was said to be reincarnated into the Buddha, hence Buddhism (Theravada Buddhism, the country’s current religion) stemmed directly from Hinduism. I think all religions merge really. Due to the ongoing movement and constant energy that KL required, my body could take no more and my streaming nose, not dissimilar to a water hose, was proof of that. It began to get unbearable and my head floated in a fog as our guide continued describing the interesting stories on the temple walls.

I love that food can lift ones spirits, Khmer food is absolutely delicious. Very similar to Thai food but without the chilli, for lunch we ate a lemongrass, pork and mushroom soup with rice and basil chicken. The portions are meant to be shared so we were able to order these two dishes and still have plenty left over, another holiday of eating? I think so.

Buddha carving, notice the aura

For dinner we continued the Khmer trend, we bumped along to pub street in our motor-rotek and ate ‘spicy’ (this wouldn’t even be spicy for a western palette) baby bamboo soup and minced pork omelette with rice and crunchy raw veg. At bed time we watched the killing fields, a DVD we’d brought earlier that day, just to gain a richer understanding of what we would later be seeing in real life. Emotions rose high and my empathy towards Cambodians for what their country and people had gone through increased significantly. I went to sleep with a box of tissues and vitamin C within arm’s length.






Recipe of the day: Minced pork omelette with rice
http://www.thairecipevideos.com/content/view/60/130/