"they reach the same conclusion, they tell different narratives to account for the differences in the world as they see it. But their narratives reach the same judgement, which is that mass murder of men and women is evil"

exercise regime

Time to lose the kilos. I've signed up for two fitness classes at our local community centre. I'm amazed how cheap and affordable some of these courses are. So from next week onwards, it's cardio Pilates for beginners on Mondays, and Hatha Yoga for beginners on Tuesdays. I was so excited I dug out a sporty-looking duffel bag that belongs to my brother, and finally finally tore open the packet of comfy Nike pants i got from london. On the side, i also intend to run once (a 10km session) and swim once (20 laps). To weight lost and looking good in pretty clothes!

Beginning a-new

Nothing much has happened even though so much has. I'm picking up the pieces after a nasty break up, learning to come to terms with my parents, especially my mother, a religious fanatic, who is thankfully getting "better", and my father, a closeted tyrant who unbeknownst even to himself is skilled in the willy ways of emotional blackmail, learning to leave behind friends i trusted who were always "too busy" to listen or too busy judging, and then learning to deal with, and make something with (what's left) of my-selves.

The thing about break ups is... I don't get over them easily. I get angry and frustrated and sometimes sad; in "despair". The pressure of an impending marriage to a boy who was "too scared" to care, let alone understand why I was utterly terrified of a life-long committed union with him, a man who was so assured that he had found his spot in the world. Even so, time forces us into rituals we felt compelled to perform, and in a pale blue red leaf ink, we committed our joy to inertia and a 5-room apartment.

And when i finally did the courageous thing by leaving him, I had to learn to grapple with the guilt of having 'left' him, of being a loose woman breaking an honest man's heart, an irresponsible Asian-changed-whore who now fucks other men and women, freely. His parting words to me were Jack Neo-esque,  "what happened to the girl i knew?", complete with the wailing.

I wanted to spit in his face because afterwards he made himself out to all who cared to listen as a man deeply scarred, carving his grief for posterity on Facebook, garnering sympathetic likes (from our mutual friends no less). I was all alone.

And then very quickly, he voided the last sinews of our hearts - "You said this was what you wanted" he muttered (so it is my fault), and then searing in the blade, "it isn't reversible you know. Spilt milk is spilt milk, after all you have done to me" (he has suffered and it is my fault).

"For all I've done", the religious fanatic commands that I seek repentance. She doesn't ask why, doesn't want to know the reasons why. She invokes the spiritual forces, oh Word of God. People don't understand that she isn't just nagging, she believes fully and completely in my guilt. Then friends want to know, and colleagues and relatives and all that, I try to explain myself but i can't. All the words sound wrong, they are not quite right, not quite why. And so, I end up sounding like this flighty-thing, who felt "bored", and took an inconsiderate 'flight of fancy'; she will learn and repent. Suddenly, they are all mini Lee Kwan Yew(s) even though no one will admit to it.

I feel vulnerable. 

Rabat's Riad Kalaa

One of the loveliest places I stayed in while on holiday in Rabat was Riad Kalaa. We booked this place based on the fabulous recommendations it received on trip advisor, but as cynics, we remained skeptical of our own decision.

When Hamid, our guide led us to our Riad in the heart of the Medina, we were very apprehensive people. The walls were narrow, and it was dark, and the alley leading to our medina reeked of ammonia. At the mouth of yet another dark alley, a rowdy group of teenagers were kicking a ball, their laughter ringing through the air. They stopped and stared at us as we walked past - a pint-size chinese couple with large bags trailing behind a tall dark-skinned man - we were certainly a sight to behold.

"Do you need help? Are you lost? Looking for Riad Kalaa? I show you!" a young boy enquired eagerly, breaking the silence. Hamid quickly shook his head, muttered something in Arabic and picked up pace. We had been warned that young children in the medina would lead tourist on a wild goose chase in search of their hotel before demanding a few dirhams for their navigational services. We were lucky to have Hamid with us, I thought with a shudder as I imagined myself being surrounded by street children demanding dirhams. Whatever Hamid said worked like a powerful magic charm, the street children backed off and went back to their ball game, allowing us to continue walking without interruption.

Soon after our mini-encounter with Moroccan children, we found ourselves at the door of our Riad. Unlike the glossy pictures on their website, the wooden front door was large but dull and almost nondescript in the moonlight. Our skepticism deepen. Were we to walk into abyss and never return? Were Moroccans so skilled in the art of photoshop that they could transform this dull door into something so exquisite-looking?

As the large door creaked open, a tall young man in a neatly pressed uniform greeted us under dim lighting, bowing slightly.

"This is Mohammed and he will be here for you both." Hamid beamed as he made introductions. Mohammed wasted no time in leading us to the interior garden of the raid. 

It was beautiful! 

Under a netted dome, white ratten chairs and glass tables sat demure at each corner of the interior garden. 

 "You are very lucky today" Hamid grinned, his eyes sparkling "just last week the Riad was not decorated like this. Now they put up the lights for christmas. you very lucky."

As we tended to the task of filling out personal ID forms, Mohammed brought us the emblem of Moroccan hospitality - two glasses of mint tea and a plate of sweet cookies and biscuits. They were surprisingly very delicious and certainly set the tone for our experience at Riad Kalaa.

We were then shown to our room upstairs, the Amber room, the smallest (and cheapest) option in this luxury riad.

G and I are not travelers with high expectations so we were pleasantly surprised by the presence of simple things like a hair dryer, a mirror, and soap in playful bottles. 

This was our safe, "western" haven inside a messy, convoluted medina we could barely understand, try as much as we did. I knew instinctually that it was 'not right' to transform a tradition riad into a modern hotel equipped with western comforts like an emerald swimming pool and a spa in the name of preservation and money. But when confronted by the luxury and extravagance before me, all was quickly forgotten. Afterall, were we not on a holiday?

So G took long morning bathes oblivious to the fact that many Moroccans suffered from severe droughts in the summer while I pranced around snapping pictures of Riad Kalaa's beauty

as well as wonderful sneaky views of the old medina glistening under golden light, heedless of poverty that lay therein.

Who knew that inbetween the frantic turns and twists of the medina, we would find a swanky riad.

Riad Kalaa

3-5, rue Zebdi - Médina Rabat - Maroc 

Moulay Idriss: the First Arab Dynasty

Moulay Idriss! 

I literally had to beg Hamid to take us to Moulay Idriss. And when he agreed, I found myself dropping hints round the clock, reminding him to honour our agreement. It was not that Hamid was a tardy guide, but Moulay Idriss, the first Arab dynasty in the world, was sacred ground that most Moroccans believe should be left for believers.

In fact, the holiest town in Morocco has a sign on its gate forbidding non-muslims from entering parts of the city centre. Also, it was not till 2002 that the city was open to visitors. For a muslim, a trip to Moulay Idriss is equivalent to 1/5 of a Haj. So it was with a little trepidation that G and I disembarked from our jeep in the centre of the main square.

The main square was a small rectangular-shaped lobby, a far cry from the squares of Fez or Rabat where consumerism reigned and young Moroccans race to gather around the freshest tourist jeep, eager to snag a bang for the foreigner's buck. In this square, donkeys rule dignifiedly, as their elderly masters trail by their sides watching their provisions eagle-eyed.

I could sense the uneasiness in Hamid.

"Here we are! This is the square. There isn't much to see and do. Let's just look around for five minutes, okay?" he smiled weakly as he surveyed the area, his tour-guide persona receding.

Five minutes?! Was this guy kidding?! I was not going to take this lying down. I was not going to have travelled thousands of miles to see the first Arab dynasty only to be told that I had a mere five minutes!

"But I want to see the round minerat, the only one of its kind in the world, the sacred tomb of Moulay Idriss I, and the picturesque views of the Moulay Idriss city! Five minutes is not enough!" I whined like a petulant child.

"Alright," Hamid relented with a sigh "you are the customer after all. But let me tell you, very, very few tourists get to be as lucky as you. Usually they just go to Meknes and Fez and Volubilis, they never ever go to Moulay Idriss. You are very lucky." I was in half-a-mind to refute him for I had read numerous blog posts written by foreigners about their adventures in Moulay Idriss. In fact, the Rough Guide lists Moulay Idriss as one of the top twenty places one should not miss when visiting Morocco.

"The white marks on the floor mean that this road would meet a dead end, so we do not follow any alleys with white markings okay?" he explained, as we nodded furiously eager to play a role in decoding Moulay Idriss's mystery.

But as the three of us walked through the market clambering dark, twisting tunnels, forming a curious spectacle for old men drapped in white djellabas, it soon dawned upon me that even Hamid's stellar knowledge of the color codebook would not get us far. Like us, Hamid the tourist guide was also a foreigner in this dynasty.

a man with his donkey

It was only with the help of a kind local that we managed to spot the green minaret. Engraved onto the minaret are verses from the surrahs with the most important one being "la illah ila Allah" (There is no god but God) 

Following the white-washed path up the hill, we were finally taken to the summit where astounding views of Moulay Idriss greeted us.

views of Moulay Idriss - this was what I had hoped to see! :)

Spurred by our happy faces, Hamid's tour guide persona returned to full force, constantly reminding us just 'how lucky' we were to have experienced 'authentic morocco', even stopping by a makeshift olive oil 'factory' to show us how ripen olives were being grounded into olive oil.

But as I snuck my camera out for a quick snapshot, the hapless Hamid received a strident rebuke from one of the factory workers in the most guttural Arabic I had ever heard.

"Go Away! Foreigners are not welcome! They have no right to take pictures! We just want to live here undisturbed by them!"

 As soon as we were a safe distance away, Hamid translated the admonishment. "You see," Hamid added, "you are very lucky. Unlike in places like Merzouga where people are always very friendly, the people here they are different. Tourists don't visit this place. You are very lucky."

Who were we, foreigners, to infringe upon their land even if only to plunder pictures and experiences? 

A Prologue

How should one begin to "blog" for the very first time? With a greeting? Or with a list of purposes, functions, and uses? Do we blog for ourselves? Or for an audience? And then, who?

The lone ranger lurking in the shatter zones of the digital world, fingers invigorated by noxious blood prancing across the keyboards, conjuring strange alphabets into a poisonous twirl, these Matilda-fingers, crickety, rickety, and old are punishable by death in the real world. 

A great mistake made by us, spect-actors, is often to believe that only that which is visible and audible is of "scenic quality". But our emotions and our unconscious minds are far more powerful than we know. Musicians write scores and playwrights, scripts, but it is the performer that brings these to life, they seduce, lure, hypnotize and tempt filling the 'silences in the text' with their movements and voices, showing more than he can tell, so that others may, in turn, respond.