Sanchez Jalapeno

Over 15,000 people can’t be wrong.

The Local Fauna

 That’s the number of  holiday makers that have attempted to reach Australia by boat in the past few years.

Most never make it to the mainland, instead their short detour to Christmas Island turns into a permanent stop over. But can you blame them? Christmas Island has it all. From the flora and Fauna (like the bigger-than-a-child coconut crab, pictured here climbing a freaking garbage bin), to the super friendly locals, oozing with charisma – you’ll often seen waving their bright shiny guns at you from the other side of the razor fence. For what ever reason, Christmas Island is quickly turning into the must visit destination of 2010, especially if you’re from Asia or the Middle East.

 A trip to Christmas Island doesn’t come cheap. Most tourists end up exhausting all of their savings just for a seat on a rustic yet charming raft type contraption. Lovingly refered to by Australian’s as ‘Boat People’ these adventure seekers don’t have a lot of mid-voyage entertainment to keep them occupied, but that doesn’t really matter as they’re too busy trying not to drown. Nature Buffs would love it – you can’t get much closer to nature than you do when your raft capsizes during the monsoon.

Reception

 What ever your trip lacks in aesthetics it makes up in customer service. Before you even reach the island you’ll be greeted by a boat load of government officials who have come out to greet and escort you in. That’s a nice touch. Once you’ve docked you’re whisked away to the reception area of the islands only resort. After you’re processed checked in, you’ll be shown to your room – conditions in the garden & electric-fence view rooms are a little cramped but that’s just because the place is so darn popular. The owners prefer not to use terms like ‘over capacity’, instead referring to it as cosy.  Just be mindful of a weird process where they tend to sepeate you from your family – we’ll call them travel companions- but think if it as a good way to meet new people.

 In house activities for the lucky refugees guests include English lessons, some sports, competitive fasting and an interesting game called lip sewing (usually only played by those Negative Nancy’s that whinge about everything… there’s always one, right?)

 Money exchange is not a problem, you simply wont need any. This is an all inclusive resort – you’re provided with a $50 dollars worth of resort points per week, redeemable for such luxury items as toothpaste and medication.

 Spots are limited so to secure your place at this amazing resort, speak to your local Travel Agent (people smuggler) about this once in a lifetime trip.

For further information or to request a brochure contact the UNHCR

Day one.  4:30pm.

My Easyjet flight arrives into Marrakech an hour early, but any time saved is quickly lost during the 2 hour wait in the Immigration line. The queue isn’t even that long, but it’s excruciatingly slow because all the immigration officers keep chatting to each other. The guy in front of me waits ten minutes while two officers seemed to be talking about the size of different breasts. Or watermelons. I don’t speak Arabic and it’s hard to say just by reading hand gestures.

Our Taxi driver flies through the peak hour Marrakech traffic, trying to get us to the Medina before it pours with rain. We dodge scooters carrying whole families, and men riding donkey’s with gas cylinders strapped to their backs (the donkeys, not the men) heading for the Djemaa el-Fna – The centre of the Medina and the location of the nightly food market.

© Milli Vukovic

We arrive at our Riad, or as close to it as our driver wants to go – the alley ways become increasingly narrow, so we are unceremoniously dumped by the side of the road. I scan the maze before us, scratch my head, and start to panic. Out of nowhere comes a guy with a cart – sort of like a wheel barrow mixed with a car trailer. Thinking it was a little primitive, but my feet were aching from the wait in the immigration queue, I start to hop in. The guy just grunts, glares at me and points to my backpack. Seems I’ll be walking, but my bag hitches a ride. I’m just happy that I’ll be getting to my Riad at all. After we arrive it’s starts to pour down rain, so I go to the roof and watch the electrical storm, getting drenched in the process. We go to bed early, I’ve got a busy day planned in the souqs tomorrow.

Day two. 7:00am.

© Milli Vukovic

No one is around, so I unbolt the giant Riad door and sneak out, headed for the Djemaa el-Fna. I want to see Marrakech go to work. The Orange juice sellers are just setting up so I get a freshly squeezed juice out of a dubious looking glass. I remember my guidebook telling me to not use the utensils and cups in the market– sound advice but how do you do that when it’s already been poured in a glass? It’s silly to be too precious about this sort of thing anyway, so I shrug, gulp down my juice and continue walking.  

The square is slowly coming to life, and we go for a walk to a nearby Mosque. It’s especially beautiful, and it seems to have some relics in different states of repair dotted around the outside. Unfortunately some angry looking youths start walking towards us, one of them making suggestive comments towards my girlfriend. Her father tells me not to accept anything less than a Mercedes and two camels; these boys hardly seem like the type to pay up, so we quickly scat.

There is a fair bit of sugar in the mint tea

It’s souqs time. I gather my thoughts, attempt a calm Zen like composure and dive in. The Labyrinth is full of butchers carving camels heads, men selling ‘Genuine’ Genie conjuring rubbing lamps, leather bound journals and jewellery. There are dried fruits, olives, spices and preserved lemons in one lane. In another I find men cooking shawarmas , drying fish,  and a Dentist for good measure. My plan is to get hopelessly lost and maybe arrive back in the square for a tajine about lunch time. It works, if a little to well. All roads may very well lead to Rome, but they seem to stop by the Djemaa el-Fna first.

Lunch is a Moroccan Salad (coriander, tomato and onion) for starters, a vegetable tajine for the main, followed by a pot of piping hot mint tea. This comes to about 3 dollars making me a very happy little backpacker. After lunch it’s a quick trip back to the Souqs so I can pick up a new pair of sunglasses. The shopkeeper is friendly, and he asks what I will take to give him my girlfriend. I relay the conditions to him, he says that’s ok – he has  a Mercedes, it’s the name of his camel. No deal.

Before I realise, it’s dusk. The Djemaa el-Fna is alive with snake charmers, acrobats and the smell of roasting lamb. The nightly food market is well underway and we navigate through the stalls, being pulled this way and that by touts offering up such tasty morsels as lambs brain and cow intestines, we settle on a small restaurant and order olives, Moroccan salad, tajine, and fried prawns. A monkey escapes his handler and runs for freedom, but is caught after about a minute. Another monkey aided in the escape by jumping on the face of the handler. Good teamwork.

Fried lambs brain, if you're keen.

Day three. 2:00pm.

The train to Fès has broken down many times today, but this is the final nail in the coffin. Everyone has jumped out onto the tracks and we walk for a few kilometres to the next station. We’re packed like sardines into the back of a Mercedes, 4 people each over 6ft tall sitting and sweating uncontrollably on each other. It sounds much saucier in print than it was in reality. You haven’t really lived until you’ve had your nose crammed into the armpit of a ginormous, sweaty Moroccan man.

A bonding experience

With Fès still a few hours away we settle on the nearby town of Meknès. Again we are unceremoniously dumped from the car – it seems to be a national sport – and we find a hotel for the night. Meknès is pretty and cosmopolitan in the Ville Novelle (new town), and there are no other tourists around. The reason for this is that it’s a fairly boring city with not much to occupy a traveller. Still, I’m happy to see something off the tourist trail.  

Day four. 8:00pm

The train breaks down a few more times today, but always seems to spring back to life just as everyone disembarks. We arrive a few hours late, but it’s better than not at all. Tangier is beautiful. It’s a vibrant city where everyone seems happy, teenage couples hold hands and overlook the Medina from the lookout in the Ville Novelle, and bars give tapas for free. Yep – free. All you need to do is buy a drink, and they bring you tajines, fish, chickpeas and salad. I vow not to buy dinner once in the next 3 days.

© MIlli Vukovic

I’m enjoying a beer and some tapas in the ‘America’s Pub’ – which is decked out like a London tube station. A local introduces himself to me, when I ask what he does he tells me he’s a ‘business man’. He doesn’t elaborate. He does mention later that his job takes him to Spain all the time, and that he can speak 5 languages fluently. I feel very embarrassed with my one and a half languages, but he’s happy to speak in Spanish with me so I can work towards getting that to 1 and ¾ languages.  

My new friend seems to know everyone in this town, he’s constantly shaking hands with people, and he commands the attention of the bar staff by a mere click of his fingers. It’s almost as if they fear him. He tells me he’s good friends with the chef as he walks into the kitchen like he owns the place. On his way out the bar he tells me that the chef’s going to look after us. He wasn’t kidding, I’m presented with fish piled so high I can barely see over the plate. I think I’m in love with this town.  

Day five. 2:00pm

Holy crap, next door to the hotel is a Spanish donut guy! He’s got a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop where he sells these tiny morsels of heaven in bags of ten for about 30 cents. I’m in love even more now.  

I go for a walk in the Medina, the souqs are much different to those in Marrakech. For one all the roads are paved here, and the shops have security systems and fancy lighting. Also most things are priced in Euros and are about 3 times as expensive as they were in Marrakech. I guess it’s to do with the proximity to Spain.

Lunch is at Anna e Paolo’s Italian restaurant. Freshly made ravioli and a bottle of Moroccan red wine for about 10 dollars each. I don’t think I can love any harder than I am right now.  

Day six. 5:00pm.

Pretty much a repeat of day five. Lunch with Anna e Paolo, a walk around the Medina and up along the coast. We go to the bar which was the inspiration for Rick’s café. It’s an amazing piano bar in the ritziest hotel in Tangier. A scotch on the rocks cost me about 14 dollars. So I tell him to ‘play it again’ and then steal the toilet paper to take back to our hotel room;  we’re running out. It’s the little things.

Day seven. 11:00pm

© MIlli Vukovic

I’ve tried the tapas at most bars in the Ville Novelle. I’ve eaten so many Spanish donuts that the guy selling them has asked me to move in with him. I’ve walked around the Medina so much that I’m now timing myself doing laps, trying to beat my personal best of 10 minutes 22 seconds. And finally I’m relaxing with a coffee in hand, MacBook in the other watching Tangier pass me by. Tangier is the most un-Moroccan city in the country, but I find that I could easily live here, like so many artists have done before. William Burroughs and some others from the Beat Generation used to have a room in the hotel I’m staying in and Oscar Wilde, Tennessee Williams and Winston Churchill have all at one stage stayed longer than planned. I can see myself living in the shoddier, run down part of town, just me and my laptop in a sea view room writing away about the artistic decadence of Tangier. But then I look at my bank account balance; While the tapas are free the drinks certainly are not, and I realise I need to move on to cheaper pastures – I can’t live on Spanish donuts for ever, despite what the guy working there keeps telling me.

Follow Shane on Twitter , read his guest posts at havepack.com or catch up on his travels here.

“Welcome to Sarajevo. My name is Kovacs and I will be your adopted Papa. I reek of charisma, you know.”

Photo by Milli Vukovic

- He wasn’t kidding. More charming than anyone I’ve met before, Kovacs introduced himself to us while we were exploring the Baščaršija – the Turkish quarter of Sarajevo, following our noses around alleyways into pastry shops selling Burek and tiny cafes brewing Bosnian coffee. I was in love with Sarajevo and had been devising business plans in my head, ready to write to my mother telling her I wasn’t coming home, when I was brought back to planet earth by the sight of this tiny man, waving at us and dancing in the street.

We spent 10 minutes (or was it 20?) standing in the middle of the street talking to this interesting man about his life (born in Turkey, lived around the world and had been working in Sarajevo as a waiter for 3 years), the languages he can speak (10, thanks for asking) and would his boss mind if he snuck off for a beer? (“Fuck the boss, lets drink”).

Kovacs led us through the maze of the Baščaršija, past men in workshops belting metal into shape, women chatting in the drizzling rain outside of silk shops and teenagers sipping coffee on tiny stools in hole-in-the-wall coffee shops, until we arrived at the ‘Balkan café’ – a funky bar/live music venue that later that night would be hosting an evening of jazz meets Sevda (local Bosnian music – a bit Soviet, a bit Middle Eastern, very cool). We sat down and ordered some beers. Kovacs explained how he understood his religion “Mine is heart. We’re all people, so just love with your heart”. He then belted out a few acapella versions of some blues songs – he’s a singer and guitarist – much to the dismay of the über cool crown that came to hear the jazz band upstairs. He promised to serenade us if we came to his restaurant the following night. We sipped šljivovica (local brandy) from the mini flask around his neck – a gift from a travelling Scottish lady who though he was hilarious (modest, he is not).

Kovacs was prone to going off on a tangent, which made it hard to follow what he was talking about; I gave up the notion of taking notes. Instead, we drank beer and laughed. Soon after he ran off to work hoping to get back there before his boss noticed he was gone, and we stayed at the Balkan café and chatted with the owner- he introduced himself to us when he noticed we were admiring the cool artwork on the wall. The café had only been open for a month, but it was packed with alternative 20 something’s sporting wild, unkempt hair and dressed in black turtleneck tops.

All we need is šljivovica

We watched the first band take the stage in the upstairs smoke filled room, they played a mix of songs, some big band hits from the 20’s and 30’s mixed and then some slow jazz versions of more popular songs like Radiohead’s Creep. Before I realised it was after midnight so we retired to the hotel, there was a lot of sight seeing to do the next day.

Some beautiful Mosque’s can be found in the Baščaršija. I sat in a café adjacent the biggest Mosque in Bosnia, and listened to the call to prayer, which was just as breathtaking as the ones, I’ve heard in Turkey and Malaysia. Sarajevo is a melting pot of religions; there are Mosques, churches and synagogues around every corner. I spent the remainder of that day walking around the city, with a stray but happy dog following me around. That night we went to see Covaks at the restaurant, where true to his word, he serenaded us while we sipped red wine and ate trout and grilled veggies drowned in olive oil. A midnight drink at the Balkan Café followed, the crown danced and couples kissed in the dark corners and I wished I could stay longer. All good things come to an end I guess, but I hope that’s not true. I’ll be back soon to find out.

A city that surpasses every expectation. It doesn’t happen all that often. Sure, you would have travelled through some really impressive cities and had a great time, but how often can you say that you enjoyed every aspect of the place you’ve visited? The local inhabitants, public transport, funky bars, delicious restaurants, and the travellers you’ve met along the way. It’s not very often you can give the tick of approval to each and every one of these criteria which make for a fantastic city. Having said that, we’ve all been to at least one (and if you haven’t, turn off the computer, pack your bag, and head straight for the bus station. As long as your ticket doesn’t say Canberra, you should be ok)

To celebrate all those really cool places that we just stumbled into, every few weeks I’ll be asking some fellow travel writers what their absolute favourite city is from a different viewpoint.

This week I asked “What is your favourite ‘couple of days’ hangout spot?”

Paris

Photo by Milli Vukovic

When thinking of a place I would always love to pop over to and just hang out in, my thoughts easily turn to the eternal city of Paris, France.

While this beautiful city has many world famous sights and even more queuing tourists to view them, there is so much more to entice someone back again and again.

I love to discover another quirky little bookshop or funky boutique (window shopping only), and I will always attempt to master more of the scores of art galleries along leafy cobblestone streets.

Then I often end up just walking around slowly taking in the different architecture of the buildings and churches, or even stumbling on some extravagant gothic stonework found in shady cemeteries, interspersing this with stops for a coffee of course.

Be it summer walks in the immaculate parks or sitting in a warm café with a hot chocolate for winter there is always something I love to do here.

At some point in the trip I will endeavour to sit outside an eatery where the chairs are set up facing the street, and with a wine or a pastry in hand I will become a voyeur along with others  beside me, watching as the fashionable Parisians strut down the street while the afternoon sun warms us all.

Then the evenings pose quite the predicament – out to a glorious dinner and some theatre or find a tiny bar and listen to some jazz?

Being such an expensive city and me a poor backpacker it has never been somewhere I have been able to stay too long in, and not knowing the French language could never really see me get a good career here and call it home, but Paris is definitely a place I can return to and dream in for just a few days.

Milli Vukovic is a freelance photographer currently in Mexico, but is just as likely to be in Morocco this time next week. Backpacking around the world in search of the weird and wonderful, Milli is always on the look out for a the perfect shot, an amazing beach and the worlds best laksa. You can follow Milli on twitter or read her travel blog.

Casa Katy

My favourite hang out spot is perhaps not one you might expect of an article such as this one.

I know this is far too vague an introduction for an article on a website entitled ‘Sanchez Jalapeno – Spicy Travel’. I should really be documenting my exotic adventures in Spain, or describing in great detail the various blisses that come from lounging on a Thai beach whilst my colleagues back in Australia are grumbling about early starts and long hours at the office.

But the truth is that I have never been to Spain or Thailand. I did go to Italy whilst studying Italian in VCE, and loved Rome – in spite of the fact that my travel buddies (teachers included) left me stranded in a strange hotel because they were unaware that I was taking a nap. However, as I’ve only been to Italy once, I have come to the conclusion that it does not qualify as my ‘favourite place to hang out for a couple of days’.

How on Earth have I completed two paragraphs and one sentence without actually disclosing my favourite hang out joint? Would it be possible for me to captivate a travel audience for 300 words without this all-important piece of information?

I won’t deny that it would be a literary risk to embark on such a journey with my readers. And whilst I do like to take measured risks, as a budding publishable author, I have just enough fear and desire inside of me to let you know where my favourite travel spot is. I truly hope that my credibility within the fringe markets of writing is not lost as a result of my blatant audience-pleasing tactics!

I have 50-or-less words to inform you that my favourite place to hang out for a few days is at home. I recently bought my own house, you see, and I love nothing more than to fall asleep at night in solitude, knowing that I am at one with where I am at right at this moment.

It’s simple, and it’s me. One day I will explore Spain – I met a travelling busker from England who will be eventually settling in Spain with his wife. I have to meet their babies! They’re gonna make gorgeous babies. And a psychic once told me that England is where I will truly feel at home, although there are some definite holes in this theory. I am a complete wuss when it comes to the cold, and from all accounts, England seems to have one season, and it’s not summer, spring or autumn. Who am I to argue though? – psychics can tell the future, and this lady was a psychic. So she should know.

But for now…I’m setting up my life where I’m at. And where I’m at is enjoying my favourite hang out – home. Yep.

Sucre

Photo by Shane Brown

The judicial capital of Bolivia, isn’t La Paz, it’s Sucre. I didn’t know that before I arrived in the country, and from the moment I set foot in Sucre after 12 hours of dodgy buses I was enchanted by the place. All the buildings are white washed, the streets are clean, and the locals take pride in their town – They’re more than happy to recommend to you their favourite museums and art galleries (of which there are many) and the owner of a bar we were drinking at even gave me her bicentennial ‘collectors’ calendar, which catalogued for each month a significant piece of local history.

It’s a very affluent town, lots of cool clothing and department stores, and an abundance of funky cafes and bars, of which quite a  few have some Dutch influence (or owners); which means pomme frittes, European coffee and a good selection of imported beers. There’s heaps of Chinese restaurants which proves a good respite from the normal fare, and plenty of bars have wifi (at decent speeds too) which helps when you’re trying to update your blog and catch up with friends on Skype. One café even has a cinema upstairs showing the latest in Bolivian comedies (The white lama) as well as a few other alternative movies, like The Motorcycle Diaries.

This only scratches the surface of what Sucre has to offer, but as far as being just a place to hangout for a couple of days and recharge, you’d be hard pressed to beat here.