30 September 2013
On the train to Casablanca
plains of saffron-colored grass, rows of green olive and argan trees, and houses of salmon-red clay greet me as I relax on the 12:10 train from Marrakech to Casablanca, a three-hour train ride to the northern coast of Morocco on the way to the next leg of this North African adventure, on to historic Fez and then to Merzouga, the last village before reaching the Sahara. I am excited about what lies ahead, but also enriched by the surreal experience that was Marrakech and Essaouira. The monotony of the landscape lulls me to sleep, and I drift off into my reveries…
my mind wanders back into the colors, scents and sounds of Marrakech. The emphatic chants of adhan, the Islamic call to prayer, blaring from the minaret of the Koutoubia mosque punctuate the scenes as I relive the paradox that is Marrakech. There in my mind’s eye, I am lost again in the labyrinth of the souq, overwhelmed by the colors of various spices (35 or so varieties I’ve been told), nuts, dried fruits (prunes, dates, figs), and traditional leather slippers, and enveloped by the aromatic scents of oils, herbs, spices and grilled meat.
I am taken aback by the in-your-face intensity of young men selling their wares and tricking gullible tourists into giving them monetary tips for “helping” them find their way out of the souq. In my reveries, I recall the moment when the frenzy of the souq is just too much to bear and all the energy has been sapped out from my body by the intense heat and a full day of wandering. It is then that I find refuge in my riad. Tucked in a hidden alley just feet away from the tumult, it seems like a well-kept secret. As the riad’s door closes behind me, a completely different world, an oasis, awaits me, as I am welcomed by the gentle voices of a respectful riad staff. The warmth of mint tea soothes my lips and soul as I take slow sips in the quiet of my suite.
I am astonished at the contrast between the mayhem of the medina and the serenity of a riad, hundreds of which are hidden within the walls of Marrakech. I am amazed by the contrast between the grit of these medieval streets and the opulence of palaces. In my reveries, I am wide-eyed as I marvel at the intricate artistry of the Ali Ben Youssef Medersa, the enchanting medieval Koran school just north of the souqs.
And there I am again, burnt by the sweltering sun, taking pictures of the reddish hued corridors and sunken gardens of the enormous Badi palace.
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The train makes a stop at a small rural town. I am awoken for a moment as I see a few ladies in colorful bourkas get on the train; I soon drift off again and continue on in my slumber…
My thoughts bring me back to the dusty road on my way to the breezy and blue Atlantic coast, miles away from Marrakech. Along this drab drive, a look of child-like astonishment comes over me at the sight of goats standing on the branches of argan trees! Lots of them!
And before I could even catch my breath, I am soon swept away by the sight of blue fishing boats, soaring seagulls and the white and blue houses of Essaouira, a sleepy former Portuguese fishing village jutting into the Atlantic Ocean.
I am wandering around again in its more subdued medina with vendors selling thuya wood, pashmina scarves and silver jewelry. The catch of the day is being sorted by the local fishermen at the port; the fishy smell starts to cling to my clothes.
And there I am leisurely enjoying my delicious lunch of grilled sardines and langoustines, sipping nice Moroccan white wine while a game of soccer is played by the locals on the pristine ochre beach.
A soft breeze from the Atlantic caresses my face as I close my eyes…
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“Gare Casa Voyageur. Gare Casa Voyageur” is blaring from the train speakers and I am roused from my sleep. It is my train stop. I see people slowly starting to get up from their seats. We step off the train and walk towards the surprisingly small and austere train station. I strap my backpack onto my shoulders and walk out into the busy streets of Casablanca. The rest of Morocco beckons…
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Lisbon
11 May 2014
I board Tram #28, a vintage ‘electronico’ at Plaza Figueria in the Portuguese capital of Lisbon late one afternoon. We are packed like sardines in the tiny old tram and I am standing in the center of a mass of humanity as the tram skirts its way along beautiful boulevards and squares and then along tiny cobblestone streets as it leaves the city center.
It is heading towards Alfama, a gritty neighborhood on the hill nearby, where, I had read, a mirador offers excellent views of the city. As the tram escalates up the hill, a couple of young able-bodied men hop on the backdoor steps and cling on to handlebars outside the tram, trying to get a free ride.
Generations ago, Alfama was home to fishermen and sailors and their families, a reflection of Portugal’s seafaring past when it was a maritime giant. Nowadays, Alfama is somewhat downtrodden, the enclave of immigrants from Africa, Eastern Europe, Latin America, even Asia- working class people in search of a better life in Lisbon.
The tram screeches its way uphill, at times just inches away from buildings, pavements and pedestrians. Cringing my neck and arching my back, I manage to get a glimpse of the cathedral along the way, through open spaces in between the body parts around me. Some old timers get off along the way giving me some room to breathe. Then the tram comes to a steady halt and the scene opens up to a lovely square, Largo St. Luzia. This is where I get off.
In the square, there are a couple of restaurants with outdoor seating, a few stores with tourist-friendly knickknacks and some peddlers, mostly Africans, approaching tourists to sell their wares or just to have friendly banter. I try to avoid one who seems particularly persistent, and as I turn around from the square, Lisbon greets me with a tapestry of pretty red-roofed houses and the Cathedral Se in the background under the veil of late afternoon sunlight. The city is filled with these red-roofed houses and from my vantage point they seem almost identical to each other, so elegant, and picture perfect. I feel a sense of excitement and bliss at the same time. The temperature drops a bit as the sun begins to set. I put my sweater on, just briefly interrupting the frenzy of my camera clicking as I take tons of photos (and some selfies) from every conceivable angle in the mirador.
At dusk, I start wandering cautiously beyond Largo St. Luzia. I amble along a maze of narrow alleys and cul de sacs, venture down steps and under archways, keeping a mental note of specific landmarks so I can find myself back to the square just in case I get lost. Along the way, I notice that these picture perfect houses from afar are not quite that perfect after all. They are not even identical to each other except perhaps for the color of their roofs. I see balconies of different types of metals and configurations, some with beautiful ironwork while others are rusting away. Colorful flowers placed in dainty pots are juxtaposed between newly washed clothes and bed sheets hanging out to dry in clotheslines that crossed house boundaries. Some building walls are painted with an array of colors – yellows, blues, greens but the most striking houses are those adorned with azulejos, Portuguese tiles, which give each home a distinct character.
Portugal has a long history of tile making, a practice they learned from the Moors in the 15th century. The traditional Portuguese azulejo is blue and white and depicts important events, though the tiles in the houses I saw were also of different hues and designs.
The use of tiles, I learned, became very popular in Lisbon after the devastating earthquake in1755, the seminal event that has defined Lisbon’s history. Lisboans discovered that these azulejos, aside from beautifying the facade, strengthen a building’s structure and, being waterproof, also protect against the elements. I am mesmerized by the beauty of the tiles, though admittedly some tiles are in better shape than others and quite a few are in need of scrubbing. Some buildings have no tiles at all and in their bare facades, there was nothing that concealed the cracks, scars, blotches, stains, graffiti, and other forms of wear and tear they have experienced through the years. What are the scars hidden underneath the tile-covered buildings? As I stand up close to these buildings, I realize that each of these red-roofed houses has a story to tell.
I find my way to nearby Largo San Miguel, and am enticed into a taverna by beautiful music from a duo of instruments, a round Portuguese guitar and a conventionally shaped acoustic guitar. A Fado was playing that evening. This Portuguese tradition of sad melodies stems back from the country’s seafaring days when men would leave to join expeditions, and the women are left behind in the villages. Fado (“fate”) is best described by the Portuguese word “saudade”, a sadness permeated with expectant longing. I take a seat at a corner of the tavern with a glass of port wine. After a few minutes of soulful guitar music, the tavern’s lights are dimmed except for the flickering light from a lamp where the guitars are playing.
A woman dressed in black and an intricate lacy blue and white shawl steps up in between the guitar players. She is beautiful as she looks around the room. She locks eyes with a few in the audience, and gives a faint smile. She is a Fado singer, of course, but in the next 45 minutes she’ll be transformed to a character of years ago, perhaps that of a young widow of a fisherman lost at sea? She lets out a cry, a lament, on the first note as if to introduce herself to us and we are jolted and captivated immediately. She takes her blue and white shawl off and, now exposed, sings, in haunting melodies, of her lost love and her longing to be reunited. Saudade. This is her story and we are there to listen. Underneath her beautiful appearance, she gives us a peek of her scars. And through her body movements, the quiver of her voice, the intensity in her eyes, we experience the fragility of her spirit even as it clings to undying hope. It is both heartbreaking and inspiring. How is it possible that something so sad can be so beautiful?
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26-28 May 2008
Santorini
I was woken up by the sunlight, filtering through my window, hitting my face; a thin white blanket still gently draped over me.
It was just 48 hours ago when I was crouched over my computer finishing tons of work and worrying about my patients, schedules, and coverage. A labyrinth of ideas and “things to do” crowded my tired brain. But here I was, waking up 48 hours later, and the only labyrinth I was waking up to was that of whitewashed dwellings and narrow winding streets of a quiet village called Oia in the Greek isle of Santorini.
The night before, my traveling partner, Joel (an old friend from NY), and I had a seafood meal at Taverna Katina in the tiny port of Ammoudi. We had just finished viewing the sunset which we had learned has made Santorini famous throughout the world. The taverna was somewhat of a trek from the main village and sat at the base of a steep hill, 300 steps below Oia.
Wearing the wrong set of footwear (sandals), it took awhile to reach the port. The authentic seafood dinner (Greek salad, perfectly grilled sea bream and octopus, a carafe of the house red wine) was well worth the hike and provided more than enough nourishment and goodwill to carry us 300 steps back uphill to Oia in the quiet starlit evening.
Oia is mesmerizing. You won’t be able to take your eyes off her whitewashed buildings and blue-domed churches nestled on the rugged reddish-brown cliffs at the mouth of a caldera. Yes, there is an active volcano lurking beneath. Santorini is the largest remnant of an ancient island that experienced perhaps the greatest volcanic destruction in history. Legend has it that it was part of the lost continent of Atlantis. It is one of the Cyclades, which is composed of islands arranged in a circle (kyklos) around the sacred island of Delos, the mythical birthplace of Apollo (the Sun God).
Breathtaking Oia
We decided to take the 5 mile hike from Oia to Fira, Santorini’s equally enthralling (albeit busier) main village, the next stop in our trip. For about three grueling hours under the intense noonday sun, we followed an undulating rocky path with sweeping views of Oia and the cliffs of the caldera on one side and the Aegean Sea and smaller Cycladean islands on the other.
Fira lies beyond
Leaving Oia
We hiked to the top of two hills; the sight of classic Greek churches with white walls and blue domes perched atop each, inspiring us to continue on despite breathlessness and fatigue. I think I’ve never been happier seeing a church! The aridness of the land and intense heat of the sun made me think of St. Paul’s journey through the Greek islands which he was instrumental in converting to Christianity two millennia ago.
The five mile trek left me exhausted only to be rejuvenated by the breathtaking views from the balcony of our hotel at Fira. From that same balcony, we’ve enjoyed coffee and breakfast in the early morning sun, with the indelible backdrop of the Santorini landscape.
Busier, livelier Fira
Over the past three days, we’ve explored the meshwork of streets in Fira, visited the ruins of Ancient Thira, waded in the clear waters of the Aegean sea and relaxed in the black sands of Perissa on the southern end of the island. But at the end of each day, we’ve come back to our sunset – the highlight of each day in Santorini – when for a few minutes everyone stops to savor, with awe and longing, the beauty of a setting sun.
It is indeed a sight to behold; one that brings together people of different races, ages, and persuasions; those who have come from afar weary from work, or exhausted from long mountainous hikes, or refreshed by the blue waters of the Aegean Sea. At the end of each day, as the sun’s reddish golden light fades in the horizon in Santorini, the labyrinthine array of colors and reflections from Apollo’s orb is both spectacular and poignant.
Cycladean Reveries
* “Not all who wander are lost.” – JRR Tolkien
I am a physician who has been practicing in New York City for over 20 years. But in my other life, I am a wanderer.
In 2000, while traveling in Spain for a month, I wrote what I would now consider my first “travel essay”. Prior to this, my correspondences with friends and family during travel had consisted mainly of emails and postcards containing bits of information about how my trip was going or what I was doing or planning to do. That is, until I was blown away by the Alhambra in Granada. I remember that evening vividly. I was sitting in a quiet square at the foot of the hill where the shining Alhambra stood, savoring my red wine and tapas while listening to beautiful melodies from the strings of a Spanish guitar nearby. It was such a simple experience but one that brought me so much bliss. As I walked to my hotel that night, I was so inspired that even though it was almost midnight, I had to look for an internet cafe so that I could put in writing the thoughts and images that were bursting within me.
I have been writing these “travel essays” ever since, and they have taken on a different and, I would like to think, more meaningful route – that of my reflections, not as a tourist, but as a traveler to places where my wandering eyes and feet would take me. Inspired by words of encouragement from friends and family who have been gracious recipients of these writings through the years, I am now taking this next step – a travel blog, not the kind that shares budget tips or must-see lists, but the kind that shares ideas, reflections, and observations, in the hope that, perhaps, it may inspire others to take that next step beyond the familiar, and begin to wander and see the world.
Wanders of OZ
12 June 2016
Marrakech 2014
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1 March 2015
One recent lazy Sunday morning, I found myself scanning through hundreds of photographs on my iPad. It was the height of winter in NYC and the temperature outside had dipped far below freezing.
From my window, I could see the streets and sidewalks littered with dirty snow and ice from the blizzard that swept through weeks back. But inside my apartment, the warmth from the radiator and Edith Piaf’s quivery voice from the turntable made me almost forget the cold.
I swipe my index finger on the iPad screen and come across pictures from my recent trip to France. And I am wistful.
Medieval hilltop village of Gordes