Dear all,
In early August, while trimming the hedges out front, I noticed a
large hole in the trunk of the very large liquid amber tree in our front garden.
I reached in with mild dread and discovered that the entire thing was basically
hollow. From the garden, it looked perfectly respectable, but inside it was essentially
a wooden façade.
With our 5½-week holiday in the Northern Hemisphere fast
approaching, we decided it had to go. I managed to get a tree removal
crew in a few days before our trip, and four hours later the tree was gone,
plus part of the front hedge which had also needing trimming. The streetscape
of the house has now changed dramatically—less leafy mystery, more
architectural honesty—but given the tree’s habit of randomly dropping large
branches, it was probably for the best. Still, losing two massive trees in one
year does feel like a passive-aggressive hint from mother nature.
Friday 8 August was Katie’s last day as Clubs &
Societies Coordinator at The University of Queensland. She had a farewell lunch
at work, and many of her students came by to say goodbye and brought gifts—flowers
from the Muslimah Students, a tamborine from the Chinese Cultural Dance Club,
home-baked cookies from the Bakeology Club, and a range of other eclectic cards
and gifts from many other club execs. It was bittersweet for Katie, but she was
nevertheless very touched by the outpouring of support from students, and many
other staff members.
On 12th
August we left for our epic Northern Hemisphere adventure. Here is a blow-by-blow
travel blog of the first leg of our trip - Adventure in Morocco.
Day
1: Brisbane to Doha
The journey
begins. We checked in at Brisbane International around 7pm, buzzing with
pre-trip energy. The Qatar Airways flight left at 10pm — smooth boarding, and soon
cruising at 35,000 feet on a 14-hour haul to Doha. A long flight, but decent
food, good movies, and a few naps.
Day
2: Doha to Casablanca
After a three-hour
layover in Doha — complete with rainforest gardens and surprisingly good coffee
— we boarded our flight to Casablanca. The entertainment started before we even
left the gate. Just as we were settling into our seats, a heated argument
erupted in the aisle next to us. Within seconds, it escalated into a full-blown
fight. Six passengers jumped in to break it up, and the cabin turned into a movie
scene. The crew handled it well, but we were stuck on the tarmac for an hour
waiting for airport police to arrive and escort the troublemakers off the
plane. Not the kind of turbulence you expect.
Eventually,
we took off and made it to Casablanca in one piece. A quick 35-minute
taxi ride brought us to the Radisson Blu. Swim, shower, reset.
We took a
short walk into the Old Medina — a maze of narrow alleys, market stalls, and
crumbling whitewashed walls. Originally built in the 18th century by Sultan
Sidi Mohammed Ben Abdallah, the Medina is one of the last remnants of
pre-colonial Casablanca. Although smaller and less polished than those in Fez
or Marrakesh, it is full of life and local colour. A quick dinner and a cocktail
at the Grand Hyatt wrapped up the day before an early night.
Day 3 - Casablanca
After an
11-hour sleep we emerged from our hotel room blinking into the Casablanca sun,
ready to explore. Our mission: visit the Hassan II Mosque. Our actual
experience: intercepted by a charming local who led us, like lambs to the loom,
into a carpet shop. There, we were treated to the full Moroccan hospitality
package: mint tea, a guided tour of every rug ever woven, and the subtle
pressure of centuries-old salesmanship. We escaped with our dignity mostly
intact and a bracelet for Katie.
We wandered
the perimeter of the medina, Casablanca’s old city, where cannons still point
out to sea as if expecting a surprise naval invasion. The medina itself is a
maze of narrow lanes, crumbling charm, and the occasional goat, although less
intense than other Moroccan cities. Eventually, we reached the Hassan II
Mosque—an architectural marvel and the third-largest mosque in the world. Built
partially over the Atlantic Ocean (because why not?), it’s a stunning blend of
marble, mosaics, and ambition. The tour was excellent, though we did spend a
fair amount of time wondering how they clean the chandeliers.
From there,
we strolled to La Corniche, Casablanca’s beachside promenade, for lunch. It’s
where locals go to see and be seen. A taxi returned us to the hotel for a swim
and a snooze by the pool—because cultural enrichment is exhausting and
chlorinated water heals all.
Evening plans
began at Sqala, a restaurant set in the fortress walls where we’d planned to
have a drink before our nearby dinner restaurant. It wasn’t licensed, so we
wandered the medina again and were surprised at the kittens - so many kittens.
Suspiciously few mother cats. Possibly a feline uprising in progress.
Also noted: a
surprising number of people in casts. Apparently, motorbike accidents are a
local epidemic. Helmets optional, consequences not. We had another mint tea and
watched the world go by before our dinner at Da Dada, a restaurant that sounds
like a dadaist art movement but is, in fact, a full-blown sensory experience.
Tucked inside the medina, it’s housed in a beautifully restored riad that feels
like stepping into a Moroccan fever dream—soft lighting, ornate tiles, and
staff dressed in traditional attire who glide rather than walk. The food? A
fusion of Moroccan classics with just enough flair to make you feel fancy
without needing a glossary. Tagines, lamb, fish and meze were all top-notch,
and the service was so attentive it bordered on telepathic. We were feeling a
bit jet-lagged despite the long sleep the night before and the afternoon nap so
were tucked up in bed by 9pm.
Day 4: Casablanca to Rabat to Chefchaouen
Our expedition began when our driver Said arrived at 8:30am. He
took one look at our names, decided they were too hard, and dubbed us Mohammed and Fatima.
We returned the favour and christened him Bruce. A cultural
exchange of the highest order.
We drove for about an hour to Rabat, Morocco’s elegant
and spotlessly clean capital city. A stark contrast to Casablanca, which felt
more like a post-industrial shrug. Inside Rabat’s Medina walls, we found a
charming bazaar with sweeping views of the harbour and what might be the widest
beach this side of the Sahara. The beach was guarded by a menacing row of
cannons in the fort walls.
Next up, the Hassan Tower—a 12th-century minaret that was
supposed to be the Eiffel Tower of the Islamic world, but someone forgot to
finish it. Construction began in 1195 under Sultan Yaqub
al-Mansur, who had grand plans for the world’s largest mosque. Sadly, he died
in 1199, and everyone else just gave up. The tower stands at 44 metres
tall—half its intended height—and is a monument to architectural ambition and
poor project management.
Next door is the Mausoleum of Mohammed V, which is both
stunning and heavily guarded. Speaking of guards…we cruised past the Royal
Palace on the way out of Rabat, which is home to King Mohammed VI. The
palace walls stretch for kilometres, and there’s a machine-gun-toting guard
every 50 metres. More guns on display than in most action movies.
As we left Rabat, the landscape turned lush and agricultural. We
passed aqueducts that would make the Romans jealous and more donkey carts than
a biblical epic. Also, more police than you’d think possible. Said/Bruce
claimed they were collecting “contributions” to fund new stadiums for when
Morocco hosts the Soccer World Cup in 2030.
We stopped for a basic lunch at the only restaurant in a 4-hour
radius that didn’t look like it doubled as a tyre shop and then arrived in Chefchaouen around
4pm. We were immediately smitten. This town is what happens when a Smurf
village and a Mediterranean dream have a baby. Perched in the Rif Mountains,
the town is famous for its cobalt-blue buildings, cobbled streets, and
shops that sell everything from handwoven rugs to “authentic” Gucci bags. I
think it is the most beautiful place I have ever been. We wandered
the Medina and eventually sat down for a mint tea that turned into dinner.
We just watched all the people go by for two hours before heading off to bed.
Day 5: Chefchaouen
I forgot to mention yesterday how hot it is. Not “oh it’s a bit
warm” hot. No, this is “the sun is actively trying to murder us” hot.
Yesterday, en route to Chefchaouen, the temperature hit a balmy 46°C. When we
arrived, it had mercifully dropped to a mere 42°C.
On the drive, we discovered that Moroccan road rules are more like
polite suggestions. Three-point U-turns across four-lane roads over double
white lines with buses barrelling toward you? Apparently fine. Overtaking
donkey carts on blind corners? Also fine. Our driver wasn’t the culprit, but we
witnessed enough vehicular tomfoolery to make a stunt coordinator weep.
We set out at 7:30am before it got too hot. Chefchaouen is behind
a huge mountain, and the sun doesn’t hit the town until about 9am. We hiked up
to the Spanish Mosque, only around 40 minutes up into the hills. A friendly dog
joined us, presumably as a guide, or perhaps just to judge our cardio. The
mosque, built by the Spanish in the 1920s during their brief colonial
flirtation with northern Morocco, offers panoramic views of Chefchaouen that
are absolutely worth the sweat.
Back by 9:00am for breakfast, which felt like a reward for
surviving the hike. Then off to the Kasbah Fortress, a 15th-century
structure built by Moulay Ali Ben Moussa to defend against Portuguese
invasions. It now houses a museum and a tower you can climb, offering great
views of the medina between the castellations.
Afterwards we wandered the blue streets, which are so
photogenic they make Instagram influencers weep with joy. The blue is said to
symbolize the sky and heaven, or possibly was started just as a clever mosquito
deterrent. Either way, it’s like walking through a dream painted by someone
with a serious commitment to the colour palette.
Mint tea was consumed, as is legally required in Morocco. For
lunch, we were welcomed into a local home (arranged by our tour company) for a
traditional Moroccan meal. The hospitality was warm, the food was warmer, and
the temperature outside was trying to outdo both.
Post-lunch, we retreated to our room to avoid spontaneous
combustion. In the evening, we re-emerged for drinks in the Medina centre,
watching the world go by at a pace that matched our energy levels—slow,
contemplative, and slightly melted. Chefchaouen is a place where the streets
are blue, the tea is minty, and dogs are unexpectedly loyal.
Day 6: Chefchaouen to Volubilis to Meknes to Fez
We left Chefchaouen at 9am, heading toward Volubilis,
an ancient Roman city that has been partially excavated—about one-third, to be
precise. The rest is presumably still hiding under centuries of dust, secrets,
and a few confused goats.
Volubilis was once the capital of the Kingdom of Mauretania. It
flourished under Roman rule from the 1st century AD, boasting temples,
basilicas, triumphal arches, and Roman houses with mosaics so intricate they’d
make your bathroom tiles weep. The city thrived on olive oil production, which
explains the abundance of olive presses and the general slickness of the
economy.
Now, about the temperature: 51°C. That’s not a typo.
That’s the kind of heat where your shadow tries to crawl under a rock. We
staggered through the ruins like dehydrated archaeologists, then collapsed into
air-conditioning like it was the Second Coming. Still, very impressive.
Next stop: Meknes, a city surrounded by fortress walls
so grand they make Game of Thrones look like a backyard fence. These walls were
the brainchild of Sultan Moulay Ismail, who ruled from 1672 to 1727 and
had a flair for dramatic architecture and absolute power. He transformed Meknes
into a city of monumental gates, palaces, and ramparts—earning it the
nickname “Moroccan Versailles”. The walls stretch up to 15 metres high and
were built to impress and intimidate.
We visited the Mausoleum of Moulay Ismail, the final resting
place of the Sultan himself. He’s remembered as a unifier of Morocco, a builder
of empires, and a man with a fondness for Zellij tilework and very large doors.
The mausoleum is a serene, sacred space with courtyards, fountains, and mosaics.
Non-Muslims can’t enter the inner sanctum, but the outer areas are more than
enough to make you feel spiritually inadequate.
Lunch was a delicious Moroccan affair in the Medina, full of
tagines, couscous, and the kind of bread that makes you question your
relationship with gluten.
We rolled into Fez in the late afternoon, where
our hotel room greeted us like a sultan’s guest chamber: 6m high ceilings,
4m carved wooden doors, and mosaics on every surface. After such a huge lunch
we skipped dinner and instead found a British pool bar, had a glass of
wine, and contemplated the day’s journey. It was still 38⁰C at 8:00pm.
Cheers
from Derek, Katie, Matt, Jessie, Molly & Pippa
