Blissfully drunk on the narcotic pepper plant root, and blissfully isolated from my fellow resort residents.

So when I wasn’t busy gulping, I turned my attention to my hosts, and my short-term travel companion. Only earlier in the afternoon did I meet Junior over a resort staff’s game of touch rugby, and in true Fijian fashion the conversation topic drifted to kava. Hours later, not before the treacherous near- pitch black jungle trek, we were treated to hospitality in a stranger’s house and surrounded by his entire, equally kava- fanatical, family.

And wherever the magic drink goes, interesting dialogues follow.

Junior’s father was busy flaunting his collection of items, from the beautifully preserved antique guest book ‒ the household doubled as a guesthouse in the ’80s ‒ to decades-old maps. They all, he explained, represented the regretfully passed days of travel, when travellers could legitimately title themselves as adventurers.

Seizing the opportunity, I dropped the big question. If I can remember it right, alongside the numbness in my lips and limbs, I grew fascinated with the priceless perspective of a local on how travelling has changed since thirty years ago.

*

These were the first images to be conjured from my memory bank when STA Travelbuzz ‒ I began working for them as a travel blogger several months ago ‒ asked me to write something about how much travelling has changed for the last thirty years, the age of thirty being the birthday STA Travel has recently celebrated. And since I spent the ’80s being scattered molecules and part-time foetus, and the ’90s as an unworldly toddler, I naturally required the wisdom of elders to complete my task.

Anyone from Spain, a Greek island, or one of many European cultures of an older generation can tell you how much tourism has drastically reshaped their homeland, from the mere increase of man-flow to the bigger landscape-reforming stuff. This is especially true when the destination comprises of long strips of white sand and warm seas.

This is the new manifestation of colonialism. For evidence look no further than the hordes of tourist settlements occupying the Spanish coastline.

But hey, this isn’t the ‘change’ in tourism that I am dwelling on with nostalgic sentiments – in European terms tourists nowadays merely have less perfume, more showers and horsepower compared to their counterparts a century ago. It was what said on that breezy August evening by Junior’s dad, over the grog, that caught me sighing.

*

The atmosphere wasn’t sombre – or sober – but the question raised some seriousness in his tone.

“But don’t you think the Yasawa Flyer is bringing in too many tourists?” I was referring to the catamaran that dumps senseless visitors daily onto the Yasawa island group, northwest of Fiji, like nuclear waste. Only moments ago, the master of the household was depicting the sole method of reaching the outer islands in the olden days – by hitchhiking on fishing boats.

“It brings jobs, opportunities, technology. The Yasawa Flyer makes it easier for islanders to travel to the mainland, and vice versa…”

“But what about cultural integrity?” I gesture towards my resort. “When most of those tourist come in they want to lie on the beach and sunbathe, not learning your culture. Doesn’t that bother you?”

It did bother him.

There was that glint of nostalgia in his eyes when he spoke of the old-school kind of travellers back in the ’80s. The ones who would cross mountain ranges and open seas just to reach a genuinely exotic location, and build genuine friendships with the indigenous folks and leave with enough moral obligations to return. Every signature in his guest book was testimony that this race of travellers exists.

And there was this Canadian book illustrator, who first came to the island in 1985 and returned to stay for six months. He remains a regular visitor, despite the hefty distance between Vancouver and Fiji. He still speaks to the family on the phone – in Fijian.

One subtle thing I have noticed about our conversation – even though I was mercifully intoxicated – was that the father spoke better English than his children, Junior and his brother Moses. One may account this to the dwindling British influence in Fiji, an ex-colony, and consequently the decrease in English-orientated education. However, I saw a grimmer cause.

With more guests less willing to mingle with the resort staff, the locals are more inclined to spend time amongst themselves and converse in their local dialects. And with the mutual respect between English and Fijian speakers broken down, English is treated as a language of the tyrannical ‘masters’ and Fijian the local renaissance of the free-spirited and oppressed.

This is especially true when many tourists, as I observed, go on holiday hoping to cast aside the suppression they endure during their normal lives and expect to afford royalty treatment. What they tend to forget is that, like themselves, their ‘servants’ are human beings too.

Meanwhile, my ‘servant’ was now escorting us back to our dormitories. It was pitch black in the tropical forests, with little illumination save a half moon and malfunctioning torch. Junior’s silhouette grew to intimidate me a little – the adrenaline was there pumped through the veins.

That instant, I had a taster of the sense of adventure my predecessors would have experienced when they came to visit the same island, the same forests and same hospitality.

And with the increasing convenience in air-conditioned coaches, business-class airport lounges, top-speed catamarans and five-star hotels, the entire market is almost exclusively catered for luxury seekers, and less inclined to serve the intrepid adventurers the thrill they seek.

But then, they had little reliance on what was an almost inexistent tourist industry.

Our generation has been pampered with so much comfort and convenience that, at first opportunity, we cling onto what deemed ‘safe’ more so than our counterparts three decades ago, even without us knowing. As much as I would love to condemn the tourism industry for ruining my ideal adventure, I must admit: am I capable of shredding my Lonely Planet, ditching STA Travel, embracing 100% local diet and rambling into the sunset on local transport?

Let’s be realistic. The answer is no. And hands off my amazing Lonely Planet collection.

*

It has been at least two weeks since winding up in bed, feeling merry, after a pensive evening – apparently the other guests settled for an uneventful early-night. It may have been an archipelago of close proximity, Vanuatu possesses a distinctive culture that not only starkly differs from that of Fiji, but also varies from island to island.

Besides that, I treat Vanuatu with affection as a less-developed substitute of the Fiji I had previously fallen in love with.

And by less developed I meant dusty guesthouses, canned tuna and corned beef for lunch, and dinner, gas lamps for staggering back to the bungalow under the guidance of a visible Milky Way. Rowdy tourists found a spot in my distant memory. Dirt tracks were a norm, mini trucks a must. No seatbelts? Just cling on tighter, and enjoy the ride.

My thrill-seeking inner self was satisfied.

Turning to Kelson, my guide and fellow bird hunter, I accepted a glass of water infused with lemon leaves. We chatted under the stars.

“I don’t get tourists,” he went on bluntly. “They come to the island, and they spend so much money on food and accommodation and everything. But why do that, when they can come and live with us for free?”

I could explain to him the entire concept of monetary values, just as some American kids were attempting to teach locals business management. But did I want to contribute in destroying their cultural concept of unconditional sharing?

Besides, I was disgusted to hear about what the Americans were doing.

It did get me thinking, wouldn’t this be what an older generation of Fijians – think twenty years ago – have undergone, the same wind of change? Before they could resist the temptation to drift away from tradition – I have met many money-orientated ni-Vans – their surroundings would have been ‘upgraded’ to suit our needs, and them having to adapt according to our needs. The world is indeed changing.

At least I got a glimpse of a time portal before the storm strikes.

So this is part two of felix articles thingy. Whatever. I'm too tired and sick of writing to say anymore. Just read.

Clamours of morning prayers filled our first-floor bedroom. I checked the time: it had just passed six. Too early. The piercing sunlight kept away any hope of falling back to sleep; still I tumbled back to a snooze, waking up two hours later to sounds of the medina.
They were heavy raindrops rather than chatters of Moroccans going about their business.

Despite the discouragement, I got out of bed.

Not that Fès had little to offer. Legend (Lonely Planet, that is) has it that the inhabitants of Fès go to bed every night, knowing that their city is the true centre of Morocco. Founded in 789 AD, Fès was established as the capital of the first Moroccan imperial dynasty and remained so for centuries. Its intellectual, cultural, artistic and religious advancements soared since medieval times, even when its role as political capital was in steady decline; little wonder that Fassis (residents of Fès) were widely regarded as the cultural élite of Morocco.

A visitor would consider soaking up in the elixir of artistic genius from the entire city: with our tight schedule, we disregarded the Ville Nouvelle and Fès el-Jdid (New Fès) and headed straight for Fès el-Bali, the Old Town of Fès, which granted the city the status of the largest living Islamic medieval city in the world.

On the previous night we had staggered, after an 11-hour coach ride, into Fès el-Bali at its climax, instantly hyped by its intoxicating charm of Arabic commercialism; stepping out of Hotel Cascade, the rain appeared to have flushed out all forms of liveliness from the hives.

After settling for a glass of mint tea like a true Moroccan, I briefly left Anna behind to explore the very souks that are the essence of Old Fès.


Lahlou Ahmed didn’t own La Porte du Peintre: his father did. Nor was he responsible for the majority of paintings exhibited in the miniscule gallery: his father was. He had no obligations to maintain the store ‒ arguably the largest Talaa Seghira (one of Fès el-Bali’s main alleys) ‒ save familial ties. Which means a lot in Moroccan terms.

Still, he liked being there, surrounded by colours and aromas of oil paints. It was a good break from his education as a student in Arabic, yet not too great a venture from the cultural enlightenment he loved.

But today was just outright miserable. He stepped out for some fresh air, head filled with the tunes and lyrics he would sing when his friends came around tonight. In his breath he cursed the rain, for disrupting the rhythm and fending off his customers.

That was when he saw the Asian kid with the green t-shirt, blue waterproof, swaggering down the street like an advertisement logo for shopkeepers.

And he seemed interested by the artwork. And seeking shelter from the downpour.

Effortlessly, Lahlou had himself a potential buyer.

He gave him the space and time required for perusal, to his heart’s content. The holy-water man portrait, by a travelling art student, caught his eye. Lahlou smirked ‒ he knew that look very well, one he had seen many times from art-lovers who unearthed his muse behind a piece of work, and sensed that spark of connection.

He claimed he had a travel companion who would be delighted to visit the shop: he had to go fetch her from the hotel. The classic getaway excuse. But no, he was too hooked to pitch an escape. So Lahlou returned the handshake, bid m’a ssalama willingly and watched him burrow his way out of the gallery.

Hard-selling was unnecessary: it was because, Lahlou understood, with art, there was a third option beside ‘you like it’ or ‘you dislike it’ ‒ ‘you appreciate it’.

I returned to Hotel Cascade and delivered the news of my discovery. Anna was now more than determined to buy a painting for her boyfriend; I too found myself gradually succumbing to the temptation to make the purchase.

Someone (or something) mentioned how easy it is to lose yourself in the medina. True, I discovered, yet not because of its labyrinthine orientation. It was the difficulty to revisit a shop as, distorted by the many vibrant sights you see along the way, your recollection refused to function, even on one long straight path.

For a distance that took me less than ten minutes ‒ or so I thought ‒ Anna and I needed twice as much. With the rain diminishing by the minute, locals and tourists alike had ruptured out of their cocoons and restoring life to the souks. Perhaps that did no favours to my orientation skills.

We found La Porte de Peintre eventually. Lahlou welcomed me and my companion with open arms, once again left us in our silent admiration on volumes of masterpieces arranged across the walls.

In the end, Anna settled for two paintings, and I the portrait that had captured my heart. With our new-gained bargaining skills, harvested when in Casablanca and Marrakesh, we came out from the bartering game with a decent price. As Lahlou dismantled the canvases for transport, we got down to a hearty conversation and gained insight to each other’s lives.

He revealed to me his involvement in a local Moroccan music band.

“Come back at eight tonight when my friends and I play music here. We will be honoured to have your company, sadik.”

Promises aside, we paid and departed with three fantastic pieces of art, and a new friend. Curious enough, it was roughly when the sun broke out from elusion.

*

Mohammed was idle. The Talaa Kebira was bustling with life ‒ there just weren’t enough tourists.

There were at least two gawking at the majesty that was Medersa Bou Inania. Perfect targets.
Ensha’llaah, he thought as he approached for the kill; they will want to continue shopping rather than visiting the Medersa.

“Excuse me, can I help?”

They seemed unthreatened. He went ahead to the doorkeeper to probe the entrance fee of the Medersa, when they expressed their doubts about visiting the college. Returning with the information, Mohammed had established some mutual trust.
And now for the killer question.

“Would you like to buy some spices?”

He had struck a harmony. Before they could gesture their approval, he guided them through a back alley where his cousin’s shop was tucked neatly behind a corner. The shopkeepers sprang to life at the sight of new customers, briskly led them through an introductory on their goods.
Mohammed kicked back on a couch, watched bemusedly as the Asian bloke poked his nose on samples of cumin and spice mixes, and his Caucasian lady friend pursued inquisitively on massage oils. The bill continued mounting ‒ he felt satisfaction for not only gratifying his guests, but also the tip that awaits.

They were on the move with their bounty. He fumbled around his djellaba pocket for his prized photography, only to realise he had left it behind. He cursed under his breath ‒ only if he could show it off and tell tales of his getting stoned with Bono only a week ago…

*

Andrew and Kag, fellow hitchers we had met on the previous night, rendezvoused with us by the entrance of Hotel Cascade. As we exchanged encounters of our wanders over mint tea, I made the suggestion.

Truth to be told, having lived through the disappointment of missing the Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca, third-largest of its kind in the world, an Islamic architectural experience at the Medersa Bou Inania was not too much to ask. Especially when we hadn’t had the chance (and privilege) to visit a mosque.

Not that the theology college was a mere substitute. Constructed by the Merenid Sultan Bou Inan, it represented the Merenid Dynasty’s (1276 - 1465) excellence in Berber craftsmanship. Also a mosque, it once housed some of the brightest minds in Muslim theology.

My craving was now fulfilled. Stuffed were my eyes with imageries of shades arranged in tiles or perfect symmetry, rising in columns that transformed into plastered pillars, every inch dedicated with engraving of Islamic symbols; they then converged into the elaboration and splendour that was the wooden layering.

Waiting patiently for the tourist to disperse, I seared the already-frozen scene into my camera. Although I believe some sights are better committed to memory than a snapshot, a good memoir might come into handy when my memory decides to fail me.

‘Crazy man’ was crazy because of his frantic salesmanship, not because he was genuinely crazy. He was passionate for his job, and loyalty to his employer and Thami’s Restaurant (Bou Jeloud, 50 Serrajine, The Medina). Come rain or come shine, he would wave around the sheets detailing Lonely Planet’s recommendation for the eatery, attracting patrons to the two tables it hosted.

Not around this time though. It was too early for dinner.

But then, this boy with his green t-shirt emerged with a funny request.

“Can we take our food to our hotel terrace?”

He felt no need for hesitation. Taking order for four portions of tagines, one of couscous, he whisked together all ingredients in the undersized kitchen and distributed them to individual tagines, with the precision and haste he would commit to any dish.

“Please bring the tagine pots back after you’ve finished?” He had to make sure. Any piece of the terracotta may be worth more than his daily salary ‒ losing one would mean financial disaster, let alone four. He could only wait, distraught nevertheless; but he could only wait.

Soon enough, the teens had brought back the crockery with satisfaction smeared across their lips.

That was exactly why ‘crazy man’ was passionate for his job.

*

Flipping through my guidebook, I came across a piece of intriguing information: that Fès hosts the Festival of World Sacred Music every June, since 1995. Approaching eight, marching down Talaa Seghira with an entourage of seven (I found three more hitchhikers earlier during the day), I knew I was on for a treat.

It was bound to be a very private concert, minus the intimidation and plus the interaction, with some very special music indeed.

Knowing that we would be disorientated in the dark, Lahlou came further up the Talaa to lead us into his sanctuary. Soon enough, room became an issue when Lahlou’s friends arrived, and the crowdedness that generated awkwardness. Most of us fell short of words.

The language barrier collapsed once the music started to swing, and us rocking to its thunderous beats. The longest night had begun, the room smoke-filled and distorting before our eyes; I became, my intolerance of stereotypes aside, Lahlou’s Jet Li for the occasion, and laughed along to his playfulness.

It certainly was a saga that I would not want to end.