Around this time last year I was going to do something reckless again and get spontaneously on to a plane to see a guy, who I was totally besotted with, because he asked me to. I never got that flight. It's funny how life twists and turns in different ways, as now a year on, he, is sadly, no longer in my life and I find myself in the place I had so longed to be with him and nearly took a plane to: Morocco.
This time the reason for being in Morocco was not a lustful pursuit; it was something quite the opposite. It was WORK! After my surprising phone call from the designer (read the previous post), I found myself a couple of days later, with bags packed being whisked away on a plane, and landing in Marrakech, not knowing whether this whirl wind of events was quite real or not. When I reached the arrivals hall and saw a grumpy, old Moroccan guy holding a badly scrawled sign with my name on it, I decided it must be real. I was then whisked off in a 4x4 with two actors who were on my flight on a four hour journey into the desert. Our driver who I could only communicate with in Spanish as it's the only language we have in common, drives us through the winding roads like a nutter and in no time I'm feeling car sick and trying not to throw up over the actors. Four hours later, after stopping off for a dodgy Tajine and having to wee in some hole in the ground, classed as a toilet, I arrive at my hotel, looking as White as a sheet in the early hours of the morning, knowing I had to be in work in a couple of hours and I'm exhausted. On the plus side, the hotel is 5 star and amazing. My room is like a suite and is massive. I could get use to this, I think as I slide into my king size bed.
I awake the next morning, though it's too early as I have got my Moroccan time wrong and realise later that could have spent an extra hour in bed, God Dam it! I get driven to the workshop where I get to meet my designer and supervisor for the first time, who are also husband and wife. Now I've never worked with a couple before and all I can think about is whether they argue a lot and if I'm going to get caught in the cross fire. They seem lovely though, so I hope for the best. What is less lovely is the workshop which is a big, damp, unfinished concrete hell hole. Oh! The glamour! It is also over flowing with costumes, of every period of time, most of which I have never worked with before. It's all a bit overwhelming. The place is also filled with Moroccans running about. This is our costume team, and there are 15 of them in total. I get quickly introduced to them all.
"This is Hassan!"
"I'm Amin."
"Latifa."
Now I'm normally good with names, but these are unfamiliar ones to me (I can't even pronounce half of them!) and one minute later I can't remember anyone's name. They are all also, viewing me with an air of suspicion, as the new girl brought in from a foreign land for extra help, as a slight on them. It's all a bit intimidating. Fatima our washer lady brings over some tea. Now I only drink green tea, but as most of the Moroccans seem to be giving me daggers I don't want to piss them off and so I'm polite. With everyones eyes watching me intently I take a sip. Oh my God! It's disgusting and I can't help but grimace; A LOT! The Moroccans are laughing at me and it's at this point I realise that most of them don't really have many teeth. No bloody wonder with the amount of sugar they put in their tea. There is enough sugar in their tea to kill someone! I get it now! They are trying to poison me with tea! The rest of the day is spent trying to get my bearings and learn the ropes. This is pretty hard when all the Moroccans seem to do is laugh at me and some keep undermining me and telling me I'm doing everything wrong. I'm soon a bit of a stuttering wreck and everything that comes out of my mouth seems stupid. Later that night I sit a lone in my room drinking the vodka I got from duty free thinking: I'm on a job, in a foreign country, with a designer I have never worked with before; with a team of Moroccans who see me as a threat and just poke fun at me; with costumes I've never worked with before; I don't know a single person; and I'm trying to be murdered with tea! Where has confident Carly gone? I feel totally out of my depth. I opt for another Vodka and Tonic.
The next morning I wake at 4.30am!!!! With the purpose of, its time to take back control! Today we are dressing Spartans and Persian soldiers for a big battle scene. I get stuck straight in and start dressing, though it's not long before I soon realise that my presence has caused quite a stir and I look round the room to see I'm the only woman ( A blonde western one, at that!) in a room full of half naked men, all staring at me. No I shall not be intimidated I tell myself. I've seen it all before and I'm not the one with the problem, this is my job! I start to dress one of the stunt men. He stinks of Alcohol. I thought Muslims weren't meant to drink? I start to dress him as a spartan when I'm told he needs a loin cloth under his skirt. So I'm on my knees face at crotch height with this guy with my arms around his waist trying to wrap this loin cloth around him, when I look up and realise he's got his hands behind his head; his legs parted; his eyes shut and seems to be getting some sexual kick out of this. Oh God! He's imagining I'm doing something else down there! Everyone else's eyes are on me too. I shall not be intimidated. Well actually I am and I completely rush the loin cloth and I see it already falling off him as he leaves for make up. So much for taking back control, Carly!
After ploughing through nearly a 100 extras, I am sent to set with some of the Moroccans. I don't know any of the crew here either and as they have been out here longer, they all seem to have bonded. Actually that's I lie I do know some one. The 1st AD as he's one of my best friends ex-boyfriends. I can't decide whether this is a good thing or not, as I can't remember whether it was a good split up between them? Production seem to like every single persons costume broke down to the max and after covering nearly 100 extras in dust and dirt, I'm more filthy than any of them. It's also won't come off either! My hands and my clothes no matter how hard I scrub are stained! Great, I've only been on set less than an hour and I already look like some comical chimney sweep. Checking the extras becomes a pain as well. There all male and giving me shit! They all start talking to be in Arabic and then starting to each other in Arabic and even though I can't understand them, I know it's about me. I shall not be intimidated! Kevin comes out (or as it has now become know after this job: Pitbull Carly)! I start barking orders at them, not like they can understand me, but it does have the desired effect of letting them know I'm not going to take any shit off them! The day wears on and the sun gets hotter and it's seems after lunch the extras decide that they have done enough work for the day, and most of them run off and hide under bushes and get stoned! The afternoon is then mainly spent trying to track them down and find their displaced costumes. A complete nightmare! By the end of the day I'm completely knackered and my feet are swollen with the heat. That night I lay in the bath soaking my feet and trying to get my hands clean. After half an hour of scrubbing, I'm still dirty. I give up.
The days roll on, each day a different period in time, I start to remember the Moroccans names, they except me and become nice to me and I still drink the God dam awful tea, to be polite. I'm just about to complete my first week and I think to myself; I'm alright, everything is alright. I thought to soon. Now I have a stomach of steel. I was in South America for 5 months and never got ill from the food. Actually not even in India did I get sick, but there is something about Morocco that my stomach doesn't like. Last time I was here, 5 years ago with my ex boyfriend, we were both as sick as dogs by the end of it. It was the day of the crucifixion and I'm hanging out with Jesus, who was crazy and cool, so I called him J.C (sorry I know what I have just wrote seems very unbelievable, but every word is true), when my stomach starts to get the biggest pains and then suddenly I'm rushing through the Jerusalem set trying to find a toilet. I'm not going to go into details (I'm a lady remember) but lets just say it wasn't very pleasant. It only gets worst in afternoon as some bright spark in history decided to crucify Jesus on top of a hill. This might have been a good idea in Jerusalem a couple of thousand of years ago, but not now when I'm filming and have a urgent need to go to the toilet every two seconds and the toilets are at the bottom of the hill! Let's just say its a long afternoon and as I'm trying to help Jesus on the cross and do my checks, I think he senses my pain and asks if I'm OK. This seems quite ironic coming from a man covered in blood, with lash marks, wearing a crowd of thorns, nailed to a cross, shivering with fatigue.
"I think I'm a lot better off than you" I reply.
It's my day off and still feeling shit and covered in dirt, so I decide to have a Hammam, as I was told it was really relaxing and gets you clean. I've never had one before and didn't really know what to expect. Let say it was a shock. I get dragged into a hot room, by a naked woman, who then strips me of my bikini which I thought was suitable to wear; she then throws a load of buckets of water over me; lays me down on the floor; scrubs my skin until its red roar; throws more buckets of water of me and leaves me in the room, a little bit startled. I don't know about feeling relaxed. Feeling violated is more like it!
The next week my designer and his wife have to move to the next location to do fittings.
"Your in charge now. Your more than capable" he tells me.
What! He's leaving me! On my own! In charge of Moroccans! To dress all these people and stunts! Arghhhhh!!!!!!!!! Oh my God! This decision does not go down well with the Moroccan supervisor: leaving a woman in charge. He's been giving me some problems: he never tells me anything; ignores me when I speak to him and does bugger all as he thinks he's a bit grand for it all. This is not going to be easy.
My first day in charge is one of the biggest days. It's the battle between the Egyptians and the Assyrians. In fact the battle begins before they even get to set, as there is a punch up with some of the extras. That's one thing I have noticed in Morocco: they do love a good fight! There always arguing and even when there not, it sounds like they are. I'm trying to be assertive and give orders out, when I find 4 of the costume assistants dressing the pharaoh.
"We don't need 4 people dressing one person, when we have another 90 waiting to be dressed. Move on!" I yell. They disperse. I come round the corner 5 minutes later to find them all there again, dressing the pharaoh! What the....! I give up. Apart from having a huge fight with all the stunt guys; calling them all disrespectful arseholes and falling out with them (it's a long and boring story, but I did get almost pushed to the ground by them) I'd say the day when pretty well.
It's tough being a woman in charge in Morocco, as I find out as the week rolls on. You get treated differently and you have to stand your ground. With my stomach still not right, I'm losing weight, I'm weak and my trousers seem to be falling off me. This on top of dressing, doing fittings and having to deal with crew politics, has left me exhausted. On our last day in Ouarzazate, we are filming the building of the great pyramids. An easy day in comparison to what we have done. WRONG! This is because we end up filming in a sand storm. It's so bad you can't see as there is so much sand in your eyes, and all they do is water. The situation is made worse by the extras: AGAIN, as they are only dressed in a loin cloth and apron, and there cold. So they all keep hiding and getting stoned in the work tents at the back. The producer gets the tents taken down so they can't hide anymore. This only makes the situation worse, as the extras then barricade themselves in the mini bus and go on strike. It takes over half an hour of negotiations while we are all being blowed around trying to take shelter, to get them out. They bribed them in end by giving them extra money. Lunch was a sorry affair that day, as we only got a couple of mouthfuls before the whole meal was covered in sand. We all just sat there looking a bit disillusioned. We had to abandon the set in the end as it got to dangerous. Here is a little taster of what it was like, though it did get much worse than this!
We finally move onto our next location, Essaouira. It feels like complete civilisation after being stuck in the sticks of Ourazazate for 2 weeks. It's by the sea, there are shops, restaurants and SURFERS (We all know they are my weakness). Heaven. What more could a girl ask for. Well actually a better hotel, as ours is a shit hole after the last one, but then again after some of the places I have stayed in on my travels, this is quite upmarket. I'm also glad to be back with my designer. Though not for long.
"So Carly, I have to start my next job and I'm leaving in 2 days and because you have been doing such a good job, I'm going to leave you in charge again", says my designer.
What! I can't be left in charge again. Actually what am I on about. I bloody love it. I've realised on this job I get a real buzz from having responsibility.
It being the last week, people are getting tired and tensions are high. One day from this week will be now be known as C**t Day. Now I hate this work, but it seems an appropriate name as this word seemed to be used a lot this day. There were arguments galore this day, and everyone was just calling each other a C**t! At 5.30am there was a particular bad argue kicking off with our department and another one. I just wanted an easy life at this point and didn't want to get involved, so just stood there looking a bit bewildered, wishing I smoked or drank coffee as it would give me an excuse to leave. In the end I just left anyway, leaving a trail of smoke behind me.
As my time had worn on in Morocco, I had become so immersed in all, as the job was so intense, I had completely forgotten about my life in England. It seemed like another world. I'd also grown to love my Moroccan family as well, and I think most of them grew to love me too (though I was quite aware that I still had my sworn enemies)! In fact some grew to love me a bit too much. In the first week I had the question that I knew was going to be asked:
"Are you married, Carly?"
"No".
"Have you children?"
"No".
"Do you have a special friend"?
"If you mean boyfriend, then no".
I have 15 faces staring back at me intently.
"But why?" they ask.
"I don't know really. I go for the wrong types? I don't really have time for one?"
"How old are you?"
"32" I reply.
Gasps, from audience.
"Well I know that's on the shelf age in Morocco". I can see one of the female Moroccan dressers who is 40 and not married giving me the biggest daggers right now. Oophs! I continue,
"buts it's not to bad in England, to be single at my age".
"Carly we must find you a husband, before it's too late!" says the Moroccan supervisor, "You should marry one of our costume boys, I have married many of them off to costume girls in England and America".
I bet you have, I think to myself. After this conversation, it seems I have no lack of suitors. I got asked by three different guys to say on in Morocco with them. I tell them I would be a very bad Muslim wife, as I drink, party and wear very revealing clothing. This doesn't seem to deter them and if I had taken them up on the offer, I could quite easily by now, be married off in Morocco with the first child on the way. Though one of the guys was quite cute, and the thought of a Moroccan toy boy did cross my mind for a bit, but then I realised I'd never be able to stay in Morocco with what it was doing to my stomach. There would be nothing left of me!
After crazy hours, lack of sleep, fittings, dressing hundreds of people, bad food, bad tea, a bad stomach, arguments, and sand storms the job had come to an end and I'd survived. In fact I'd done more than survived, I'd done bloody well. I'd been thrown in at the deep end and I'd swam. I realised on that job that me and my confidence has always been my worst enemy, but when set a challenge I can more than rise to it. This job has been more than a job, it's been an experience and a good one at that. I feel my confidence has soared and actually this 3 weeks has changed me, and for the better. I now know I'm more than capable at doing anything I put my mind to. I just have to keep remembering that.
OBSERVATIONS
* Moroccan men have some very colourful, crazy underwear, as believe me I saw a lot of half naked men on this job.
* Apparently Muslims can't throw bread as its against their religion, as we found out when we tried to get the extras to throw bread at a Roman emperor in a scene. They wouldn't do it so the crew had to throw it instead behind the camera. In the process the extras kept getting hit with the bread. This seemed to piss them off, so they decided to stuff religion and started throwing bread back at the crew, turning into one big bread fight. I stood there speechless.
* There were lots of crazy people in Morocco. Examples are the crazy drunk guy that use to get pulled away on the floor by security everyday; the guy that walks around wearing 20 coats: All at once!; and the mad resident that started throwing rocks at the crew and then got his sword out and started trying to hit people with it. If he wasn't happy, he could of just spoke to locations.
* Moroccans don't seem to get what a tail gate truck is, as that's what I asked for when I was doing a costume move. Instead I got a dumper truck! Check out this video. I've never done a costume move like this before, though it was much more fun this way.
* Moroccan tea still tastes shit without sugar. In fact worse. Can't win!
