July 3rd
The next morning I depart San
Francisco, although worst luck of all – I step on to the train as
the guard is stepping off to see who gets on. She immediately asks
for my ticket, with the train still at the platform. Thinking fast, I
gesture to my bag and say billete, then step past her on to the
train. She waits impatiently, with her arms crossed, the door still
open behind her. She casts an imposing figure, looking down at me
with disdain.
I sit on my bag, and ask to buy
a single to Algeciras. She shakes her head and says I must buy at the
station. Sensing a glimmer of hope, I point out the station is closed
and so I cannot. She tells me I must pay for a ticket with Euros, I
tell her I (truthfully) only have my bank card, which she tells me
they do not accept. I start to complain about the train company for
not accepting Visa in my best tourist voice, and she tells me to wait
as she goes to consult either the head guard or the driver, probably
the latter.
As she walks away, I quickly
rise and close the door. As she strides off hastily, I know the
driver will see all doors as closed, and knowing the signal ahead is
green will set off, hopefully before she reaches him. A few seconds
later, the engine growls and we start to move. Feeling like I should
be twirling an imaginary moustache wearing a top hat, I lean back
against the train wall on my bag and wait for her return, knowing I
at least have made it one stop closer.
When she returns she tells me to
get off the train at Antequera, and buy a ticket there. Three stops!
Result! I go to one of the many empty seats and listen to music, the
Sun magnified through the window causes me to fall into slumber.
A short while later we arrive,
and she wakes me up and points me to the door. I walk off, the train
leaves, and I rest my head against my sleeping bag for two hours
waiting for the next train to arrive, after a quick look outside the
station to see if there was anything worth braving the midday Sun for
in the town.
When the train arrives, I try
and find a seat, although this one is much busier. I apologetically
move when passengers show me their tickets for the seat I am in a few
times, and eventually find my way to a seat at the front of the
train.
As the train sets off, I set up
my laptop and start to read, a fantastic story called “Move
Underground” by Nick Mamatas, where Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassidy and
William S. Burroughs do battle for their souls, Buddha versus the
Lovecraftian nightmares of Cthulhu and Azathoth.
The guard soon arrives and
quickly tells me to get off at the next stop. Normally I would just
agree and thank him, but for some reason I feel like arguing. I start
concocting a story, the guard ushers me out of my seat to the door,
where we continue our 'discussion'. An Australian woman intervenes
and speaking perfect Spanish to the guard, offers to pay the twenty
Euro fare for me. I try and refuse politely, knowing full well that I
have no way of paying her back when we reach Algeciras, but she
shakes her head, kindly insisting.
I thank her profusely, the guard
leaves, and I return to my seat. A Spanish gentleman has taken the
seat opposite me, and I nod politely and engross myself back in the
novella. Feeling his eyes upon me, I look up at him and am
flabbergasted to see he is the spitting image of Burroughs in his
late forties.
He says something I don't
understand, and I respond with the classic “habla poco espanol”,
to which he smiles. I'm reading Kerouac and Burroughs talking, and at
the same time whenever I look up I feel we are continuing the
conversation in our minds, my gaze staring through his shades and we
somehow both comment on what I read, sharing responses.
It starts to become too much, my
mind flagging from the Sun and the synchronicity, and the automated
train announcement says our next stop is San Francisco de Loja. Me
and Burroughs raise an eyebrow while the rest of the train laughs,
then he raises his hands in a “the world is going crazy” sort of
way. I say “Esta loco dia” and he nods.
At the next stop, a family gets
on and says they have reserved our seats. We both grumble under our
breath but move, and I sit next to a Frenchman at the table behind
and over the next three hours or so I finish the story, satisfied
with the only ending to a Lovecraft story that isn't suicide or
insanity.
We finally reach Algeciras, and
I make straight for the port. I approach one of the many ticket
offices, and ask how much for a foot passenger to either Ceuta or
Tangier. Thirty Euros to either destination. I try my bank card
vainly, and when it declines ask how much at other offices, receiving
the same price. Wondering how so many companies survive, offering the
same price for the same service, I walk back towards the town, have a
cigarette and think what to do next.
Deciding to hang around the
docks, hoping for a cut-price ticket, another French guy approaches
me, and starts to talk. He tells me how he is disturbed by the
Satanic Illuminati everywhere, pointing out how their symbols are
everywhere. He points out the road sign is an upside down triangle,
his eyes fixing me with a “Now do you see them?” sort of look.
I try to reassure him, pointing
out that squares and triangles are basic geometry, nothing Satanic
about them by themselves, and he moves his head from side to side,
agreeing but saying that they can also be combined to have a powerful
effect, and some people use this power for Evil.
I say that it is not necessarily
Evil, and he is misunderstanding Satanism, but it can hold power over
people's minds. We talk for a little while longer, then I walk to the
departure lounge, and join twenty or so other people in sleeping on a
waiting bench.
The next day, I repeat my
perambulation, walking up and down the marina and pier, feeling
increasingly despondent, weak from hunger and lie down on a park
bench under some trees for half an hour, looking up at the waning
Moon in the daylight, wondering why we can't see the stars as well.
I get up dejectedly though
slightly mind refreshed, and walk up to a few skips, with some boxes
piled next to them. A full cured pig leg is propped next to the side
of one of them, and I look at it. These are considered a delicacy in
Spain, selling for nearly eighty Euros each. Jamon serrano
I think the style of pork is
called?
Inspecting the meat, I brush off
a few hairs and smell, pretty fresh, considering. Giggling with
myself, I pick up the leg by the hoof and say “How do you do?”
Carrying it like this, I walk for a while towards the sea, ignoring
the looks of the mad Englishman in the midday Sun. I wash the meat in
the sea, take out my knife and take a strip of the meat. I chew, the
initial smoked flavour pleasing, but then my body reacts to the Sun's
effects and I spit it out, coughing and spluttering. Bad medicine. I
heave the leg out to sea, and walk again.
Some hours later, I arrive back
at the port entrance, and see two guys, one in a white shirt, the
other in black. I recognise them from walking past earlier, and the
one in white asks me how I'm doing. I tell them how I'm trying to get
to Maroc, but only have ten of the thirty fare. He nods with
sympathetic understanding, and tells me to try round the corner from
the main building, that perhaps there will be people there who will
sell me a discounted ticket. I thank him and start to walk off, then
the guy in the black shirt whistles at me. We walk to each other, and
I feel some sort of conflict in him, he is very confrontational.
“You go Tangier? I know place
for ticket.” I tell him how I have only ten Euros, he replies “No
problem, you give me ten Euros I get you ticket, Los Barrios.” I
agree, and we walk to his car, put my bag in his boot and drive off.
I tell him I need a bank machine for the dineros, and we try a bank
but the minimum note it dispenses is twenty. I tell him this, his
response is “Si, si, no problems” and we drive off to the
auto-route. As we drive, he tells me “I am a good person” a few
times, and that he has five children. My spider sense tingles, most
of the good people I have met never mention the fact, and the guy
from Total Recall enters my mind “Man, I got five kids to feed!”
I agree anyway, and after five
or so minutes we enter Los Barrios. We drive to a bus station, and I
look at him quizzically. “This station to Tangier?” I say,
disbelieving. “Si. Give me dinero.” I look out the window at the
empty bus station. “Que hora bus?” “Media hora.” I realise
the scam, and I try to think of the best way out. “Give me diez
Euros” he says, the smell of beer on his breath, dry flakes of skin
peeling off his face. “Need banca.” I reply. He grumbles and
drives round the corner to a bancomat. I get out and try the bank
anyway, same as before, minimum withdrawl twenty. I'm still thinking
how to get my bag and get out. I return to the car and say to him,
truthfully. “Solo diez Euros en account. Banco solo dispenses
venti. No good.” He gets out of the car, telling me to try again, I
do, then he tells me to try twenty, I do, bank says my limit has been
reached.
We return to the car and I tell
him I will buy the ticket from the station, ask for him to open the
trunk so I can remove my bag. He refuses, saying he wants my money
first. I tell him that if I do not have my bag when I buy the ticket,
the bus will drive off. It takes a few attempts, but eventually he
concedes, I take my bag and we walk to the station together. A few
people have turned up. He is nervous and fidgetty. “Give me
dinero.” “You give me dinero.” etc. I tell him I have none on
me as he has just seen. I ask again if this is the bus for Tangier,
knowing full well it isn't.
“Si, dinero.” He replies,
getting angry. I tell him I will buy a ticket for Tangier here and
get money from the driver for him. He starts to argue, saying how he
just drove me here to get the bus to Tarifa, and from Tarifa I can
get to Tangier. I say I asked for Tangier twice, and he agreed ten
Euros for a ticket to Tangier. He continues to argue, threatening at
the same time, sticking his car key between his knuckles as a weapon.
I move on to the tips of my feet, ready to respond if needed.
He shouts at me, telling a
hippie-looking guy nearby how my mother is a whore and I am a thief,
but he understands what we have both been saying, telling the man
“si, si” and agreeing with him, smiling and looking at me
understandingly at the same time. A few schoolgirls to the right of
us are laughing at the scene.
The car-owner comes back at me
again, snarling and spitting, raising his hands but not lunging
forward to attack yet. I'm wired, ready for the attack, responding
calmly in clear concise basic Spanish. He threatens to call the
police. I smile and invite him to do so. He grunts, knowing that he
cannot, and goes back to the tired “Give me dinero.” I say “Por
que Los Barrios? Algeciras – Tangier?” he says “Si, tu bus
aqui, aqui Algeciras, Algeciras – Tangier.” I repeat, “Por que
Los Barrios? Por que tu drive me Algeciras? We meet at Algeciras.”
A few more people have arrived, he glances round nervously, and tells
me to pick up my bag and follow him.
I say I will wait at the
station, and get the bus back to where I was, he can stay at his casa
at Los Barrios. He draws the fist with the keys back and snarls, I
smile, standing still. He speaks rapidly, I pick up general insults
and he tries to take my bag. I grab it first, and he tells me to
follow him. Sensing a stalemate, I gesture for him to go and we walk
to the front of the station. My bag on my shoulder, I know I'm at a
weakness if it comes to a fight now, but need to be able to take my
things quickly.
We keep repeating ourselves
until two buses pull up, and by this point the man is raving. I
explain again using basic Spanish and English words, until one of the
bus drivers leans out of the window and says something to the man. He
turns and responds to the driver, as he does a thought comes to me,
“Get out of here.” I turn round while he is distracted and get on
the opposite bus, hastily saying to the driver “Tengo no dinero,
por favor one stop away from this man.” The driver nods, the guy in
the black shirt whirls round and starts kicking out at me, hitting my
bag. The doors slam closed, and we drive away while the guy keeps
shouting.
I restrain myself from any
further gesture towards the scammer, and thank the driver profusely,
taking a seat. I exhale fully, while the guy is hitting the side of
the bus. An old lady and her son gasp and tut, while the rest of the
bus crane their heads to watch. I remain silent, staring at the
pattern on the chair in front of me, and calm myself on the drive
back to the port.
Getting off the bus, I head to
El Corte Ingles, one of a chain of Spanish department stores on many
floors, and search for an empty plug socket to use their Wi-Fi. I
check my bank account and I am thankful to see £40 in my bank
account, more than enough for my ticket!
I transfer the funds to my
savings account that is accepted at more continental paypoints just
as the manager of the store tells me I cannot use the socket. I
acquiesce, and make straight to the port, half-expecting to see the
guy there again, my body still on edge from the adrenaline that was
not used in the encounter.
Thankfully, peace still reigns
and I buy a ticket, and after a short delay board the ferry to
Tangier, the price to Ceuta now a few Euros more for some reason.
00:06
July 4th, Ferry from Algeciras to Tangier
Brain leaking it feels. Tired.
No point sleeping, the ferry will arrive within twenty minutes.
Filled out the card of arrival,
a first for me, stating my intentions to travel as studying, with all
the other regular details. Was donated £40 otherwise I would still
have been stuck in Algeciras, aimlessly wandering around the harbour,
promenading myself conspicuously looking for some way of free passage
to Maroc.
Lost sight of Europe for the
first time from where I sit, and above the steady hum of the boat's
engines a man talks rapidly into his mobile, near impossible for me
to pick up any words to attempt to learn the language, except
“chakram” every now and then. A lady in a headscarf browses with
her phone nonchalantly while her parents sleep opposite her. I feel
an overwhelming need for sleep but try and fight it.
As I write, a thought of “Why
bother?” rises and I yawn, deciding that ten minutes will be better
than none in the shade, and I want to be half-awake for seeing Africa
for the first time by night, and my curiosity at the spectacle I
shall see when the Sun rises is high.
Then I see how close we actually
are, decide to pack up my laptop and things, then walk up to the bow
of the boat and drink in the air.
The air is fragrant, a scent I
still cannot pinpoint exactly. Earthy, musky, yet not unpleasantly
so. The foot passengers disembark seperately, so myself and five of
the fifty or so passengers are the first off, and quickly transferred
to the main station, where the police merely glance at my passport
before waving me through.
I leave the station and breathe,
looking around. Africa, at last. I roll a cigarette and as I light it
a man approaches me. He is about 6” 4' tall, heavy-set and has a
long black beard.
“Taxi?”
“No dinero.”
“Donde eres?”
“Inglaterra.”
“Inglaterra and no dinero? How
long travel?”
“5 semanas, autostop. Cuanto
kilometer Tangier centro?”
“Three maybe four.”
“Chakram, I walk. Piede.”
“OK.”
I walk away and get about fifty
metres before he shouts and gestures me back, walking towards me.
“Come, I take you to my house, one night no problem.”
Thankful for not having to walk
the distance into town, he tells me to sit and we wait. Slightly
puzzled that we did not get into his taxi, as I believed he had one
(it later transpired he sells tickets for the ferry), I cross my legs
and remember what I learned about Moroccan business style in
Amsterdam. “You smoke?” I say yes, he asks me I smoke hash-hish,
I say yes, he says we smoke at his house.
A taxi with two guys pulls up,
my new guide shouts them to a stop and after a speedy conversation I
put my bag in the boot of the car and we drive off. As we screech off
in a cloud of dust, I let the bartering over price become background
music and stare out of the window. I see other people starting the
long walk back from the port station, men and women, grand-fathers
and grand-mothers. Feeling slightly embarrassed at my immediate
comparative luxury thanks to my country of birth, I look out of the
other window and watch the rolling hills, and immediately distinctive
houses.
I see fast food kiosks, with
boiled pig heads hooked on to the corner of the canopy at the
forefront, bright pink, twisting in the wind. My mind does a double
take, and I remember Naked Lunch, and Burroughs talking of the
Inter-zone briefly. I'm surprised at the pigs, and mentally remember
to question it later. We stop briefly at a stall by the side of the
road, where the man offering me shelter gets out quickly to buy a
pack of cigarettes. He walks briskly back to the car, throws them
into my lap along with another one, outside of the pack. A minute
later I realise the significance. I open the pack, taking out a
cigarette and thank him.
Less than ten minutes later,
the man instructs the taxi to pull over, and we get out alongside the
auto-route, the only light from the street opposite, and the numerous
stars above. He takes me by the wrist once I have my bag, “Come,
come. One, two nights, my house, no problem.” I pat his hand and he
lets go of mine. I light the cigarette and he tell me to wait while
reaching inside the house window for the key.
He opens the door and turns on
the light. The house is a concrete room with a wall between one
third, seperating the kitchen/toilet area from the sleeping/sitting
area. He asks me to take my boots off before I enter, which I do,
remembering what I had researched on Arabic etiquette.
His expression changes somewhat,
and he asks me for the pack of cigarettes back. I hand them over, and
he asks for the other one he gave me as well. I hand it back to him
and he walks back out of the house, telling me to follow him. I walk
barefoot round the corner behind him, and he shines his mobile phone
into a concrete shelter adjacent, dog shit littering the floor.
“You sleep here. OK?”
I look at him and nod. “I
back in ten minutes, talk to my friends first. You have bag for
sleep?” I nod again, and he walks off. I put my boots back on, and
stand outside, looking up at the stars again, thinking. A few minutes
later, he returns. “OK, come.” I return to the other house and he
tells me to take my boots off again. Once again, I understand the
subtext, but go along with it.
He tells me to sit, pointing at
the opposite blankets/bed to his, which I do, cross-legged. He lays
on his bed facing me, propped up on one elbow. He lights a cigarette
and after inhaling once, rests his hand with it on his knee. I have a
unlit cigarette in my hand, seeing nowhere to flick the ash and
waiting to watch where he does. He continues not to smoke, watching
me intently. I return it, neutrally.
Before the ash falls, he leans
across and flicks the ash onto the concrete. I light up, and ask him
where he is from. “Casablanca. Very big city. Have you been?”
“No, but I have heard. Very
industrial.” He looks down, nodding. “Yes, very industrial.” A
few minutes pass in silence. There is tension here, a sort of
challenge, but I don't feel overly threatened, despite the man's
stature. “You eat?” I reply in English, “Yes, if you do,
chakram.”
He stands and walks behind the
dividing wall, returning with bread and halal sausage. Despite my
hunger, I don't eat much (although at the moment I regret not eating
more) and he asks me if I like the food. I say yes, and although the
bread is fresh, and the sausage tasty, I rub my hands over my belly
in such a way as to indicate my stomach roiling around; he nods and I
finish my cigarette after we eat.
Pointing at my filthy,
bloodstained once-white trousers, and then at three alternate pairs
on the floor, he says change, the same order tone in the voice. I
stand and look, saying “La, chakram.”
“No, no, change. Is good.
This? This? This?” pointing out the individual items. “Good for
sleep.”
Clean clothes would be better,
and my pockets are full of things, so I thank him and put on some
tracksuit bottoms, putting my other clothes back in my bag. “You
want sleep now?” I shrug, and get my sleeping bag. Returning to my
bed for the night, I use my orange hoody as a pillow and my sleeping
bag as a duvet.
“No, no, get inside” he
says, pointing again. “No, it's warm.” I reply, miming as such.
He stands up and approaches the window, which has a pink sheet with
roses as a curtain, he lowers it slightly. “Is OK for you?”
Undertones again rise to the surface, and I say no problem, smiling.
“OK, we sleep.” He returns
to lie down, same posture as before, and I lie facing the white
ceiling. A few minutes of silence, and he gets up and turns the light
off.
I start drifting off asleep, my
thoughts a conversation with unknown people, and he turns the light
on, and then peers at me, his face a few inches from mine. “Sleep
good?” Thinking of telling him that it was until he turned the
light on and woke me up, instead I say chakram and hold my hand above
my eyes, squinting against the light. “Here, I help you sleep.”
With that, he grabbed me with both hands and pulled my torso up,
moved behind me and started rubbing my head and shoulders. “Is
good?”
Take a moment to picture the
scene. I'm underweight, half asleep, and suddenly John-Rhys Davies in
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade is kneading me like putty. He is
literally pulling at my temple and scraping back my hair, my eyes
comically widened.
“Is good?” he asks again. He
grabs my shoulders, his hands enveloping my entire upper arms. To be
fair, my shoulders appreciate it greatly. “Shoulders yes, hair no
chakram!” I say. “Problem,” he replies, “here.” He stands
up briefly, flips me over, pushes my head down into the blanket, and
sits on my lower back, his entire weight causing my spine to click
repeatedly as he settles his arse on me.
I let out a noise, something
like “Flarghaasjirsa” but still, all things considered, this
isn't too bad. He puts his hands around my neck and starts
unbuttoning my shirt. I try to move, explaining with traditional
British politeness that this really isn't necessary, and he pulls my
shirt down, exposing my shoulders. He starts tapping them with his
fists, although they feel like punches. “Wait.” He stands up, and
then turns round and sits back down between my shoulder blades.
“Hoooooooooooooyah.” I say, gutturally.
He picks up my feet and casually
bends them backwards until my toes are touching my buttocks, and the
pain/pleasure triples. “Is good no?” he says, pushing harder.
“Ek.” is the only sound I can muster. He lets them fall, and
then starts to massage my back. While the rest of my body aches, the
lower back starts to feel more relaxed. He puts his hands lower,
under the waist-band of the tracksuit bottoms. “Ok, ok, I'm good.”
He removes his hands and punches my arse. I laugh, inexplicably.
Getting up suddenly, he opens
the door, goes outside and spits, then returns to the opposite wall,
sits down and lights a cigarette. “You are very easy.” he says,
dead-pan. I look at him, one eye squinted, and several comments occur
to me, but I remain silent. “I go to sauna every week in Medina for
massage, after work very good.”
“You want my turn?” I say,
rising. “No” he responds urging me to stay where I am. I feel the
need for a cigarette, and we smoke in silence for a few minutes.
He gets up and turns the light
off, then I try to sleep once more. As I am about to fall
unconscious, he turns the light back on then comes over and picks my
sleeping bag off me, and starts unzipping it. I ask him what he is
doing, holding on to it. He flicks my hand away, saying “is better”
then puts it back over me, as one would to a child. Then he lays back
in his original position, watching me again.
I lie on my back again, hands
folded across my stomach, and a while later he turns the light off
again. I am roused once more in the night and see the end of a
cigarette in the darkness, although sleep well afterwards.
This morning I wake before him,
and stumble around to roll a cigarette. He wakes as I am doing, and
offers me a café and a swiss-roll/Twinkie type sweet called a Bambi.
I think of saying I hope it wasn't dear but feel like my genius would
be wasted. We drink the café outside, and his neighbouring villagers
look at me like an alien, one or two greeting me traditionally with a
Salaam. He asks me if I have a phone, as he has friends in the centre
(which is now forty kilometres away) who can put me up if I want, but
I say I lost it in Spain.
He left around noon, saying he
is going to the neighbouring village, and to wait. I decide to take
the opportunity to write this up, and am still deciding how to get to
the centre. It's in the low thirties outside, and my body aches,
ravenously hungry and not sure if I should hitch from the auto-route
a few minutes away and leave the dude's house unlocked, or await his
return, despite having no food, although running water and
electricity also feel like a boon.
Think I'll wait a little while
longer. Seems the decent thing to do.
16:26 4th June 2013,
village near Tangier, Sar?
21:47
Still no sign of the house
owner, and no food since Bambi. That still sounds wrong. Ventured
outside of the house and saw three kittens playing outside a house.
Decided to get my camera out and watch them play. The children were
naturally curious of the outsider, and of the camera in my hand, we
watched the kittens together, although they didn't like being picked
up, and scratched one of the boys slightly, before all three ran and
hid in a tiny hole in the wall. Getting to know them as themselves –
bright and happy, they cheered me up immensely just being around
them, seeing that...something...that we all hold on to in our hearts
yet bottle up, afraid of being that vulnerable, for we are taught
eventually through life that there are bad people who will hurt us,
and as we are hurt we close ourselves off to the outside world.
Although when we feel safe we open up to people, and we all (I hope)
managed that today.
To share that experience with
their parents was a blessing I am thankful for. Later, I showed the
children the video clip of themselves, to their astonishment and
delight. I met the father of the boy who picked up the kitten and
showed him the video too, although my lack of language skills was
evident, and I really wanted to talk more, though I will keep trying.
The children helped in that regard too, even though I couldn't put it
into words, they must have sensed my frustration, and they brought me
one of their French school books, and we looked at some of the words
together, reading aloud. Afterwards, and apropos of nothing in the
same way as before (kaka buddha)
the boy said “Habibi.” I said “Comment?” for I had recently
read a novel of the same title, and was intrigued. “Mohammed. Mere
d' Mohammed.”
I was speechless for a minute,
digesting this wisdom – for while Mohammed is regarded as a
Prophet, the Mother also is revered as divine, as with Jesus and
Mary. Thinking more now, the difference is that the Prophet is not
worshipped, as was the command of God/Allah from the beginning.
Interestingly, there is a hadith
(I think) where Mohammed travels on the back of a mythical winged
creature through the seven levels of Paradise to receive his divine
wisdom, and is offered a choice between wine and milk. He chooses
milk, and is congratulated by a djinn/angel, for if he had chosen
wine his followers would be led astray. I cannot help but wonder if
Jesus had a similar experience in the desert during his forty days
and nights, but chose wine instead – for did he not turn water into
wine, to quench the thirst of his followers?
Surely it would still have been
a miracle turning a cup of water into enough for five thousand,
without mixing it with alcohol? Not that I have anything against wine
(or milk for that matter) but this seems like I need to contemplate
it more.
Perhaps there is a third option?
If the next Prophet who transcends to this level of Paradise is
offered either wine or milk, chooses neither? What then? I think that
would be my choice anyway, for only water is pure.
A little earlier, we (the
children and I) were listening to music together, Under Pressure by
Queen and David Bowie, and Baba Yetu (the Lord's Prayer). Listening
isn't the right word, for we were singing along, and they were
dancing. There were two toddlers, and the girl approached the boy, to
dance I believe, and the boy got upset and hit the girl round the
head lightly. The girl wasn't distressed by this, just confused and
moved away. Myself and the elder boy made tut-tut and not right
sounds and gestures, and the boy calmed down, I looked down to change
the song on my laptop, and when I looked back they were happily
dancing together. Seeing that was yet again a blessing.
I
feel different, my stomach has stopped making noises, I am no longer
hungry, and water, coffee and cigarettes have been enough to keep me
going so far. However, I felt ashamed for smoking, and closed the
door excusing myself to smoke, while I heard the eldest child explain
“fumer *something something*
papas”, which I presume
to mean that smoking is just for dads, and I felt relieved.
23:52
Damn fine coffee. No cherry pie
though.
I felt a brush of something in
my hair earlier, and carelessly flicked my hair, and a large beetle
landed at my feet on it's back. As it scrabbled frantically, it's
legs kicking as fast as they could, I put my finger down to it so it
could hold on to me and right itself.
The beetle crawled up my finger,
before flying around the room, though bumping into walls as though
dazed. I watched it intently, hoping it wasn't damaged permanently.
It crashed down again to the floor, on it's back again. I reached
over, again helping it up. The same crash happened again, and this
time the beetle stayed still once uprighted, resting I suppose. I
started to think that perhaps it would be an act of mercy to kill it,
rather than watch it suffer pointlessly, but then I thought that
perhaps it is not beyond living a full life, and can adapt. One of
it's wings was outstretched, and some form of sac at it's back pulsed
rhythmically. I noticed one of it's legs had detached, probably
due to my hit, though there was very little force to my knowledge
when I brushed my hair.
Throwing the leg outside, not
without regret, it eventually flew off again, though still damaging
itself, bumping into the white walls, and I picked it up, cradling it
in my arched hands, and let it out of the front door to the ground
outside, where there was less for it to bump into.
I sat down by the door,
listening to random music, and after a few minutes I noticed the
beetle had crawled back into the house. Starting to think the beetle
was here for a reason, I watched it instead of intervening, and it
crawled under another door into some shade, where I thought it was a
good place for it to stay and rest as long as it needed, nothing
further I could do for it.
My host has returned, after a
day of work. I told him I had taken some café and he replied it was
no problem, and asked if I had eaten. When I replied in the negative,
he said I should have gone to the shop and taken some food, and that
he would have paid the owner back when he got home, well known in
this small village. We laugh at the language problem, and I resolve
to try and learn more about practices in this country. He is cooking
pasta with tomato puree, and has bought some orange juice. Enough
writing for one day, I know I shall enjoy my meal.
00:58
20:47 5th June 2013,
Tangier
True enough, the meal was
filling, and a friend of his brought round bread fresh from the oven
to accompany it. We ate in silence, save for the satisfying slurps of
pasta from spoons.
Afterwards, I offered to play
some music, but he seemed bored, I suggested a film to pass the
evening, though of course there was no subtitles for him to
understand, but he said OK. After half an hour he told me to turn it
off, which I did. He asked me to step outside with him. “Come,
come.” I sighed, and followed him. We breathed in the night air
together. “Fresh air good after smoke yes?” I agreed readily
enough, then mimed for sleep and turned round to enter his house. He
told me to wait a moment, and started to massage my shoulders. I
half-expected this, and gently brushed his hands away, telling him my
body was still limber from the night before. He looked slightly
crest-fallen, and I patted him on the back as we went back inside.
He turned off the light, though
I felt his gaze for a few minutes before I drifted off to sleep,
dreaming they were trying to remake one of my favourite childhood PC
games, and we trying to negotiate release of the source code.
I awoke before him, and prepared
a coffee on his gas stove, and finished reading Camus' The Stranger.
Two children from the previous day waved as they passed, riding two
red poles like knights. “Deux chevaux” I remembered from
the textbook. My host woke and went to the village shop, buying eggs
and bread for a peppered omelette sandwich, deliciousness.
After the meal we went outside
and talked with an elderly gentleman who spoke to me a little in
English, telling me he had worked in Gibraltar for twenty years. He
continued to speak with my host and the friend who offered bread, and
I understood some of what was said at the time, yet I find I cannot
remember it now although I laughed somewhat.
My host asked me if I wanted to
go to Tangier today, and I agreed. We walked half a kilometre or so
to the next village, drank some water from a container under a tree
with a cup attached, then walked on to a bridge next to the ruins of
a Portuguese fort. My host tried to catch the attention of passing
drivers, gesturing at me, telling them I was English. I told him we
should move off the bridge, to where there was more room for cars to
stop. We did, and remarkably (thanks in full to my host) a truck
stopped and I climbed in.
He wished me well, although I
half expected him to join, and the driver set off, while I drank in
the fantastic scenery, jolted constantly yet half-pleasantly by the
suspension. It was forty odd kilometres, and we passed through two
toll-gates, before he dropped me off at the outskirts of the city.
Having spent most of the
afternoon walking around this city, I am surprised at how European it
is in many respects. I'm not sure if my expectations were too wild,
but although most of the chain stores are absent, the city itself
seems all too similar to the Spanish ones I visited, although cheaper
(seven dirham for a coffee, about 50 pence).
I walked round a market, though
as I wasn't hungry or thirsty I didn't purchase anything. I did enjoy
some honey and nut bars for three dirhams, should probably have
haggled! They are delicious, and I don't even have to consider eating
them as a problem! Hooray!
I've had some trouble finding
WiFi in a lot of areas, and the Internet cafe's here block my
Facebook and Gmail access, as they did in France. Strange, perhaps
something to with the French language government? Maybe Interpol
really are after my details! Heh. Hehe. Hee.
I walked round more, and briefly
a befriended a stray animal – half-dog, half-fox and she was
beautiful. I approached her and started talking to her and stroking
her, before kneeling down to eye level with her. She nuzzled my hand
and licked it affectionately, while I continued to feel positive
thoughts between us. I decided to call her Zorra.
She walked away from me and
started sniffing around a carrier bag full of stuff. She sniffed a
couple of times before walking off, content there was nothing edible
in there for her. She looked round and saw three guys walking towards
her and crossed over the road. One of the men clapped his feet on the
pavement and told her to “Asphat!” or something which I take
means “Shoo!”
Trotting off quickly I looked at
the man briefly feeling slightly angry for him urging my new friend
away. I followed her around the corner and sat with her a while. I
could sense she wanted feeding, but I had no food in my bag.
Eventually I asked her to follow
me, and walked away. Though she merely bowed her head, blinked twice,
and sat on her hind legs, watching me leave.
So even my new companion
wouldn't stay with me for longer than half-an-hour. Ack. I decided to
walk on and heard the call-to-prayer from a Mosque that was only ten
or twenty metres away. Perhaps more spiritual guidance could help me
on my Lam?
I removed my shoes, and entered,
placing my bag at the rear of the temple. I was instructed to put my
shoes onto a wooden shelf, and then to place my bag at the side. I
misunderstood the last part, although we managed to talk coherently
when he switched from Arabic to French,and we assembled in lines,
with some people sat around the edges. At the front, opposite the
door, a small group of people sat cross-legged, singing hadith(check)
from the Qu'ran. We bowed together, then knelt onto our knees and
placed our temples on the carpet on the floor.
I found myself listening to very
few of the words themselves, instead listening to the harmony and
tone of the song itself. It seemed like it was highly regarding
someone, a person who gave guidance to the rest of the people of the
planet.
The only word that I focused on
for guidance as to the actual text of the song was Ali – who is
believed to be the natural descendant from Mohammed, his son.
Although this is contested by the Shi'ite denomination who believe it
was A______(?).
In the centre of the group of
people was a young boy, I guessed that they were singing to him at
first, comparing him to Ali and helping to instruct him on his path.
This thought was pleasing, but
then I heard anew, and suddenly I saw the energy was emanating from
the boy himself, and I was at once reminded of the Dalai Lama who is
chosen from a young age, after answering a series of questions about
himself.
After hearing amazingly
intellectual messages myself from young children with their families,
perhaps we are underestimating the value of their intelligence,
especially since the discovery of the Internet, where children as
young as 10 are helping discover new methods of cancer treatment, and
teaching themselves to code remarkable things.
While we are at this stage of
childhood, I believe we still remember most of the things from our
old age in the past/same life, and still have the same urges to pass
on wisdom to the “younger” generation.
People slowly filtered out, and
eventually I left also. As I was crossing the park adjacent, two
young men in traditional Islamic attire greeted me, and I somehow
understood they were asking if I had been to the Mosque just then. I
said I had, and they asked to sit and talk with me a while. I gladly
agreed, and we sat cross-legged in a triangle.
They asked where I was from in
Arabic with a few words of French, and how long I had been in
Morocco. I told them, and they asked me if I was Muslim. I replied
that I believed in God or Allah.
One of them asked if I was
hungry, and walked off, then returned with some chocolate biscuits,
which we shared. We tried to continue talking, and I was responding
in English now, unsure of how much of what I said was understood.
Then the other gentleman asked
if I was still hungry, and politely asking me to wait there, walked
away. In the meantime the other man and myself compared our identity
documents, showing each other our names and dates of birth.
We talked some more, myself
mainly of djinns /angels, then they bade me farewell and good luck on
my Hajj. Admittedly this wasn't the first time the phrase has been
used for my travel, by friends here and in England.
I walked on, after fifteen
minutes of walking suddenly, unprovoked, felt angry and my bag
weighed heavier into my shoulders. Letting out a startled laugh, I
wondered why I haven't found any chess players or shisha café's yet.
I had seen a few people playing Backgammon, which I had also played
in Spain, but found it left too much in the hands of chance (heh).
I decided that Backgammon was
similar to Ludo, and then found myself five minutes later walking
past a café where people were playing a game that looked remarkably
similar to Ludo. Laughing again, I decided to walk in and have a
coffee.
There were no empty seats at the
games, so I looked up to see what was on television. Dark and stormy
setting, someone's climbing a tree at superhuman speed, looks decent.
Then the characters show themselves. Bloody Twilight. Gah.
I instead watch the other
customers, happily playing games and talking with each other, I find
myself laughing too at times. Especially when I noticed Twilight
every now and then.
I finish my coffee, and walked
on, seeing a fire in a paint can on the pavement. I stop to sit and
have a cigarette, and a young man casually walks over the fence in
front of me, then staggers forward, drool falling from his lips.
“Tu ok?” I ask. He turns
towards me and asks for a cigarette, which I start to roll for him.
We greet each other and he sits opposite me. The fire shows a large
scar down one side of his face. We exchange pleasantries for a few
minutes, before a man in a robe walks along, and picks up the flaming
bucket with a hooked twig. We both exchange a look of disbelief as
the man walks off with our heat source, before I shrug at him and say
“it was probably his anyway.” He invites me to the place he
sleeps, a short walk away. We walk, on the way I watch as he talks to
a vendor, buying a carton of milk and a candle. He sings as we
continue across a busy roundabout to a brick wall with a hole in. He
lights a candle, and asks me to step inside with him. I push my bag
through, and crawl inside.
Immediately I step onto foot
deep rubbish and general waste, and glance about my eyes adjusting
to the candle's flickering light. I hear mewling to my left, and
scurrying to my right. The young man steps left, kneels, then hands
me the candle.
I watch as he opens the carton
and pours it into two makeshift trays made from previously used
cartons, and four kittens tumble around in a cardboard box making
their way to drink. I smile at the kittens, then take in my
surroundings. Concrete walls and pillars support a large floor space,
and I can make out similar discarded waste as far as I can see.
He stands and waves for me to
follow, and feeling like I've discovered some long lost Tomb, I
shoulder my bag and walk slowly behind him. He holds the candle
towards a wall, and shines light on a man in his mid to late forties
with a large handlebar moustache, slight beard, bald head and
piercing eyes. He stands up and I immediately feel threatened –
sure enough I look down and he is holding the blade of a type of
Stanley knife in his hand, which is clenched around it. We stare at
each other in mutual assessment for what feels like an era, before
the man who invited me in walks forwards and stands next to him. They
start to speak in Arabic and French, while I pick up certain words,
English being prominent.
The wiry bald man's eyes
enlarge wildly, and he mimes thrusting motions towards his friend,
and I realise with deep dread he is talking of stabbing me in the
dark abandoned building, as a rich tourist from England must have
much money.
I drop my bag to the floor,
sighing “not like this...la chakram...”, the scarred man with the
candle speaks a little more, this time in Spanish, “hombre” and
“amigo” words that stand out this time.
“Ahhhhhh! Familia! Why no
say?” He immediately lowers the knife, and extends his hand limply
in a gesture of peace. I match it, and he beckons me over to where he
is staying, a blanket on a concrete ledge. They say they both stay
here for the last two weeks. Walking to the left, they tell me
“dormir here” and gesture at an identical though bare ledge. I
ask them why they sleep here instead of in a tranquil jardin
somewhere, they reply policia grande problem. Still not convinced,
but letting it drop, the moustached man goes and I see his silhouette
root through a pile of things on the floor, before he returns with a
blanket, and a grime-encrusted pillow, which he starts to arrange in
to a bed for me.
I thank him, but try to tell him
how I have a jumper for a pillow and a sleeping bag. He waves me
away, and tells me to sleep here.
All the way through this,
occasional noises of empty water bottles being moved around, paper
rustling, and screeches of rats emanate from the dark. The other man
tells me he sleeps in the other half of the building where the
kittens were, and walks off after telling me to stay tranquil and
that we are all equals right?
Naturally, I agree readily and
he walks off, illuminating himself by the flame of a lighter. The
other man sticks the candle to the wall above my bed by the melted
wax, and asks me some general questions, where I'm from, how long in
Morocco etc.
Then he bids me wait, and blows out the candle, then walks off towards the alternate exit of the building. I see him turn round a corner and I am alone in the pitch blackness, the only noise that of the rats, which also sound suspiciously person like.
Half of me wants to just retrace
my steps and leave now, the other half is primed for an attack at any
second. Looking back, perhaps it was the braced part of me that made
me stay there. My eyes dart left and right, and numerous coffees
(perhaps) have me seeing shadows move above rat-height. Being
trusting, but not too trusting, I decide to hold my pillow over my
midriff and adjust my position from where I was left in the dark,
just in case a blade attempts to slide between my ribs suddenly.
I breathe half a sigh of relief
when I see the man return, sparking the lighter for temporary bursts
of light. Rats flee from his feet, and I peer down below my crossed
legs and see a rat nibbling at something. He drops two more bags, and
brings out a sheepskin rug and a remarkably fresh and clean pillow.
I stand up and pick up the water
bottle while the man arranges the pillow and rug, then pick up the
half-full water bottle. The lid is chewed slightly, but the water is
thankfully pure. I drink a few swallows then sit back down with it.
He walks off again, then returns a few minutes later, and relights
the candle on the brick wall then takes out two pieces of foil.
One foot on my bed, the other on
the ground, he unwraps one of the foils, revealing a few drops of red
liquid. “Five Euros this.” he complains, wearily, bitterly, and
understandably. “Twice a day, five euros, five minutes *points
up*”. I tell him the Moroccan hash is good enough for me. He says
“whiskey very good, hashish very good, this drugado mal.” He
tells me he used to make lots of money from it, now resorting to
living like this.
Asking if there are any
rehabilitation clinics in Tangier, and if he has tried methadone, he
says he cannot afford methadone and the clinics are likewise not
free. I nod in sympathy. The other foil is rolled into a straw, and
he burns the foil underneath the liquid, causing an effect of
watching him chasing some blood down some silver, inhaling clear
smoke, exhaling thick white.
His behaviour afterwards, also
remarkably, is unchanged. He tells me to relight the candle if
needed, then blows it out and walks off again.
Alone once more, with the rats
talking to each other, my mind suddenly has a thought: “Lo siento.”
I'm sorry? For what? Paranoia still rampant, I watch, my attention
following light when it can, but mainly relying on the carried sound,
and I realise that the noises are too late to plan a reaction, or try
and centre a location for the movement, thanks to the acoustics of
the building.
After an unknown amount of time,
I lie horizontally, willing myself calm, deciding that if it happens,
it is better to not see it coming. Oddly enough the thought doesn't
comfort me, although I do manage to close my eyes.
Even worse when I lose my actual
(probably poor) night sight, and rely instead on my incoming
thoughts. My mind is telling me there are several men lurking nearby,
crouched down walking slowly towards me, occasionally brushing
against an empty water bottle, or kicking a rat that screeches and
scampers away.
My heart is beating loudly. My
eyes open, certain there is someone nearby. Within a minute or so I
hear a noise from upstairs, somewhere up until that point I
didn't know even existed. I see a torch light bounce along walls
through slight cracks in the concrete, and a man emerges from an
alcove, and I make out a bearded man walk up to the moustached man's
bed adjacent. I am squashed against the wall, watching him silently.
He shines the light around his bed, and I can see him perfectly, also
sure he has seen me, though he gives no indication of this.
He touches nothing, then walks
away towards the way I entered. My fear is overcome by curiosity at
the situation. What is happening? Why are the people who stay here
vacant? What was that man doing? Bizarrely, thoughts like these calm
me, and I feel I have something to focus on. My older feeling, that
this is all a test of endurance, resurfaces. I am reminded of the
Scooby-Doo cartoons, you must spend a night in an old abandoned
haunted mansion. Feeling humorous, though not laughing, I lie back
down, and attempt to think of rats as friendly, merely cleaning up
our scraps with their mouths, itty bitty teeth chomping happily on a
piece of paper. It works, somewhat. I am disturbed once more in the
night, by the moustached man's brief return, and when I wake I am
alone, and the rats are absent.
I take off my blanket and stand,
deciding to take a picture by the morning light. The moustached man
once again walks back in, cheerily saying Salaam. I return the
traditional greeting and we touch hands again. He says I am welcome
to stay here again tonight. Moving my hand in a uncertain manner, I
say maybe, pack my bag, we wish each other well, and I walk out of
the building.
I walk around to a nearby cafe
and order a coffee, can't remember how much I had at the time, though
I entered Morocco with 200 dirhams, thought I could spare a coffee.
Watched some of Al-Jazeera, concluded briefly how it was
Multi-Nationally owned since the Invasion of Iraq, finished my drink
after politely chatting then walking on.
Managed to write some of my
haphazard philosophy in a different place, and then was taken in from
a unearthed Necropolis at the Western border of the city that night
by a neighbour, who let me sleep in his yard.
Today, I walked around the
Kasbah, noticed their very similar sea defence system to my home town,
and explored the quarter, before going into Café Baba, I smoked some
of my Hash, had a couple of coffee's and pondered what I had seen
earlier, a small dirt-encrusted kitten shivering in the morning rain.
Felt like bowing over it, instead picked it up and placed it on my
knee, it eventually leaning into my hands and sleeping, warming
steadily.
Wondered where it's parents
were, and if the community were feeding it, it's tail was very
skinny. Suddenly snapping back to the Cafe, the owner is tapping me
on the shoulder, saying “You OK Monsieur?”
“Good hash man.”
I stagger out of the café, and
walk along the way I came, back along to the panorama view from the
archway by the sheer cliff walls at the top of the Kasbah, and walk
along the cliffs
The memories of the next few
days are a haze within my mind – through the madness that followed
and follows as I write within a roadside café on the outskirts of
the city.
Having practically given up on
vocal phrases entirely, I now seem to rely a lot on my other senses
combined, the languages mixing, the audio not matching the visuals,
with things such as football games and cafe's – I hear familiar
voices talk to me, repeated phrases constantly trying to lead my
physical presence around by a short leash.
At first words are like mental
slaps – an immediate darkness of vision longer than a blink, and a
barked order - “COME” for example (imagine the possible
connotations) with the mental reeling causing slight subservience
before the fight/flight response is triggered, as it is so
unexpected.
I struggle daily with my soul,
my body (with luggage), and it seems, with Allah. I believe the will
of the people is being absorbed and given out as I move around them,
and I feel the duality at times between the masks and the reality –
the shiny exterior and the grimy sub-plot that houses every Hollywood
studio, as before in my past, the same areas expected for Tourists
(TORE WRIST) and once you move beyond your friendly guide's
instructions, you will find yourself lead astray by forces out of
your perception, with a vague glimmering feeling of “I meant no
offence!” as the previous man you talked with walks away with a
smile and a gesture of “Get out of my bar freak”.
However, people being people,
when you have refused them everything they think you want, they
start to offer you the things you had only perhaps heard of
previously, things that can cause insanity if not prepared for them.
No stranger to this route, I have been confounded by the vast walls
within the city that tower, until eventually the looming red-bricked
houses and crossroads become like junctions on a sliding block
puzzle, where after every move from one to the other, the pieces
shift round, and after another step, you will realise you will be
where you wanted to be before, with the vague recollection of moving
them yourself, while all the while your every thought will be picked
up on and brought before you in a couple of moves.
Before long this will turn into
a long-distance game, where you try and fit all the pieces together
in your mind, searching for an exit, and being presented with a
symbolic archway, while all the time being talked to with a speech so
acute that it can scarcely be described and still do justice – for
the Moroccan people are highly-skilled in the marketplace, and pride
themselves on their speech craft. I sometimes enjoyed meeting a
skilled operator just to hear the hustle further along, while all the
time complete courtesy is paid to the person. The best hustles are
where you fulfil the role yourself, your previous wants corrupted
into a desire. Although then you are still hooked on something,
and surely that something has a price, and if you have money you
can have honey, and I'm sure my friend at the next shop has that
exact thing for you, but perhaps you can do a little favour for me
first. Free sample, whatever you like. No price? Grashuish monsieur.
(NB grashuish in no way means free).
Caveat emptor, as has been
remarked upon and provided a solid maxim, remember what you actually
want, stay focused, there are many paths here, and the unwary can
find themselves bargaining for more than they expected.
11:34am 11 June 2013 / Somewhere
close to Tanger
