Distance Traveled: 32,375 kms (BNE-MEL-SYD-BKK-PKT-BKK-CNX-BKK-PP-SR-BB-PP-HCMC-NC-TH-HA-H-L-MR-AG)
Time Difference: -10 hours (from Brisbane)
Soundtrack: I cannot get THIS piece out of my head right now, which is beautiful, if a little depressing!
Currently Inspired by: I read a recent interview with one of my living literary heroes Anne Rice and she said something that almost could have been taken word for word from things I have been saying to people in the last six months or so: "I wanted to be great. I was burning with ambition to be
something that mattered, to do something that mattered. Ordinary life was never
enough for me. I was never interested in it." Of course she had already achieved her greatness, and immortality, whereas I am (hopefully) in the process! And to clarify at least my own meaning... I am not saying that "ordinary life" is not also great, if that's what makes people happy. It just isn't for me.
Words written: 33,884. I wanted to write ten thousand more this week, but instead I was beginning to sense some inconsistencies in my story and also I was forgetting where I was up to with certain characters (I did NOT expect that to happen) so I've been going back and writing notes on things that need to be looked at in the first self-edit process, as well as writing some fresh stuff.
I have done very little since the last entry, so this one
will be the first one that doesn’t come with a photo album! I finished up in Marrakech much the same way
as I ended the last blog. Mostly staying
and writing / editing. If I went anywhere it was
down to a local cafe for a tagine when I ran out of food. The part of Marrakech where I was staying is
called Gueliz, and is packed to the brim with European ex-pats driving shiny
silver BMWs and Audis with pampered dogs on their laps. There was every kind of designer boutique,
but no supermarkets. Leather stores with every kind of jacket and shoe, but no
bookstores. Despite the flashy
prosperity of the place, it has a distinctly dodgy feel. One gets the impression that all these people
got their cash from backroom deals, embezzlement, or are disgraced politicians
or something. All the western men have
these young, skinny Moroccan wives wearing the latest Chanel sunglasses, huge
gold earrings, six inch heels, six inches of makeup and absolutely drowning in
perfume. As though they were only modest
Muslim women until a man came along who provided them with enough money and
protection that they didn’t have to be (if they ever were). It was an interesting people watching place
to be.
 |
| My God, My Country, My King |
I was not sorry to say goodbye to Marrakech. I was so tired of the sleaze, and I had it in
my head that Agadir, a beach town and my next destination, would be nicer. It is a three and a half hour bus trip,
nothing compared to some of the other overland trips I’ve taken in the last few
months, but ohhh it was tough. I got
ill, a first for me, and I ended up with my head pressed into the seat in front
of me thinking “don’t spew don’t spew don’t spew” nearly the whole way. I now feel bad for my previous irritation
towards people with what I refer to as “delicate constitutions”. It sucks!
Matters were not helped by the child behind me who kicked my seat
relentlessly for the first part of the trip and then noisily threw up for the
remainder of it. Oh, it stank. I don’t know how I managed not to also, must
have been sheer mind over matter! At our
destination I practically threw myself out of the window as soon as the bus
slowed down, pushed a few old ladies over, grabbed my bag and nabbed a taxi
driver. “How much to Kenzi Europa
Hotel?” I asked. “100 dihrams”, was the
reply. I thought fair enough, slung my
bag in the back and off we headed.
Agadir is actually quite a large city, almost as big as Marrakech. This was something of a
surprise to me as I thought it was a small resort town. It was a welcome visual relief from all the
salmon paint, as all the buildings here are painted in a nice off white that
make it seem large and spacious and clean.
I wondered (and still do) if all the cities in Morocco are painted in
different colours? There was the
obligatory mountainside with “My God, My Country, My King” painted onto it, and
a gorgeous sparkling blue seafront.
I was starting to feel like I’d made the right move and then
the taxi driver began to be overly familiar.
He asked my name and then stuck out his hand for me to shake. I didn’t want to be touched but I also didn’t
want to be rude so I briefly put my hand in his and went to withdraw it, but he
grabbed it and tried to bring it to his lips.
I yanked it away and said “don’t.” He was unfazed. He kept talking to me and laughing at his own
jokes and grabbing and squeezing my leg... again I would move away and say
“don’t.” He would say “ok ok” and then laugh and do it again. I was getting more and more irritated. Then when we were nearly there he was like
“100 dihrams, good price for you hey!” (something they all say here – “good
price for you”) and I nodded (I was in silent and surly mode by this time) he
then went on “100 dihrams for you, 50 dihrams for your baggage. In normal taxi, 150 dihrams for you, 50
dihrams for your bag. Not good
price! See I do good price for
you!” What could I do? This was not the first time this had
happened, so I should have expected it really.
He had me and he had my bag in the boot, I couldn’t argue. So when we got there I only had a 200 dihram
note and I said “I need change” he was like “no, no tip for me, I have three
children”. (Something I have also heard many times). I was furious by now, and my bag was out, and
I really argued with him. He gave me 20
dihrams back and I kept insisting on the other 30, and he eventually gave me
ten more and then drove off.
Ripped off
and angry, I stomped into reception and checked in. The concierge was really nice and I began to
look around and calm down (it is a nice resort). As I picked up my key and the guy took my bag
I asked “what is the wifi password for the room?” “No wifi in the rooms, only
in the public areas, and you have to pay”, was the reply. Well, the rage came back. I pulled out the hotel listing, off which I
had booked, which clearly specified free wifi in the rooms and free wifi in the
public areas. They didn’t apologise
(what is it with no apologies here?) but did give me a free seven day wifi pass
for the public areas, which didn’t really help as I wouldn’t have booked the
place if I thought I had to come all the way to the freaking lobby to use the
net. My thoughts at this point were
something like “Welcome to fucking Agadir, huh!”
 |
| Le Beach |
After dumping my stuff in my old and ugly room I went for a
walk along the promenade. We’re on the
west coast here so the sun sets over the water and I was there at the perfect
time. It was beautiful, and it would have
been a perfect moment too if I wasn’t being hassled by touts trying to get me
to buy tours, flowers, sunglasses etc every five metres. I eventually found a tout-free spot and sat
on the concrete barrier that separates the beach from the promenade but then after
a few minutes stupidly, looked to my left and there were two guys sitting
staring at me, and I looked to the right and there was a guy sitting staring at
me. I mean... what are you supposed to
do in that situation? It’s impossible to
relax or enjoy what you are doing. I left,
went to the supermarket, picked up some wine and other supplies (there are a
million alcohol-serving pubs and clubs here! Tourist central), went back to my
room, watched some movies and got very very drunk. It made me feel temporarily better but the
next day was, shall we say, not productive.
The next day I ventured out again and found an awesome
little cafe that looks out on the water, and had probably the best tagine I’ve
had since I got here. God, I’m going to
miss proper tagines when I leave. There
was a wee kitty there that I fed some fish to and she became my little bestie,
super affectionate and wanting heaps of cuddles. I began to relax and enjoy myself, however,
as I know by now, these periods are always short lived. Every other attempt I had at going outside over
the next couple of days was either thwarted or ruined by being constantly
spoken to. If they aren’t trying to sell
me something, they are going “Hey baby, what’s your name?” “Where are you
going? Come over here!” and so on. The
guys beep at you and shout at you from their cars while you’re crossing the
street. If you wear ipod headphones and
completely ignore them all (which I do now, sick of being polite) some of them
begin to shout at, and no doubt insult you in Arabic. I’ve just had it. I reached my limit at some point, something
cracked, and I basically haven’t left the resort since that moment except for a
quick dash to get some chocolate. This
was also the point at which I thought there is no way I could handle another
five weeks in this country, and began looking at an exit strategy.
Originally I thought I would travel overland up to the north
and then get a ferry over to Spain, then come back down here the same way to
get my flight back to London, but I wanted to be gone faster than that, and I’d
rather not have to come back here. So
I’ve booked a flight from Marrakech- Seville on Monday (I’ll get the bus back
to Marrakech on Monday morning – knowing my luck at the moment I’ll get the
same kid sitting behind me!) and I have forfeited my Marrakech-London flight
and have booked a new one from Seville-London.
Am planning to check out the south of Spain for a month, and I am counting
the seconds! Having said that I was very
much looking forward to checking out Fes, Essaouira and Rabat (the capital)
here, and I am cranky that I now can’t do so.
But there is no point in going to these places if I’m going to feel
trapped inside my room the entire time, and I can’t guarantee I will be able to
find a travel buddy like I did in Marrakech. So, bye bye, Morocco!
The best things about this place have been the nice resort
surrounds, the fact that I can see the water from my balcony, and the
food. The food in Agadir is excellent, and
I’ve had some of the best meals of my entire stay here. Sticky, tangy fish tagines; tasty,
caramelised lamb tagines; some orange and chocolate crepes that will stay with
me for a while; creamy beetroot salad and of course, my favourite eggplant. Would I ever come here again? Sure, if I had a man with me. I see these tourist girls in tiny little
short shorts and tank tops with no bras, looking so very inappropriate, but they’re
with a guy so I watch them and the men leave them alone. Here’s me, covered from head to toe, hell I’d
wear a damn sack if it would work, and I get hassled. Constantly. They only respect other men here. It’s messed up.
 |
| Le Promenade from Le Cafe |
Interestingly, after I decided to leave I met a couple of
really nice women and one nice guy, believe it or not. One of the women is my cleaner here, I was
here when she came in and we got talking in Frenglish (my Frenglish is
excellent now) and had a bit of a laugh, something I didn’t realise I needed so
badly until I was doing it. She was
affectionate and lovely and made me smile.
Also I was (finally) served by a woman at the little cafe I was
previously talking about and there were some roses on the table which, when I
was leaving, she wrapped in a serviette and gave to me, just to be nice I think. She also shooed some
touts away from me when I was eating. Finally
I didn’t realise until my second day here that my balcony sliding door didn’t
lock, and I’m on a low floor so I needed it fixed. They sent up a young maintenance guy, and
even though I was annoyed when he first struck up some conversation with me
(because I’m just so paranoid now – I thought he was going to either crack onto
me, or say “my cousin does tours, you buy? Good price for you!”) I eventually
conceded, rather grudgingly, that he was just being nice, although I still would
have preferred silence, just in case he turned.
Anyway, he asked me what I thought of Morocco and I was honest. I said “There is a lot of beauty here, it’s a
fascinating country and I wish I could see more, but the behaviour of the men
has ruined it and I’m leaving earlier than I planned”. He seemed genuinely upset about it. He said he was from a small town and the men
there would never think of behaving like some of them do here. He said it was rude and disrespectful, and it
was the thing about the big cities and tourist places that they all find is the
worst thing. He said if I travelled off
the beaten track I would find the nicest and friendliest people, and he is sad
that people come here and only go to tourist spots and then leave thinking that
all Moroccans are this way. He finished
by telling me to call down to reception for him if I needed him for anything or
there was something he could do for me, and hoped that my time here
improved. That was nice to hear and he
was nice to meet, but it was way too little, too late. I went off the beaten track in Vietnam and it
was weird and difficult. I can’t imagine
doing it here after the experiences I’ve had so far, especially when my French
is so basic, and I doubt many of the villagers speak English.
What an interesting time this has been. It has been the land of dates and honey (although the honey tastes very strange here), oranges and tagines
and French pastries and weirdly, good Moroccan wine, as well as the most
incredible geography I’ve ever seen, not to mention that once in a lifetime Sahara trip.
I’ve met some nice people and stepped out of my comfort zone. A paradoxical place, it has added extra
flavour to my travel seasoning for sure!
For now let's just say that despite everything I am grateful for all of that good stuff, and am looking forward to the
next part of the adventure.
Til Next We Speak
*LOVE*
N
No comments:
Post a Comment