Excerpts
My trip there, my stay and my return
Sunday 14 January 2007
Getting there
I hurried to the New Cross Gate train station intending to catch the East Croydon train. My luggage did not weigh more than fifteen kilos and was not slowing me down. The thought of travelling to Africa again puts an extra spring into my step.
The train came and I boarded. It left almost on time; two minutes late. The weather is sunny but crispy cool, unlike the warm spell of the last few weeks. I have already started my holiday and the train of thought unlike the train I am on, meanders from subject to subject. Today, 14th of January, is a New Year’s Day according to Julian calendar which is still followed by the Orthodox Church.
Our Church stuck to the Julian calendar (Old style, as I recall reading somewhere) so the first of January is on the fourteenth. It is strangely referred to as Old New Year. The greeting is usually ‘Happy Old’ although it means New Year.
In recent years we have witnessed a mass return to celebrating Slava (feast in honour of the family saint) another religious tradition peculiar to Serbs. Given half a chance the Serbs will celebrate anything. It starts with being born, christened, starting school, passing of first exams, matriculation, going to the army, coming back, graduating, getting engaged, married, birthdays, anniversaries and deaths. The only one that has not taken off thus far is divorce but I wouldn’t bet against it and there are many sceptics who think that it has more reason for celebrating than the others.
This morning I briefly watched a television programme in which the leader of the opposition was asked if the Conservatives were going to eradicate all domestic air travel if they came to power. He replied no but they would impose a carbon emission tax and the market would decide. It is a typical politician’s answer where a spade is not a spade. These days hardly ever politicians say what they mean and almost never mean what they say.
I examine my feelings in anticipation of yet another visit to Africa. Someone, another traveller, is reading The Sun. I can see a headline: ‘Prince Harry going to Iraq’. I am indifferent to that particular information and I turn my mind elsewhere. I am thinking of my last visit which was marred by an incident while travelling on the local bus from Agadir to Inezgane (an old town some six miles from Agadir and now practically part of Agadir).
The theft was a professional job. The Bus was crowded and I was surrounded by four or five people and then gently pushed around while being skilfully fleeced of my credit cards, driving licence, freedom pass and some money. They cut my zipped up pocket with a razor blade and took the contents. It was only the third day of my visit. I wasted one whole day at the police station giving statements and phoning my bank to avoid any consequential damage. It all worked out all right, but the unpleasantness and the loss of time remain. I was driven to three different police stations before it was decided which one had the jurisdiction over a bus which was between two towns. The experience at the police station was priceless too as the report was typed on an old typewriter that you need all the strength you possess to punch each letter. The policeman who spoke English was more interested in discussing Shakespeare than what I was saying. Perhaps he was wiser than me there was no way they could catch them; there are no cameras or any witnesses. Luckily I remembered to ask for a report in case I claimed from my insurance. My interviewee found a piece of paper a little larger than a box of cigarettes and scribbled something on it. It had no reference number, stamp or date. Luckily I did not have to use it.
We are in Horley now. Gatwick is next. Through the train window I see a bush with its bright red berries next to a house on top of a hill bathing in sunshine. What a wonderful sight. I am pleased and reassured that I have time to notice the beauty of life, of living or simply just being alive. The train slowly glides into Horley. I hear a slightly whining noise of the applied brakes, and then the train accelerates again only to slow down to a complete stop.
These days there is also much talk of possible US intervention in Iran. I hope it does not happen while I am in Africa. If it happens I think they will bomb the installations for uranium enrichment and as usual there will be more or less other convenient targets hit as collateral damage. They will not send the troops in. Whatever Bush does he cannot make the hatred for America increase any further. He may inspire more revenge though. Rambo is not a role model to Americans only. The pictures transmitted from Ramala last night before the forthcoming Secretary of State’s visit there showed hundreds if not thousands of Palestinian Rambo-like youths, all ready to cross swords with the infidel. The World is emulating Hollywood in a big way.
At twelve-thirty-four we reach the airport. There is a half an hour queue to check in. Why worry I tell myself I have plenty of time. I did not need to make a decision not to worry. I wasn’t worried. My holiday has started and I am as cool as the proverbial cucumber. I am very relaxed. I notice a group of young lads with surfing boards. They must be flying to Agadir. I was right, later they would join us on the plane.
At 2.34 we are directed to Gates 101-113. It is, as I was to discover, the new part of Gatwick Airport. You hop on an escalator that seems to go all the way to Heaven. I think it is longer than any on the underground I have ever seen. And then you walk across a sky bridge hundreds of feet up in the air. The planes are taxiing underneath and the view is fabulous on this sunny Sunday afternoon. At the other end of the Bridge another set of escalators this time going down; I suppose what goes up must come down. When we reach the bottom of the escalator we are greeted by huge, almost empty and tranquil space.
I examine the scenery through huge clean panes of glass that make you feel you are on the runway. It is well designed giving a feel of flying even while on the ground. The January sun is low on the horizon. The sky is speckled with silvery clouds floating like some giant hot air balloons. I watch a plane taking off. It is only seconds after the lift off that they retract the landing gear. I notice a young Arab guy twiddling his thumbs. I am bored as he twiddles in one direction only. I see a ring on his third finger of his left hand. He is attired in a green anorak. Across me there is another moustachioed middle age man of a slender build. He suddenly exclaims, ‘I’ve found out, it is 107’. I look at him and mouth, ‘Agadir’. He replies, ‘Yes’.
I thank him and then walk along the new part of the terminal. I glance with admiration at the magnificent structure of the footbridge and the belief in human race is restored. It makes me proud just to belong to human race that build it.
While writing my notes I try to write Essaouira (spelling according to many Moroccan maps) to say something about the surfers but I cannot quite remember how to spell it. Not surprising there are so many spellings of Moroccan toponyms (geographic names). Agadir and Casablanca are one of the few always spelt the same. Perhaps I should say Mogador instead of trying to remember the correct spelling of Essaouira, it is much simpler and it sounds just as exquisite. This is of course the old Spanish-Portuguese name for Essaouira.
During the flight I was ploughing through Barnaby Rogerson’s Morocco, a Cadogan Guide book, a useful refresher to make the time go fast. I pick the fact that Jean Genet is buried in Larache. I must go there to visit and pay homage. He is one of my favourite writers not for content but for courage and eccentricity. I also believe after reading The Miracle of the Rose I was changed for ever, perhaps not for the better.
Tuesday 16 January 2008
Agadir Beach
Now I hear the voice of the muezzin chanting the noon prayer muffled by the swishing sound of the breaking waves. Allah Akhbar…
Two dubious characters came near. They were pretending to be watching the football game further away. One of them had a half a bottle of scotch and took a swig out of it. This is quite uncommon round here. I actually do not ever remember seeing anything like that before. Then he turned towards me and said, ‘Vive La France’. I knew he assumed I was French, as most people do. They do not judge by looks but by assumption that most people from Europe would be French. In Agadir I think Germans are at the top of the list of visitors but not according to this guy. ‘Moi Anglais’. I responded, not taking any pride in being mistaken for a Frenchman. ‘Ingleziya’ I added just to make sure he understood. I kept on as my words drew a blank on his drunken face, ‘London, Britaniya’.
His initial remark was in passing so they were already to my relief pulling away from me when the penny dropped like a delayed reaction. He slowly foraged through his pockets and pulled a business card and then walked slowly back to me and showed to me. It was the only one he had so he could not give it to me, so he said. I showed no regrets when he volunteered the piece of bad news. Not to disappoint him or provoke him into making himself more of a nuisance I wrote down his name, address and mobile number. The card said that he was the finest sculptor this part of the World. This may be true but luckily I will never find out.
********
On my morning walk I notice huge artificial dunes created by giant excavators digging a canal-like trench along the beach from the square Place Al Wahda, or the MacDonald’s as I prefer to call it, all the way to the hotel Amadil Beach. I also see two large boards explaining the works as Reamanagement de la Corniche d’Agair 2006.
The project as depicted on the notice boards looks very promising presenting great improvement to the beach front. It is the extension of the promenade they call La Corniche. I looked it up in the dictionary. It means a panoramic road or walkway. So I learn la cote de la mer is also called ‘La Corniche’.
The construction of the new beach front has done away with many vestiges of my 2004 memories which will always remain very special to me; they are all one by one disappearing fast. Most of the private beaches like Tahiti, L’Oasis have been razed to the ground. The only café on the beach, The Rudi’s too. It was like a bunker or a watch tower used as a restaurant/café on the beach. Although dated and dilapidated was the only place where one could sit and have a coffee or a meal while being on the beach. Last time I was here it did not call itself Rudi’s anymore. Perhaps it had a change of ownership in anticipation of complete closure. Now it is gone. Huge old eucalyptus trees in the approach road to the L’Oasis beach are pulled down; there are only a couple left. What a shame, trees here are valuable and take a long time to grow. Their shade is priceless, yet it seems appreciated little. All this in the name of progress.
*******
It is time for a coffee at Jour and Nuit, (Day and Night) a restaurant on the beachfront. I walk back in line with another restaurant called La Cote D’Or (The Golden Coast). The sand on the beach, whipped up by the winds and the tides is now almost level with the promenade. I make my way to the front of the Jour et Nuit and sit in the front row of tables giving me an exquisite view of the bay, the promenade and everything that goes on around me. Jour et Nuit’s café au lait is too milky thus weak and I am not looking forward to ordering it. I figure out I am short on change to go the Camel or Le Vendome where coffee is much better but more expensive. Luckily I recall Wahid (my Moroccan friend) mentioning a coffe called nous-nous (half and half). So I decide to experiment and I ask the waiter to bring me a nous-nous. The nous-nous is served in a glass and is stronger being smaller.
As I am waiting for the ordered nous-nous I see a tandem of boys on a single bike past my table. One of them seems in charge of steering and is sitting on the bar while steering. The other with his little bum on the saddle with his arms in the air is pedalling furiously. Such is his tender age that his feet are reaching the pedals with great difficulty. I expect him to miss every time one of the pedals reached the bottom yet he wiggles his little bum and remains firmly in command. They look so adventurous and innocent at the same time. They are looking for an audience and are delighted when they saw me looking at their performance. The one pedalling with his arms in the air waves with a smile. I wave back and it is greeted with enthusiastically. Our entire conversation was contained in those two waves of our hands.
*******
While jotting these lines I look round me and notice the deserted beach and abandoned promenade. There are only a few guests sprinkled along the front of the Jour et Nuit patio. Some eating, some drinking coffee and most slipping into the afternoon slumber. The tide is going out. I am always preoccupied with the tide. Is it going out, or coming in, is the question I always ask, often not knowing the answer. I am facing west and the setting sun. Too much light behind people makes for silhouetted figures parading before me.
********
Whenever I sit down or walk along the promenade or on the beach I notice people who are part of the scenery; they are like fixtures and are always there. A handicapped man waving his roses is trying to sell them to the promenaders; always sporting a smile and never giving up. He usually chooses couples although when desperate would approach people like me even if walking alone. I thought I was clever and told him I was without a lady. He gently leant towards my ear and whispered significantly, ‘one who looks finds’. I promised to remember his wise advice and sauntered along while his swinging walk caused by his unfortunate impediment carried on in search of those who would oblige.
Then there is the sand sculptor, really one of many who sculpts camels out of sand. He did it I remember during my first visit, he still does it now. Last year he got the date wrong. He changed it when I pointed this out to him. He is still here. With his undisputable skills he probably makes a good living. If he didn’t he would not be doing it still, or would he?
********
Back to yesterday and the visit of my friend Musa from Tiznit, a town some sixty miles south of Agadir. We criss-crossed the Abattoir all the way to the souq Al Had (the main souq in Agadir is called the Sunday Market) which was closed. Later I learnt that it is always closed on Mondays.
At first I was at a loss not knowing what it was that we were looking for. LaterI gathered Musa needed a charger for his camera, something I suspect was gifted to him by someone on the spur of the moment and without a charger. I kept nudging him to ask someone. He did ask a couple of times but usually people I consider hard pushed to know what a digital camera is let alone the whereabouts of a shop selling digital camera chargers. We did go in circles but at least I was beginning to know that part of the town well. It did not matter as we had plenty of time and very little to waist on.
While searching for the elusive shop I showed Musa the apartment I was staying at in January 2005, as we happened to pass the building; the famous patisserie Yacout, and everything else I knew, which wasn’t much. When we walked along the La Vallee des Oiseaux, Musa suddenly recognised the place which he nearly visited on a school trip. Seeing it now after so many years seemed like dream come trough such was a grin on his lit up face.
On my writings
This is not an Andre Gide I know, however I will be happy if it makes a small contribution and if it portrays the love for this country which together with England and my home country makes me feel a citizen of the World. I am so rich and not for the few earthly possession but for ability to feel at home in such diverse places; to love the people and enjoy the culture.
The sketches from Agadir as I intend to call it will be full of personal observations and nothing more. I only hope it will encourage others as they could possibly do no worse.
Once I was asked by a lady, a passenger on the flight from Marrakech to Gatwick and who was sitting next to me. I am sorry, she said, but can you tell what is it that you are writing so….?’ She did not finish her sentence but I obliged as she seemed intrigued and more likely proverbially nosy. The right answer would have been I wish I knew, instead I proudly answered, ‘My Diaries’. She seemed impressed and wistful and gave me that important look as if saying how lucky she was to be sitting next to me. I am not certain that was the only idea she had but I never found out.
Back on the Beach
I walk all the way to the police post at the end of the permitted stretch of beach. A young pleasant soldier in his khaki uniform stands the guard. I approach and start a conversation. I tell him of my disappointment of not being able to walk all the way past the palace and on to the river mouth as once we could. He told me that not long ago someone scaled the fence and entered the Palace ground. So they are worried about security. As usual they overreacted and as a result my walks are halved and the pleasure of being in vast deserted estuary of the Souss completely denied. And that goes for many other people who would love to do the same.
Last night I went in search of a good restaurant but away from the tourist area of the beach. I went to New Talborjt area of Agadir and popped into the alley where I stayed in June 27 2004; it was the flat no. 9. It was where I watched to Euro final between Portugal and Greece.
From there I circled round the block, checked the coach station which is the next block. From there I turned right into a small alley lined with restaurants ending with the restaurant called Mille et Une Nuit, right on the corner. While sitting and waiting for the meal I looked to my left and there it stood the hotel El Bahia, the one I was looking for and much praised by the Rogerson’s guide. It is a stone throw from the little market I know so well. Later I went in and the receptionist was most pleasant and spoke good English. His name is Lahcen. I booked a room for Thursday, which is tomorrow. He gave me a price list, this is the January reduced price; it started with 130 (15 dirhams to a pound) for a single room without toilet or shower, they do have a washbasin; another two quid for a room with a toilet and another pound fifty for shower and toilet. I insisted on one with shower.
The meal at the Mille et Une Nuit was excellent value for money. You can buy a three course meal for less than three pounds. I had no stomach problems so I would definitely go back. It would be foolish to believe that the standard of hygiene in the kitchen of the overpriced Le Vendome or other seafront restaurants is higher than here. They are probably both lacking by our standards, but then stories I have heard and read about restaurants in London leave me indifferent to any concerns I would otherwise have.
*********
I relish my new mobile phone and its two megapixel camera. It is so handy and I can use it at my whim unlike a camera which is cumbersome and takes time to set up. I have taken several hundred photos and some of them real gems.
It is also wonderful that all these photos are stored on my computer; so many and yet they are almost non existent. I think ecologically computers are the best thing that has happened. When we die there is only a disk that holds our whole life and instead of burning hundreds and thousands of pages of documents, photos and other memorabilia you can just demagnetise it and it is erased; well not you if you are dead but someone who is left behind. I personally still have a problem with this non-existing existence. I am used to books, paper photos, material objects as souvenirs. Perhaps the new generations will not be slaves to material things. They will know computers only and their lives will exist in ‘cyber space’.
It is frightening but quite possible that the future generations will live only in cyber space that is probably the only way the planet can cope with the dwindling resources. The brave new world much grimmer than anything imagined.
*******
While I am sitting in the sun enjoying wonderful weather I received a text message from my nephew telling me that there is horrendous storm in London and the garden fences are all down. There are dead people and a lot of damage. It affected the whole of Europe. I look at the sky where there is nothing but sunshine reaching twenty-eight degrees. I hear the swish of the breaking waves and the beautiful scenery sprawled before me and it is very difficult to imagine a storm let alone to feel threatened. I am concerned for my nephew and his wife’s safety and I message back advising them to stay indoors and make sure everything is shut. Of course my advice was not necessary but I felt I had to do something lest I feel guilty for enjoying myself while they are exposed to inclemency.
********
I have mentioned before that I often jot my diary notes while sitting at the Jour et Nuit and drink my coffee.
As I jot these lines there is an interruption by a woman talking into her mobile phone while pacing in front of me, ‘O.K. Pas problem monsieur.’ I conclude that ok is another great gift by America to the World it ranks there alongside the chewing gum and coca cola. Then she mercifully ends the conversation. At moments like this I hate mobile phones yet I wonder how we ever did without them. They have shrunk the planet or to put it the other way round they have expanded our Universe beyond any imaginable boundaries. The woman sits back at the table and starts browsing through a magazine titled Arianne; I never heard of it. The passers-by silently glide along and a dog is sprawled, motionless on the ground not far from my table. It looks like a beige lump without any features. The flies are also keener today. Many of the Jour et Nuit patrons are hiding under parasols. Not I.
It is about a quarter past four. There is still an hour and a half before the sunset. The garden patio of Jour et Nuit is facing westward, as is the bay of Agadir and the Sun is now directly opposite me. The incandescent shimmering of the ocean, a mixture of silver and gold is interrupted by occasional black silhouette passing by. The waiter busied himself adjusting chairs and tables and serving an odd customer. The French couple is still going strong and so are the three Germans next door. I feel the first cool breeze around my feet welcoming the evening.
My first trip to Taroudant
All the time my host Kamal was beaming with happiness of one who has strong links to his birthplace and the fact that he knew so much and had so much to show to one who knew nothing.
Circling around one of the souqs I spotted an alley with a couple of restaurants. Well they can hardly be called that; each with just a table in the alley. There were locals eating and the food smelt invitingly. I expressed my wish to have lunch there but not just yet. I was glad K remembered my wish and eventually we ended up back at the dungeon hole parading as an eatery. I was aware of his slight concerns of being seen in a company of a European by anyone he knows so when he suggested that we sit inside rather than in the alley I agreed. We decided to order a tagine (local specialty like a very tasty stew) and a bottled drink. I always order bottled drinks so that I can drink out of the bottle and not take risks by drinking from a glass. I watched the waiter/cook rinse glasses in a bucket of water on the earthen floor. Next to the bucket there were two containers with bread. The flies were having a field day. When we were served with drinks I was glad it was a bottled drink because the glass had several chips along the rim. A chipped glass or cup harbouring interminable number of germs is quite common round here. Then I look at the flies and wonder why do I even bother to think about the hygiene and just let my body build up its own resistance. I must say that despite my carefree attitude and in particular the penchant for salads I have not been ill, minor stomach upsets notwithstanding.
It was also wise to use my fingers rather than a fork; when I wiped it with the white paper tissue it turned black. When eating I keep reminding myself to use my right hand. Both Kamal and I are dipping Arab style into the same dish. I watched Kamal who was using his right hand almost exclusively; only at times he would resort to some help from the left hand when breaking the bread. I look at our loaf of bread and remember earlier in town seeing a loaf fall off a trolley onto the cobbled street. It was picked and put back without hesitation. So much they respect the bread and little their health. I hope the loaf is not one we are eating if it is I am blissfully ignorant.
As we walked sightseeing this wonderful town, once a seat of mighty pashas and sultans ruling this part of the country, I just let myself be led having full trust in my host. While meandering so, we would be greeted by many of his friends or acquaintances. I remarked, ‘you know everybody here’. ‘Bien, sur, I live here’, was his reply every time I made this rather superfluous remark.
Then we stopped outside a bakery and got invited in. It was just a hole in the medieval wall bellow the ramparts. I had to stoop very low to get through some of the openings parading as doors. The opening was as small as doors of medieval churches and monasteries. The place was so dark with just a small electric bulb somewhere in the corner trying hard to transgress the past and illuminate the present. I could see some wooden shelves full of flat round dough getting ready to be baked. There were at least seven or eight people, most of them sitting around a makeshift table and of young age as much as I could tell in the darkness of windowless dungeon called bakery. I could not quite see what was used as a table but a plastic bag full of apples was sitting on top with water still dripping from it as someone made an attempt to wash the apples. The recycling of water here has attained an art form. I am sure that the recycling gurus- the big affair recycling nowadays is- could learn a lot from these people who have developed the recycling of water throughout centuries. They were all so friendly and welcoming. This may have been different had I not come with Kamal. One of the guys picked up an apple and offered it to me uttering few words well knowing that I would not understand. I was sorry to turn down an offered apple; there were a lot of them and not many apples. I extended my thanks with a few words that I mastered.
At the end of a brief visit to the bakery when Kamal finished chatting to all his friends we stooped again making our way through the openings in the walls leaving the middle ages and stepping back into present time. It was a visit to a world that Dickens could have only wished for.
An ever victim of guidebooks I inevitably compare Taroudant to Marrakech. This should not be done as each has its own soul its own body and its own beauty. The first comparison is unfavourable and it brings a dose of disappointment as Marrakech is an outstanding and unique place. This is quite deceptive and slowly the town grows on you. In parts it is of outstanding beauty and very unique. In the background looming are the Atlas Mountains. Kamal speaks with such an enthusiasm of ‘la montagne’. He wants to take me there one day and insists I would love it. He mentioned early spring, like February when almond blossoms. His parents came from villages close to the mountains and in the mountains. I am sure the coolness of the mountains comes into its own in summer time. It is like stepping right from a desert heat into an air conditioned room with the sky as a ceiling and mountain ridges as walls painted by most stunning scenery.
Then he wanted to take me to the part of the town where he grew up. On the way there we walked between ramparts on a dusty road that it seemed not to belong to a town at all. There were roaming poultry and there was a herd of sheep and goats when I looked over one of the mud walls. There was no one about. It was extraordinary that only a few hundred yards away from the town centre there is such an undisturbed tranquillity. It was a walk through dreams where suddenly you hear no sounds at all is like watching a silent movie.
He told me that at some point his father bought a house in a different part of the town because he wanted to take him away from the bad influences. It was here that he was introduced to easily available hash and drink and where he resorted to wasting his young life.
After a brief walk we ended up in a small café, which featured a pool table and very little else. A group of about five kids, boys and girls all aged between ten and thirteen were playing pools. When we arrived they all examined me first and listened to Kamal. I could see by their reaction that he asked them to free the table so that we could have a game. To break the ice I asked several of them what their name was and introduced myself as Miloud, which is the nearest equivalent in Arabic. This was greeted quite enthusiastically and with little incredulity so they poked fun at me a little. They were all smiling constantly engaged in a commotion without much order. There were two girls, probably sisters who behaved in a manner of boys; they seemed older than the rest and the taller one was in command. She often spoke to Kamal as if she fancied him. As we started playing I suddenly felt something being shoved into my mouth. A hand came from behind so I did not see who it was. It tasted like a biscuit of some sort so I ate it as token of being accepted. Luckily I had a bar of Toblerone in my bag. I took it out and dished a slab to each of them. It was a large bar and there was enough for everybody to my great pleasure. They all awaited their turn in utmost dignity. The ones at the end of the queue were wondering if there would be enough to go round as they watched the diminishing bar in my hand. However they never made a slightest motion of jumping the queue. I remember them all with great affection and in particular a small black boy with curly hair who looked like someone to be cuddled. He had the most beautiful eyes that occupied most of his face. Twice I stroked his hair and every time he revealed his ebony teeth in a friendly smile.
Walking around the ramparts we climbed on top of a Baab (Gate) and for the first time I could touch the walls. I was surprised that what from a distance looked like mud walls was as solid and hard as marble. I seem to remember reading about eggs being added into the mortar. The colours are incredible.
I also notice lack of beggars. Taroudant is very much a hassle free town unlike Agadir or Marrakech. There are not many Europeans and those that are there become so inconspicuous, as if invisible. My presence was interactive, I was part of it and yet not quite there.
*******
As I am writing these lines I glance at the small TV perched on a shelf under the hotel room ceiling. The BBC World is on. The assassination of the Turkish journalist, Hilary Clinton’s decision to run in the forthcoming presidential elections, Chelsea lost to Liverpool in the Premiership and elections in Belgrade are the dominant news.
******
One day Kamal declared in the course of our usually limited conversation that the late King Hassan II, the late father of the present king was not popular but Mohamed VI is. I will never know what prompted his remark, probably some inner thought that I wasn’t a privy to. The new young King has the young people’s interest at heart and is doing a lot for the country, according to Kamal. Perhaps Kamal is too young to make comparisons but I am not in a position to question his wise remarks. Nevertheless, according to Kamal, not everything is quite good with Mohammed VI either. He is giving women too much equality he said. Women are not equal are they, he said as if asking me for confirmation. Unlikely person that I am to disagree out of courtesy I had to as the matter of principle. Without actually disagreeing with him I remarked that his mother was a woman. He remained silent but also firm in his belief.
He also asked me about Osama Bin Laden. I was caught on the spot and did not know what to say remembering all the guide books suggesting one to refrain from discussing religion and politics. He did work for Americans in the beginning, did he not? I said and it ended there. He also asked me if I liked Tony Blair. There I could give an honest opinion all I said was that many English people did not like Tony Blair, not now.
Saturday 21 January
I got up at 8.30 after a good night’s sleep. I did my usual morning press-ups and sit- ups appropriately adjusted to the small space of the hotel room. I ate one of the small simple cakes left from the night before; went to the little market and bought three large oranges. I washed the cake with a half a litre of bottled water but not before I dissolved one of the vitamin C tablets that I brought along. I walked all the way to the beach and along it. On my way back at the port side I sat on the jetty and responded to a young boy saying, ‘bonjour monsieur’. The boy was fully dressed but peering into the open sea as if looking for someone. That someone appeared some time later; he just rose from the sea as he was not visible before. Perhaps it was his younger brother. He also looked at me and politely and sweetly also said, ‘bonjour monsieur’. There is something so seductive in the way young children in Morocco say ‘bonjour monsieur’. I am so glad that ‘don’t-talk-to-stranger mania’ that rules England and probably most of the ‘civilised’ world has not reached this part of Africa. I hope it never does. Looking back at my young age I do not recall ever exposing myself to any danger by talking to strangers. Instinctively I knew if there was a danger and I dealt with it. Why should other children be less capable of looking after themselves.
Before the ‘brother’ appeared I carefully observed the older one. He was in his mid teens and bursting with energy and ideas that most boys of his age entertain when they are idle; it made him so bored being there and then. He had an orange jumpsuit top and I will call him the Orange Boy.
The younger ‘brother’ came close to me and pointing his hand out to me holding some seashells uttered, ‘'egardez monsieur’. This was said in a seductive Moroccan accent with a tendency to drop the ‘R’. I obliged by admiring his catch and gently smiled at him.
The Orange Boy kept nagging him and although I did not understand what he was saying it was obvious from his body language that he wanted to leave the beach. His train of thought, so it seemed, had nothing to do with a beach and needed a different environment. I must say they were delicious to watch so I returned a couple of subtle winks whenever we made eye contact. I thought it was all very decent and proper.
As they pulled away from me on the way to the Rue de la Plage, which is bordering the beach at this point, I could hear the Orange Boy mutter, ‘sexy monsieur’. I knew this was not an attribute to my looks but a cheeky invitation to the world of his fantasy. He gathered courage to mutter while going away and safe in the distance.
I pretended not to hear it properly, so I asked the young one, ‘Qu’est-ce que’il dit?’ ‘Oh rien, monsieur, il est fou.’ The young one came to his rescue in his own embarrassment. I watched them all the way across the sand to the road and until they disappeared from my view. Twice we waved each other and that is how our brief encounter ended. For someone who knew little of the culture who understood little of the ways this seemed a bit cheeky and daring. For them it was just a little bit of acceptable fantasy.
*****
As I sit at the Jour et Nuit drawn to it at three o’ clock on the dot and waiting for my afternoon coffee it reminds of my late uncle’s horse call ‘Zeka’ (Rabbit) who would come to the house window every day exactly at five o clock to be given his lump of sugar. The hander out of the sugar was my aunt who loved the horse so much and did not have concern for the horse’s teeth.
I observe a very crowded Promenade and the beach getting fuller of football teams, as the tide is on its way out the football pitches drawn in the sand grow in numbers.
As to my uncle’s horse I never questioned why would anyone call a horse ‘rabbit’ unless it implied speed and in his case a grey coloured coat. Somehow I don’t think the horse minded. It was the first and sadly the last horse in my life. I was in love with that horse and very sad when my uncle decided to sell it. I shall ever remember looking over his powerful and elegant shape while riding my uncle’s chaise trying to stay in the seat for speed and rough roads while he was madly lashing with his whip in the air and prodding the horse to extend its gallop while shouting his Latin version, being a doctor, of ‘Willis Americanis’, referring to the two wheels of the chaise taken from an American military Jeep. One of my earliest memories is being put on the horse’s back. He bolted and I went flying through the air caught by my uncle. Hence I am here to tell the tale.
******
The weather is good and between various distractions I manage to read the introduction to Barnaby’s guide refreshing my historic knowledge of Morocco. I also reflect on my first week here which comes to an end at 8 o’clock this evening. It has gone quickly but it already looks as if I have been here long, long time. Every time I visit I have the same feeling as time here is stretched and seems to last longer than anywhere else; an empirical proof of the relativity of time.
Monday 22 January
This morning Kamal and I met at the Abattoir at about eleven o’clock. We boarded the crowded number sixty-one bus which took us to the centre of Taghazout (a small fishing village ten miles north of Agadir). Before we boarded I gave him some money to buy some drinking water, biscuits, fruits and cigarettes. Kamal smoked a habit that would normally put me off someone but in this case I had no choice.
It was a wonderful day and the sea was breaking with high waves, swishing the sand on the beach. The caravan sites and the camps were quite full and there were dozens of people on the beach. However in the vastness of the beach it seemed deserted. We walked from the town but not before we explored little nooks and crannies of the village where each alley presented a beautiful painting that came alive. The potpourri of colours was intense and our mood enhanced. Taghazoute beach is surfers dream and other men’s paradise.
*******
I am slowly going off the idea of buying property in Agadir. What is putting me off is the distance which is not helped by the prospect of the air crew strike; obligations that owing property involves and the lack of immediate motivation. Learning to live very economically and finding much cheaper accommodation made me conclude that I could always stay in places like the present hotel, El Bahia; I may even find a less expensive place. I am satisfied that when I retire my pension, basic though it will be, would be enough to stay in Morocco as long as I wanted.
*********
It is a daunting thought and I can hardly believe it but this may be my farewell trip to Morocco; at least for some time. I do have a pair of return tickets to Malaga and Gibraltar I bought for March and they provide some hope for a return visit but it is unlikely at the moment.
The initial idea was and I still prefer it to visit Granada and finally enjoy the delights and wonders of Al Hambra, the architectural wonder of the Moorish Spain.
Wednesday 24 January
River Souss and its mouth
Carried by the spirit of Taghazoute from last Monday we decided to go to the Souss river mouth. In the days when walking along the beach you were allowed to pass the Royal Palace you could walk all the way to the river mouth. In the days before they drove all the camels away from Agadir beach you could pay and be camel carried all the way there to watch the flamingos. It is their favourite place. Now we have to go round the enormous Palace grounds and make your way by a longer route.
Neither of us being very knowledgeable about the alternative route we made some enquiries and were given half-hearted directions. So we took a taxi to the Marjane shopping centre costing a pound. It is on the outskirts of the town. Before that we considered and turned down a taxi whose driver asked the equivalent of ten pounds for the ride all the way to the Souss. When taxi ride takes you outside town they can charge as they please and usually it is extortionate.
From the shopping centre we walked in direction of Inezgane knowing that that the Royal Palace was on the beach not far from the Souss so we went in search of the Palace which we knew was on the main road; well the main gate. Every time we passed someone I egged Kamal on to ask for direction forgetting the inherent danger of getting too many different directions and having to decide which is true lest we find out ourselves when it is too late. Sometimes he asked sometimes he did not but we prodded on; it was a walk into uncertainty which with the hindsight added to excitement.
Once we left the main road the walk became most exhilarating. Suddenly we entered the land of dirt roads or rather streets without pavements. They were just dirt tracks fenced with high growing reeds so thick that it was not possible to see what was behind it; one could only hear noises and domestic animals and suppose that they were houses. The feeling was strange as the fences seemed to be there to fence the street off rather than to fence any houses.
There were clouds gathering though I was able to keep sight of the sun, which was my only orientation point every time our dirt track seemed to go in the wrong direction and it was changing directions all the time that I felt like Alice in Wonderland at one point.
On our travel through the maze at some point we encountered a train of camels which at close quarters seemed to tower the street in a threatening unreal kind of way. Notwithstanding the over impressive size they were really magnificent beasts.
The invisible houses were hidden behind the reed fences and the whole journey attained a Kafkaesque quality that enhanced my unique experience. I was grateful for all the misinformation and the long route round for I would have never seen what I saw. It was a journey back in time.
We walked for hours and must have walked up to ten miles when suddenly we saw a perfectly good road with street lighting going west where the river mouth was. Before we saw the river we passed the Souss National Park which I knew was in the outskirts of the city. I decided to a visit the Park some other time. Several kilometres further along the road we reached our destination and the river sprawled itself before us. We were quite tired by then so we stepped off the road on the riverbank which was somewhat elevated to the other bank giving a beautiful unobstructed view of the area. So we sat down behind some trees and bushes to snack and watch some beautiful flamingos across the river. The sky was overcast and it was a first cool and cloudy day of my stay.
Full of calm, serenity and dwindling excitement we eventually started back. After about fifteen minutes I spotted an approaching bus going in the direction of city. Ahead of us I spotted a place with some people waiting so I started running down the road lest we miss the bus. Kamal followed as I was surprisingly faster or at least keener. I kept the bus waiting until he caught up which really did not take long. It was the number forty bus that links city with the river mouth. It took us all the way back to the Abattoir (the Agadir terminus).
I wonder why no one bothered to tell us about the bus when we asked. Yet if they did I would have missed the most intriguing walk through the local villages and reed-shielded streets. What is more I would have missed the train of camels. As I mentioned they were so tall and towering that I felt completely dwarfed. It was probably because I stood so close to them. It immediately brought images of the ‘battlesands’ (‘field’ is a bit inappropriate) of Lawrence of Arabia. They were magnificent beasts and my daytrip to the Souss completely fulfilling.
***********
Upon our return from the river later in the afternoon with Kamal and the Sun equally gone, I decided to visit an Estate Agency just to satisfy my curiosity as to the one time contemplated purchase of a flat. I noticed an agency my last visit. It was located in one of the main boulevards, Hassan II. I went in and made some tentative enquiries saying that I was looking for a smallish apartment, one bedroom preferably as I was single and did not want anything large. The owner of the agency spoke some English although he was French and spoke with a shrill voice. Small apartments are few and difficult to find was his answer at first; then he went on to say that there was a new development in which he himself, and he stressed this, was buying a flat. It was next to the main market, Souq El Had. This is how I started on to road to acquiring my flat in Agadir almost determined not to buy anything.
********
Finally the weather changed and after my eight visits, one of them also in January I experienced the very first rain. The temperature is between a cool 14 and 16 according to the thermometer on Prince Moulay Abdullah Avenue. The forecast for tomorrow is the same. Well I had a lovely spell of nine gorgeous days so who is complaning.
*******
On my way out of the hotel I spoke to Lahcen the receptionist. He was so kind and made several phone calls trying to obtain telephone numbers for British Airways so I could phone and find out about the forthcoming strike that may affect my return flight. He suggested I went to the Royal Air Maroc main office on the Av. Hassan II at the Old Talborjt end. I vaguely remembered where it was and listened to his advice. At the RAM they told me that I had to speak to Casablanca office to change any bookings and they gave me a phone number. I rang Casablanca office and at first there was no reply, when finally a heavily accented male voice replied I was told very curtly that he did not work for BA anymore. I did it twice having doubts about my ringing the correct number but it was not a mistake. In the end I phoned my nephew in London who did find out that the strike would not affect my flight as it was run by BA subsidiary ergo it was not BA. So my hopes that I would by force of circumstance extend my stay were dashed.
*******
On my way to the beach along Avenue Hassan II, I stopped at the café Le Dome, looking at the menu prices. Barely a yard from me there was a waiter arranging tables for afternoon teas. We looked at each other in total disbelief as it was my old friend Jamal, once a waiter at the le Dome, made redundant and now obviously back, right there in front of me. Having lost our contact numbers and email addresses all communication ceased. I thought I would never meet him again not having his home address. We were both very pleased to have met per chance and I decided to have a coffee and a chat his work permitting. I followed him upstairs into the glass covered part of the café which was my favourite spot. There I have enjoyed many a coffee and delicious cakes away from the prying eyes while enjoying nice view over the Valley of the Birds.
Seeing Jamal again put a completely new light on my flat buying idea. With Jamal around I had someone I could trust to help out when I was not in town and who was intelligent and conscientious enough to be relied on. We soon exchanged our pleasures of meeting again by chance and also our mobile phone numbers so that we do not lose each other again. He did not have an explanation for the unanswered e-mails but I did not insist. I think he was so busy here at work and back home with his new young wife that I did not rank high in his priority.
I also learnt to my pleasure that this time he was paid more, closer to sixty dirham (four pounds) a day plus tips and he was not complaining. There was an air of importance and self-assurance about him which pleased me no end. The upper tier of le Dome was a round glass structure, like a miniature satellite availing views over La Vallee des Oiseaux (Valley of the Birds zoo park) and La Place Al Amal (The Square of Hope). Facing west it basked in the afternoon sunshine. Its coffee is good and the place is immaculately clean. It is also reasonably priced at fifty pence a cup. I spent several hours sitting there flavouring my coffee and reading Rogerson. From time to time Jamal came by and we spoke a little. Before I left we agreed to meet the next day after his work.
*******
The rest of the day I spent at the hotel room, reading French papers and watching TV. One of the French programmes had a political debate on for the impending French presidential elections. The Royal-Sarkozy battles were raging in full swing. I could just about follow what was going but it was made more difficult by the awful French habit three or four people speaking at the same time. I watched Marie Le Penn, the daughter of the notorious politician following in his footsteps. She is quite convincing which slightly worries me. There seem to be the age of women in politics, Merkel, Rice, Beckett, now possibly Royal and Clinton. Will it change anything I am hopeful yet doubtful after all we did have Thatcher and others in Asia in the past.
My thoughts went back to the emancipation of women and the prospect of the three biggest democracies in the West being run by women. What a coup for women, yet I think until there is woman Pope and mixed soccer teams they would have not achieved true equality. God forbid either of these. Am I kidding?
********
The viewing of the construction sight at the Souq was postponed for tomorrow. There was no one at the office today being Friday. I was a bit annoyed with the agent because I had to call him to find that out instead of him calling me to let me know. He did say he was about to call me.
On the Euronews they showed the Vietnamese Prime Minister visiting the Pope! They also said the first Christians were converted in the seventeenth century. They mean the first non-Christians were converted! Pedantic I may be.
********
Saturday 27 January
Today I went with Marc (with a c, as he said) the Frenchman estate agent to view the apartments close to the souq.
He proudly pointed to the last block, number eight, and now half way up and said that is my apartment. It is the last of eight blocks forming a square with a courtyard in the middle, having an elevated garden, level with the first floor and row of shops at the ground level. There is an underground parking which can be bought if wished.
I was taken to the fifth floor of Block 3 to see a couple of two-bedroom flats. These were top of the range and at 50k for nearly 100 m2 were a bargain. I was also taken to the seventh floor to see a smaller apartment of 67m2. I loved the large apartment and the moment I saw it was the moment I made a decision to seriously consider something for myself. Having in mind my financial position I stuck to my original idea to buy a smaller flat as a precaution against a rush decision as I did not want to raise money by extra mortgages having decided to retire before my pension is due. Unfortunately all the smaller flats were gone. Had I sold my house in London I would have not hesitated to buy the largest flat. I told Ms Auoda, a very pleasant and busy looking young Moroccan woman that seemed to be in charge of viewings, that a small flat was what I was looking for and would like to hear if any came back on the market. She was friendly and very officious making up in speed where she lacked in size.
Both blocks of flats that we visited were still in the closing stages of construction, with scaffolding abound and varied work still going on. There was absolute disregard for safety except that Marc advised me to come wearing shoes, rather than sandals. We had to negotiate very low scaffolding in unlit hallways, climb the unlit stairways without any barriers or fences with stairs still unfinished and littered with dangerous pieces of timber and other construction material.
Marc, the estate agent also promised to keep an eye and let me know if any of the smaller flats become available at this complex or in other parts of Agadir. His agency cut was three percent and I was convinced that he would inform me if anything came up. However, I never heard from him again. I will though be grateful to him for introducing me to Ms Aouda.
While negotiating our way up the precarious stairway I practised my Arabic a little, used my French a little more and Ms Aouda ventured into our conversation with a few words of English. And in the spirit of the ways Moroccan we agreed if I moved in I would teach her English and she would teach me Arabic. She was so keen that at some point I thought she was like many other youngsters trying to hitch a ticket to Europe. This was not true; later when I phoned from London I was told she was getting married and was away from the office. The Moroccans are genuinely friendly people so at times it is difficult to see the genuine from the perceived.
Ms Aouda also told me that there were other English people buying; Mr & Mrs Smith from Exeter, she said. From Exeter I exclaimed, that is a city in England I would retire to. I studied there. She looked at me expecting to say that I knew the couple. I remarked that there were millions of Mr and Mrs Smiths; I nearly said it was like me saying I know a Mohamed in Agadir.
In a way I was pleased that there was nothing to buy as was I still in buy or buy not mode.
********
In the evening I ran into Kamal who was interested if we were going to Sidi Ifni, the old Santa Cruz, under the Spanish rule until 1967.
‘Nous allons a Sidi Ifni demain?’ he asked me as we parted at the Abattoir. ‘ Je ne sais pas. Je te telephone demain.’ ‘A quel heur?’ ‘Huit heur et demie’.
When I got back to the hotel I checked with Barnaby Rogerson and consulted the map. I realised that it would be extremely difficult to make it in one day. It looks like two hundred kilometres each way with no direct coaches. If not to Sidi Ifni we can go to Tiznit which is about half a way. On the other hand it might be possible if there was a fast coach all the way. It remains to be seen.
Sunday 28 January
Santa Cruz here we come
I met Kamal this morning at just gone nine o’clock. We made our way to the grand taxi stand for Tiznit. There are hundreds of taxis, old battered Mercedes cars (the other day I read that the average age of grand taxi is twenty one years) grouped by their destination and sporting its destination’s different colour.
While he was making enquiries to find out which taxi was the next to leave a veiled woman aggressively begged for money. She would not go away as I was the only European around. It is amazing how they flock like flies to honey as soon as they see a European and I was obviously one. She was so pushy that I felt like being aggressive. Her pushiness gained in intensity being hidden behind a veil. It was getting too much and short of being violent I decided to give her a coin just to get rid her. Right now I am not even convinced it was a woman.
The Tiznit taxi was already full but for two places. It will not leave until it has six passengers on board. The usual two people squeezed in front next to the driver and four people in the back. There was a place in the front and one in the back. I mimed to Kamal that I preferred we sat together. If I had to squeeze with anyone I much rather squeeze with Kamal who was less fat than most people there. He talked the front passenger trying to get him to move into the back seat. He did move and it was kind of him to do so. The front seats are usually preferred although not by me; there are no seat belts and the driving is notoriously hazardous.
An hour and fifteen minutes later we entered Tiznit and soon found ourselves beneath the city ramparats. It was a lovely sunny day and the sky very blue. We are going south so it was bound to get warmer and it was.
We walked around Tiznit, stopped for coffee and a snack, replenished our water supply and Kamal had a smoke. It was not long after our return to the taxi place that a taxi for Sidi Ifni was in place with two people already seated. After about ten minutes we were on our way with a full load of six passengers.
The road from Tiznit to Sidi Ifni is a minor road. It snakes between and over some hilly countryside which at this time of the year is dappled green with bushes. The scenery is stunning.
Whenever I look eastward I see the Anti Atlas Mountains in the background. As we pull away from Tiznit the road is a straight line that passes across flatland for some five kilometres and then the it goes uphill meandering left and right, round and about, up and down.
There was hardly any traffic on the road so despite so many curves causing change of speed we made good progress. After about forty-five minutes we hit the coast.
Just before arriving at the coast the road joined another costal road coming from D’Aglou, a magnificent beach I hope to see one day. From that point it followed the coastline however always a mile or so from the ocean.
I notice the colour of the ocean which emerald green. There are lighter green patches where the sea bottom is sandy and the dark blue ones where there is a lot of sea weed. The waves are large as befits an open ocean, yet it seems almost calm from the distance.
It was another half an hour before we reached Sidi Ifni. On the way we passed through a picturesque village called Mirleft. Its beach is a beautiful lagoon. I could see camping caravans spaced and sprinkled along the coast without any order.
The emergence of Sidi Ifni is as mystical as it was our stay there.
Sunday lunchtime in January does not exactly brim with activity. It was pleasing not to arouse instant following, begging or other unsolicited attention. Sidi Ifni is the perfect place to relax and enjoy such a beautiful winter day.
The whiteness of the place is striking so are its hilly ghostly streets. The taxi stopped in the middle of the town after wading through deep water apparently caused by a broken water main. For both of us it was a very first visit to this eerie place.
When we reached the top of the hill walking west we saw a camping site on the very edge of the plateau with excellent views of the open seas. Just before the campsite there is concrete frame of multi-storey building under constructions. My instinct told me that the campsite must have access to the beach which was down below but a fair distance. We reached the fence of the campsite beyond which prostrate lay the Ocean with no obvious access to the beach. When Kamal asked one of the constructions workers what was the best way to get down to the beach he just pulled the wire fence apart and said, ‘par ici’.
It was very steep with no obvious footpath. Faced with no choice we started our adventurous descent.
It was not as precarious as it seemed at first. I was dismayed by the amount of rubbish, mostly plastic bags, strewn all along the hillside. It was so bad that even Kamal remarked, ‘dommage’.
Kamal kept ahead of me being more light-footed and younger. He glanced back to see if I needed any help. I did remarkably well without being aware that we were sinking deeper and deeper into the total silence disturbed only by wind and the swishing waves. A perfect place to join the party of the jinn who must be there undisturbed.
To my left I could see the port in the distance and the black ghostly remains of a battleship. I think I read somewhere that it was a German battleship from the First WW, or before. I must look that up. We walked along the beach and only a very few people passed by. Behind us, to the north I could see a group of local boys playing football on the beach. It was many kilometres away. I presumed that there was a beach access at that end, probably a dry riverbed.
Along the beach we come across some ruins difficult to decide what they were in previous life. One of them is almost entirely intact with boarded up windows and heavy locks on its doors. Perhaps it comes to life in summer. A lone man is walking his dog, a German shepherd. Another local guy was keeping his distance but also keeping his eye on us.
The local guy who keeps his varying distance from us is ever present. Kamal is somewhat anxious. So we decide to change direction and start walking towards the football game at the north side of the beach.
After a while we sit ourselves down taking a break and soaking the serene beauty of the place. The local guy uses our break to close on us again. Kamal is fidgety and he gets up and starts writing something in the sand. It reads like an ‘f- off’ so I correct the spelling convinced that it will be lost on the local. I was wrong because as he stops next to the writing he reads it and then shouts something at Kamal. They get together into a feisty exchange of words. The conversation between the two lasts some ten minutes and it ends by Kamal giving him a cigarette.
I keep out of it which is the only sensible way. Their conversation is in Berber not something I can master at all. Later I ask Kamal what was all about. Needless to say some words of English are of universal use and instantly recognised by all. The sleuth took offence of what we wrote in the sand. He knew it was addressed to him. He said he only wanted a cigarette. Likely story but it was exciting.
We decide to climb back up the hill towards the baroque Spanish built stairway that Barnaby Rogerson mentions in his guide. The only thing that remains from the stairway is the balustraded wall, like overgrown banister, looming over the precipice. We stop there and admire the view.
By then it was nearly three o’clock. Our search for a meal took us through several establishments parading as cafes or restaurants. Everywhere we went we were met with we have finished serving lunch. Finally on the right side of the road passing the local main market, which was really an open field on a high plateau, we came across a couple of tables and a couple of people eating chicken. To our relief we did order the same and ate it calmly with the background of white houses and blue skies, silent streets and only the knowledge that the ocean was somewhere there beyond the view.
It was not long after that we made our way back to the taxi place, a little parking plot in the middle of the town in a hilly street half way up the hill. There were only two taxis there and for a moment I was a bit apprehensive whether there was one going to Tiznit. The taxi that was just about to leave had two seats. We ran to it and Kamal talked to the driver and then asked me if it was all right to go to Inezgane. I thought what a silly question Inezgane is Agadir, perhaps he was concerned about the long non stop drive with very little space to sit in. I welcomed this opportunity though I was not looking forward to a non stop two hours drive.
There were two locally dressed women on the back seat. Their size was considerable, particularly the one that was married for many years and was the mother of two boys seating in the front. The younger women, perhaps her sister or may be older daughter, I never asked this, slept part of the way. I nearly suggested that one of them swaps places with one of the kids in the front; it would have made our lives more tolerable. I was so squeezed between the fat lady and Kamal that it became almost painful.
At about quarter past six we reached Inezgane and my tortures ended. When we freed ourselves from the jaws of the crowded taxi Kamal commented how kind the women were, all the time they were asking if I was all right. I could not believe their kindness despite their every effort to squeeze me to death.
When I asked what they talked about he said they were asking if I was married. When I prompted what was his reply he jovially offered a no; an then he cheekily added more but I decided against recording it.
Of course on the way back at least until we took the right turn off the coast I enjoyed the tufty hills sprinkled with fresh bushes that reminded me of giant African head dyed lush green.
When I got back to the hotel Lahcen, the receptionist told me that I had a phone call from Complexe Immobilier Souss, from one Ms Aouda and the message was something like ‘forty-six is available’. He hoped I knew what that meant. I immediately figured out that the forty six referred to the size of flat I was interested in purchasing. It still remained a puzzle how did she know the hotel I was staying at. Nevertheless I was very impressed.
I phoned the office immediately and Ms Aouda told me that I was extremely lucky because a small apartment, just what I wanted came back on the market. We arranged to meet tomorrow first thing.
I got up fairly early and made my way on foot to the Souq. It took me about half an hour from the Hotel. On the way I had to ask for the direction always risking getting wrong information or not understanding the right one. As it happens it is straight on from main road north of the hotel taking the right-hand fork once at the junction.
Ms Aouda was pleased to see me and did not miss a chance to reiterate how lucky I was to have this apartment back on the market. She also added that there were several clients waiting for cancellation and that she did not know why she chose me.
I didn’t know if this was a hint and I told her when everything was completed she would receive a ‘present’-with French pronunciation- from me, not being able to remember the word ‘cadeau’. Then she took me to the fifth floor of the block four where I inspected the apartment, now almost finished though there was more to be done to the communal area. While we were inspecting the apartment the front door shut itself by the strong draught coming from the stairways and we got trapped as there was no handle on the door.
We had to bang on the door until a worker from a floor below heard us and came and open it. He looked amused so did we, but it was no laughing matter to be shut alone with a young Arab lady soon to be married.
Then there followed some questions and answers while form filling and a couple of signatures. She opened a ‘le dossier’ with my name on it and placed all the papers inside it. Ms Aouda shyly suggested I gave a small deposit in cash immediately and then to send the rest of the fifty percent deposit needed to complete the reservation as soon as I returned to London.
If I had my chequebook with me I could have given a cheque drawn for the right amount there and then but it was not the case. I could not pay by credit card. She checked everything with her boss, so she said, and sent me off to the bank to get some money. The sum she suggested was five thousand dirhams or three hundred pounds. The thought of running a risk came to my mind but the amount was not great so I played along.
Having bought and sold property in England a few times, also having worked in a solicitors office with conveyancing department made me more than slightly concerned about the informality of it all. What gave me most grounds for concern was her explanation of the price and a the division into 80% of declared and 20% of undeclared the consequence of which was that 20% -part of the 50% deposit was payable to one Mr Bichat and the 30%- to the ‘notaire’ who was dealing with the purchase and whose details she passed on to me. It did not take me long to figure out that the undeclared bit was a tax swindle pocketed by the builders. What will happen when I want to sell was least of my problems; I had to buy it first.
When I returned from the bank with the money she counted it and took it to Mr Alaoui, the director, promising a proper receipt. Moments later Mr Alaoui came to the front office and gave me the money back saying he could not take it but not to worry they would keep the reservation open for a week by which time I must transfer the deposit. He advised me to send the cheques by DHL and everything would be fine. I wondered why he could not take the money. When he left Ms Aouda explained to me that he could not take the money in case I changed my mind and decided not to go ahead with the purchase; he could not sell the flat. I did not understand the explanation but was certainly all right about the money; I could pay my hotel bill tomorrow and keep the rest for my next visit.
I think that Ms Aouda was over zealous to help me but she did not really clear the money part with her boss. She thought I would be upset by the turn of events and she breathed a sigh of relief when I just said, ‘fine’ after the money was given back to me. I gave her a small tip to treat herself for a drink as we had no time to go together, unwise in any event.
The apartment I was in the process of buying was on the fifth floor. This is about the limit I like to go up in the world. I consider the five flights of stairs still manageable to climb on foot until a lift is installed and even then when it is not functioning which I hope it will not happen but wisdom tells me that it must. Even so in the years to come that may be the only exercise I am compelled to take. It should keep the old ticker happy. The apartment is facing north-east having plenty of sunshine in the morning but cool in the afternoon. The fifth floor view has the benefit – pardon the estate agent’s parlance- of the nearby hills and the Atlas Mountains further away. It was not a sea view but I am pleased nevertheless, having no real choice.
It has a large kitchen but nothing is fitted. The salon (lounge) is large and the bedroom a decent size. It has a bathroom with a shower only and a guest’s second toilet cum washroom. It is forty-six square metres at a cost of about five hundred pounds per sq metre.
I did not forget to ask Ms Aouda how she found me at the hotel El Bahia. She said she remembered that I mentioned the name of the hotel where I was staying. I was very impressed still wondering why she chose me over other clients. Whatever the reason of Ms Auoda’s choice I was soon to become a proud property owner on the continent of Africa. My personal empire is now stretching from the Balkans to London and thence to the shores of the African Atlantic; suddenly the primeval instincts for ownership rein strong.
*************
I spent the last evening of this visit, just wandering through Agadir saying goodbyes or au-revoirs to my familiar places, the ocean, the beach and the promenade. It was until we meet again. Now that I am probably buying a flat I am certain that there will be an again. When I arrived I thought this was a farewell visit to Agadir. Now it has all changed.
The coming back did not stop me feeling sad because I was to leave this magical place. As always I will leave a little bit of my heart behind. As I sit at my favourite haunt Jour et Nuit I listen to the chirping bird in the palm tree above my head and watch the deep blue open sea. The sun is strong so is the wind, lifting tiny particles of sand and whipping them around.
I will never know if the chirping bird’s love call was answered or not, but I fancy myself as a bit of chirper too.
I Left and am back again
The flight to Marrakech was uneventful but for the very end when we arrived well in time only to circle round Marrakech for about twenty minutes. We were told there were three planes to take off before we could land. What a waste of time and fuel, as if it is not better to land planes first and then let others take off. This should be made a rule and it should be complied with. Perhaps it is a rule but it is not complied with. I had a chance to watch the snowbound Atlas Mountains basked in sunshine to such a detail, never done before. I also saw the runway and one of the planes before taking off. Arriving at Marrakech by air one cannot but admire the groves of oranges and olives and other agricultural wonders chequered around Marrakech.
Wednesday 14 March
Back in Agadir, back in Africa. I am exactly where I left off sitting at the Jour et Nuit in the front row of tables overlooking the beach and watching constant parade of people going by.
*************
When I visited the construction office yesterday the director of sales, Mr Alaoui informed me that the completion was Le fin d’Avril. He uttered the information hardly looking at me and while talking to other customers and answering his mobile phone. His Napoleonic resemblance is more than just his stature. Unbelievable yet it seems to work. I find the Moroccans good at multitasking in particular when talking or selling. Looking at you is merely acknowledging your presence or satisfying their curiosity, while at the same time they may be serving or talking to somebody else at your side, behind you or in front of you.
When I told him that I might not be able to come over beginning of April, he was calm about it and nonchalantly waived his arm making a telephone sign with his hand.
I enquired about a possibility to have a fitted kitchen put in. I was referred to a guy called Adil who would provide me with a quote. A sink and a granite top is there and all electrical connection but nothing else.
Adil took me up to the apartment to take measurements and presumably to hear me as to what I wanted done. I knew that there were detailed plans and measurements of each apartment including mine at the office and why they needed to take them again at this stage puzzled me.
He measured everything including the window both the width and the height and this amused me immensely. All I needed was some cabinets, an electric boiler, washing machine and a stove. I will buy a refrigerator myself. So I asked him to provide a quote for those. I also mentioned that I did not see a place for a washing machine as the granite top ran all the way round the kitchen except for a corner next to the door which was left for a fridge as the most logical appliance for that spot. He said I had to choose between the two. I became a little unhappy not as much with his indolent answer but with the fact that there was no place for washing machine even though the kitchen is very large by any standards and creating one would cause extra unnecessary expense.
Every apartment I checked irrespective of size had a similar problem. It is hard to believe.
I could not leave it at that so I took the subject of washing machine back to the main office and asked for suggestions. The best one came from Mr Alaoui as well it might, ‘Why don’t you put the washing machine in the second toilet, why do you need two toilets?’ It was a sound proposition though quite a ridiculous answer.
In the end I realised that I would have to solve the problem myself and it will either involve cutting out part of the granite top or take some of the floor space making it too small to house a breakfast table.
**********
I finished reading Mohamed Choukri’s ‘For Bread Alone’. I enjoyed it very much though I did not seem to learn more about life in Morocco.
Mohamed Choukri is more published in the West than here at home, although recently I did see one of his books for sale, in French though. A prolific writer who was illiterate until he was eighteen when he went to school for the first time. He completed schooling all the way to a university degree and made writing his career. I believe he held a chair of literature at the University of Tangier until he died a few years ago.
Without the experience of the book I would have probably missed a young boy in his early teens that caught my attention. His legs were sticking out of his overgrown jeans as if they did not belong there. He stepped out of a taxi and at first I thought he was buying something for the taxi driver as taxi remained at the side of the road but probably waiting for anther customer. The boy had an air of conquest and adventure about him and above all a certain determination.
It may all be in my imagination but I was convinced that he came into some money and decided to give himself a treat. He drank his can of soft drink and ate a packet of crisps, which he bought as soon as he stepped out of the taxi. They must have represented the very essence of luxury and adventure. This day was in his dream for a long time; a day when he would take a taxi ride to the centre of town and be able to treat himself to all these goodies he could only see on television and imagine in his head. Were he a little more advanced in his years he would have looked for some other delights hat his little fortune could pay for, as it was his interest was focused on a elusive drink in a can and a packet of crisps.
When he finished those he went back and stood in a queue- there were two people before him- and bought a carton of juice to wash it all down. He felt like a king and his jeans seemed a bit shorter than minutes earlier. I took a couple of clandestine photos with my mobile phone. As he passed by we exchanged smiles and I gently, hardly touching him, stroked his head. I noticed his hair was different, not tufty and quite light.
*************
I remember as my diary note tells me that on the 26th of March there was little drizzle in the morning and a few drops of rain on the beach. That is all the rain I remember from all my visits. People say that there was no rain for nearly two years. During the day the great balls of white cotton sailed across the sky but there was no rain.
Looking across the bay some seven kilometres away I can see the furore with which the waves are hitting the breakwater in front of the Royal Palace. It looked like a frothing cauldron.
May 2007
I just finished reading Ian Finlayson’s Tangier City of the Dream for the second time. This time I scribbled comments, made notes and marked quotations. It was fortuitous that I had read Gore Vidal’s Palimpsest as Iain Finlayson refers to Gore Vidal and his brief visit to Tangier and his dallying with Truman Capote.
The book is well-written and well copied; most powerful when talking about the expats grandees and more modest when analysing the natives. They are two separate worlds that often mixed and crossed like stars. I am more interested in the Moroccan so I find the book a bit tedious though it is interesting to see what the rich and noble can get away with. The power of money is rarely as ubiquitous as it is in the Atlas country.
*********
Yesterday I tended to my affairs relating to my apartment. Pushed for time I took le petit taxi three times notwithstanding my decision not to use taxi and use my feet in order to keep fit. The taxi shuttled me between the Complexe Souss and the bank where I opened a ‘devise’ (foreign currency) account and deposited some money.
I also attended my first rendez-vous with the Notaire . It was quite interesting though in the end it all went quite smoothly. I must attribute some of the seeming confusion to the level of my French and Arabic. Nevertheless, I am able to follow things quite well only missing on nuances. I turned up at quarter to three facing the smiling and pleasant albeit diminutive Mr Alaoui. Only in looks he does not resemble that comedian extraordinaire Danny De Vito in manners he is the spitting image. He was at his best when he sat behind the wheel of his car. I was placed in the front seat after removing some of the paper work which was stashed on the facia and kept falling while he drove but I always managed to catch it before it fell on the floor of the old Citroen. In the rear were a French couple called Brigitte and Patrick, whose names I learnt later at the Notaire’s while we were waiting for the audience with the man himself. Mr Alaoui could barely see the road ahead. I suppose it would make it too obvious if he resorted to a little trick and placed an extra cushion on his seat; an admission to himself about his size that he could not possible make.
He drove through the back streets to avoid the afternoon traffic. Not far from our Complexe he showed us the site of the next project. It did not appeal to me.
Soon after the new site we turned south and in sweltering heat we found ourselves approaching the recently build blue building on Av. Hassan II where in 2005 I was shown ‘wonderful flats with underground parking for some £90 k’. This was when I first nurtured an idea of buying property in Agadir. This time it was Mr Alaoui pointing the building and declaring proudly that this was their very first project. At that point my confidence rose and any doubts dispelled.
The Notaire had his office on the second floor of the blue building. I presume he charged the construction company so much that they must have given him the premises to pay him off. He charged me in the region of thirteen hundred pounds for the conveyancing of my small flat- being a percentage of the value. To be fair it included the registration fees, no taxes though as new property is exempt.
His work, as far as I could gather did not involve more than preparing a standard terms contract which he read out to me clause by clause. Earlier over the phone he enquired if I spoke French and whether I needed an interpreter. This would have been advisable had I not feared that the charges would have been passed on to me. I did not regret my decision as the contract was a standard terms one so I was so to speak safe.
Talking to Brigitte and Patrick I discovered that we shared same concerns and fears in particular being in the dark about most things. At least they were French and would probably easier spot any problems and consequently alert me.
I was not put at ease when they told me they knew a high official in Morocco and if things went wrong they would resort to him. Of course Mr Alaoui was at complete ease assuming that everything he knew everyone else knew too.
Even now when I have signed and paid for the property I have no idea of who will be managing the complexe, how to pay out bills and indeed what possible charges will there be.
On the positive side I learned that the French couple were from the Atlantic coast of France, near Brest. So here they are yet another couple from the coast of France buying property in Agadir. It reinforced my belief that I had done the right thing despite the improving London weather.
When I was summoned into the plush grand office of the Monsieur Notaire, as big as the entire floor of my ex offices in London- big enough for four of five people in fine tune with everything in Morocco where space is not at a premium- I was seated and greeted with a smile from otherwise a dark face; this latter entirely due to his Arab complexion as I had no reasons to believe otherwise.
The desk, rather a table was enormous and there were files on the table, as much as I could gather all dealing with conveyancing matters of clients like myself. He opened one and then pointed something to his assistant. While the first file remained opened he grabbed another which contained my contract. I was horrified as this is one must-not-do things. It beckons disaster as papers are so easily mixed up. But that happens in a more orderly society; here they are so used to chaos that everything seems to work out.
M. Notaire went through all the clauses of the five page contract. Luckily my knowledge of French allowed me to vaguely follow the gist of the contract and even spot that there was no mention of the kitchen when he listed all the rooms in the flat. So I said, ‘aussie la cuisine.’ ‘Bien sur’, he replied. Then he disappeared outside to come back with Mr Alaoui who from the moment he appeared at the door with somewhat raised voice said,’ Non, il n'y a pas la cuisine’. To this remarked I reacted quite gruffly and said that there was. I was there earlier on and definitely there was a kitchen. I saw the sink and granite top with my own eyes and I touched with my own hands. I promised him that I had not consumed any alcohol today or in the last months for that matter. ‘Non, non’ he exclaimed in utter desperation. Then I realised that Mr Alaoui and I did not speak of the same ‘kitchen’ what he had in mind was the fitted kitchen, which of course was not part of the deal. He thought I was pulling a fast one trying to get the fitted kitchen included. Poor Mr Alaoui he was so ‘trompe’.
A heave of relief came from Mr Alaoui when I explained that I meant a kitchen as a room, rather than a fitted outfit. Upon hearing my explanation M. Notaire wisely stated, ‘Bien sur, there is a kitchen like there is a bathroom’ and on such a profound statement we all continued happily ever after.
My esteem for Mr Notaire diminished after this omission of the kitchen and I hope there are no other omissions that I did not spot. He was quick though to work out the charges. He did not want a cheque and they did not accept credit cards. He said it would be all right the next day as the bank was now closed. I was not given any documentation and I assumed that was because I had not paid.
When I went out, my bank was next door and to my pleasant surprise I found it open so I went in and took out enough to pay the fees. My friend Miriam was there, had a surprised look on her face when I asked for money but did not comment and gave me most of the money which I deposited only this morning.
Soon I was back at the Notaire’s. I was shown to a side office where two younger gentlemen would deal with the payment. It transpired that they were very knowledgeable about English football, as most people in this country are and once discovered my origin we chatted about the rivalry of Chelsea and Manchester United. The fee paid I was handed a receipt which I took with me and left behind two new friends. I realised the receipt was the very first piece of paper that had anything to do with my purchase of real estate in Morocco. I was also told that the papers relating to my property title would be ready in a few weeks time, presumably when all the registration is completed. This did not happen for the next six months but it did in the end. How scary this may seem to someone less brave or less stupid. I am coping by trying to think as the locals do, the Moroccan way. I will feel better when I receive the keys and take possession.
*********
Back at the hotel
It is now quarter past ten and I am back in the hotel room. I forgot to mention the most exciting part of the day.
Early in the morning, at daybreak, I woke and felt something fall on me. It was something black and unidentifiable but very much alive. My reflex reaction with my hand removed it from my head and it flew by force of my reaction across the room and landed in the bed cover which having been tossed off the bed during the night was lying on the floor. Naturally I got out of the bed and slowly and carefully proceeded to discover and uncover the uninvited intruder still not knowing what it was and how much danger if any I was exposed to. Somehow it is the two words one being black and the other widow that bugged me; no pun intended. When I disturbed the cover by lifting it slowly the thing, still black and fast zigzagged across the floor between the beds and disappeared underneath the other bed. It was an insect, if it was, or it was a rodent, if it was, that I had no pleasure in meeting before in my life.
I looked for a weapon to defend myself and grabbed one of my flip flops. I would flail it when it appeared, so I thought. There was no question of continuing with my sleep until I resolved the mystery. I rolled up a small rug and pushed underneath the bed where ‘it’ was, hoping it would be driven out. Nothing. So I got up and went to the other end of the room to inspect there when I spotted the black monster right back on my bed exactly where my head was earlier on.
Something must have attracted it to my bed, and that something was probably me. Without hesitation and adrenalin driven I stormed across to my bed and hit it as hard as I could. It was only when I thought I‘d kill it that I could examine ‘the monster’ with some care. It was a couple of inches long, black, like a giant cockroach with a pair of antennae as long as the body. It stirred not quite dead yet. I looked for something that I could use to trap it and finish it off. I grabbed my Reebok shoulder sack and used it as glove. Once I got hold of it I squeezed and threw it into the wash basin where it got stuck in the drain hole, seemingly motionless. To complete the extermination I had to pull it out of the drain hole and finish it off. Was it poisonous? Who knows? It was certainly scary not only because of its size but because it was spuriously attracted to me. Only with it flattened and put in the waste basket did I go back to bed and continue my sleep.
I thought black widows and any other poisonous insects were just a figment of my imagination, until one day I read in the local papers that Agadir featured high as place of poisonous spiders.
*******
Earlier this evening I felt adventurous and I paid a visit to a Harira kitchen; a little shop cum restaurant that is always packed by locals eating Harira, the well known local vegetable soup. I was the only Nazarene but felt very comfortable and enjoyed the soup which cost me roughly a pound including two giant spring rolls. There were a few examining looks by other customers but everything in the realm of the normal. Great place to eat a nice bowl of soup. Slowly I am exploring and conquering one by one of the local establishments that are not made for tourists and thus not charge tourist rates while remaining authentic in its cooking. These places provide delicious food and a boost to your immune system.
********
It was so hot today that I drank three litres of water and did not need to go to the loo. In the evening I watched a home match on television and saw Chelsea and ManU draw in an uninteresting game; a warm up for the FA Cup final as the commentator said. It was a game of reserves, a face saving exercise for both managers. I still feel sore that Chelsea lost to Liverpool in the Champions League semis. To lose once is forgivable to lose twice is reckless and it was Peter Cech, the guy who kept Chelsea in the game that in the end lost it. He could not save a penalty if he tried. His skills are in the anticipation of what is going on in the field. With penalties he has no time to anticipate, the ball just passes him as if he was a statue; so even the best goalkeeper in the World has his Achilles heel.
Thursday 10 May.
After a morning spent on the beach I went to the office and at about four thirty I was handed a set of keys to my apartment. One of the assistants, Abdelatif, all radiating with pleasure, took me up the five flights of stairs to my apartment and proudly showed me around. All the electricity was fixed although there were no light bulbs; the place was sort of clean though it needed a second more thorough cleaning. The windows were unwashed but this was a detail.
All the doors were in place and all of the taps running properly. I was really happy that I did not look properly. I could not wait to put my gloves on and get on my knees to clean the floors and tiles. There was a hot water boiler to be bought and fitted, light bulbs installed; a bed and refrigerator, something to cook on; plates and dishes. These are the few things I will concentrate on.
Having asked for a plumber I was introduced to the man in charge. When I asked him about a hot water boiler he was only too willing to oblige immediately sensing a nice little booty of extra money. He is a type of guy who would given half a chance take charge of your life, come to think about he will do that even if not given a chance. So from there on he took charge slowly but surely. I managed to settle his fee at 300 dirhams (twenty pounds) which I thought was reasonable although it represented three days wages for a half day’s work.
He was ready to start work immediately. We went to a shop of his choice, so I was probably overcharged a bit but ninety quid for boiler which he said was made in Germany but was really made in Italy was not a bad price. He took hundred dirhams for extras but only bought a chrome pipe and I never saw any change. He would use any opportunity to boost his earnings by means fair and foul. It is also on his insistence that I bought an eighty litre boiler when I really thought that a smaller one was sufficient for my needs. Of course he was in charge and no matter what I thought he for some reason, unknown to me thought that a bigger one was in order. After all he said the price was the same. The fact that I would waste more electricity than needed never dawned on him. So I learned that this was a country where size mattered.
Well all this aside by the afternoon I had hot water installed and could take my first shower. I thought this was pretty good going. He was trying to scrounge ‘aperitif’ (a drink) from me, which I brushed aside. I did tip his assistant who actually did the work. I knew I would need their services more than once and felt it advisable to keep in their good books while at the same time trying not to appear overgenerous.
Another illustration, amusing though it may be, of what kind of man the plumber is follows. When I complained that the boiler was not straight, as I hate anything that is not geometrically proper- he ingeniously replied, it is the wall. At that point I realised how futile it was to complain so I told him it won’t be visible once the kitchen wall units are in place. He agreed almost congratulating me on the ease with which I accepted his explanation and managing to find the solution at the same time.
****
If one walks alone in town one is likely to be approached by a soliciting person.
I wonder why so many youngsters (male and female) resort to offering their bodies in return for money. The cynic could call it engaging in prostitution but that would be too simple.
From to time I engage in a short discussion with would be suitors in order to find out what makes them tick in that direction. Many of them told me that it was the money. And this is probably true of many cases and it is probably the main reason. However none of them are so desperate that they have to resort to such behaviour. It may be an easy way out of financial troubles but it is not the only one. I suspect there are many reasons and many causes. In some cases it may give one a sense of superiority; it can be out of revenge or need for dominance. It is the forbidden fruit of general unavailability.
I am in particular intrigued and puzzled by men engaging in such behaviour. It is very difficult to fake pleasure if you are a male so some pleasure must be involved.
I suppose the corruption element creeps in by the way of getting hooked to this way of life. Sex is like a drug you get addicted, the more you have the more you want. Like a long distance lorry driver once on a journey you never want to quit and always go back. You cannot reason in moral terms as neither those who sell nor those who buy come from a high moral ground. Then even in most relationships, even in marriages, financial side of gain and control comes into play very much. In a relationship one side is always more in control and is likely to misuse it at some point; ready to take advantage. There are givers and there are takers in life the groups do not mix but the roles may change.
Goodbye morality.
*********
Out of nosiness I find that there are still a few flats left for sale. The better ones with a view over the ocean in blocks seven and eight cost eleven thousand a metre now. I toy with an idea to buy a couple of flats and set up a rental business over the internet. It would keep me in Agadir quite well off. Pity I am not a little younger or at least more enthusiastic. As it is I don’t see any point in working hard to make my life richer when I can enjoy myself with less and be happier and remain free to what I want to do rather than what I have to do.
If I don’t go into the rental business I could consider one of the many shops in the complexe and open a genuine Fish and Chips shop. The fish is plentiful and potatoes good. This is one of my ideas dating back to the seventies when I was in Belgrade. My elderly aunt who should have retired had a good pedicure business in the centre of Belgrade. I offered to take over her shop and set up a Fish and Chips business believing that it would keep both of us in good income. The aunt had her reasons not to agree and eventually lost her shop to someone who had better connections or paid more money to the council who owed the shop. Had she given it to me she would have been better off. Who know why it was for the better.
To this very day there is no fish and chips shop in Belgrade and there is none in Agadir. I still think it is wonderful and profitable proposition for either place, though it may take a while to build it up. Fish and Chips the English culinary gift to the world even though it is not regrettably wrapped in newspapers any more.
*********
On my way to the beach I took the route towards Avenue Mohammed V and then crossed into the Boulevard du 20 Aout. Outside the Tagadirt hotel there was a newspaper stand where I decided to treat myself for a copy the Daily Mail, not for its merits but its compactness. I like solving Sudoku of which it has a selection and it gives me a chance to catch up with the news in brief. I was charged three quid which I thought was excessive. Later I found a cheaper place where they charged just over two pounds. To be fair to the newspaper guy he offered to buy the paper back for a pound once I finished reading it. I did not bother. At least I was happy that recycling has caught up in big way here in Agadir.
I ended up as usual at the Jour et Nuit ordering my usual nous-nous and watching the people go by and reading the papers in between. I wanted to know who was relegated from the Premiership and was pleased that it was not only the London clubs that wee relegated. I was sorry for Charlton but pleased for West Ham; sorry for Sheffield United but pleased for Wigan; sorry for Chelsea but pleased for Ronaldo. Ronaldo, Cristiano that is, is by far the best player this season, though Drogba was right behind him.
Today’s Daily Mail introduced me to another piece of news that I read with some pleasure. I learnt that Serbia (my fatherland) has won the Eurovision Song contest. This was unexpected for winning is something just not done by Serbia. (Note added later: I did not realise at the time how homophobic were the comments about the singer who won, both by BBC and the press; shame on England who always stood in vanguard of liberties). This is notwithstanding that there is no truth in the rumours, she may look a little butch but that is all. I think it was quite brave to send someone who could win on merit only not on looks.
The win was not totally surprising. While I was in Serbia back in April I heard the song, or part of it and thought it was not bad.
My nephew has a different opinion. He connects everything with a new government in Belgrade telling me to remember the Orange revolution in Kiev and how they won the contest that year. It is a payback for being good. I am not a proponent of conspiracy theories at least not at this time. For whatever reason the people of Serbia deserve a little bit of rejoicing and with their emerging tennis stars perhaps it will be a good PR for Serbia and it may be a turning point to come out once and for all from the deep waters of pariah position.
I notice that the locals liked her despite her masculine looks. There are even jokes about her, rather crude, but something like, ‘at least she won’t be called up for her military service’. Perhaps this little brave country (people), as late Alan Clarke used to also bravely call them in the wake of the tragic events of the 1999, is at the new beginning. Tony Benn was another brave supporter alas to no avail. It is still my view that America has duped the disunited Europe yet again by making (or at least not preventing) the situation so intolerable that they had to intervene. The whole World was against Serbia and the maniac that was in charge lacking vision and intelligence took advantage and put the wheel of history hundreds of years back.
Even now the problems are not being resolved and instead of working hard to bring both Serbia and still its part, Kosovo into Europe and then seek a solution which would then be much easier to achieve, they are still blackmailing and treating Serbia as someone who has lost a war, which she did. The West backing up the ex terrorists doing the same cleansing in reverse, though numbers are not as great- it is the principle that matters- does not help the position. That is where the conspiracy theory comes into play. It is impossible so to mismanage that it must be by design. Somewhere someone has the benefit of the chaos which is prevailing and continuing. Two guesses as to who that someone is. (In June it was announced that the negotiations between EU and Serbia are to continue- until the next blackmail).
*********
I will tell a little more about Westermarck, first name Edward. His work Ritual and Belief in Morocco was briefly mentioned in Iain Finlayson’s book Tangier the City of the Dream. The reference provoked interest and I resolved to get a copy and find out for myself. I looked him up on the internet to find out more about him.
He was a famous anthropologist from Finland who among many other chairs held a Chair of Anthropology at the LSE. I also discovered that the price of the book was into hundreds of pounds which immediately turned me off outright purchase. Luckily my nephew’s wife (My niece-in-law), this is the nephew who believes in conspiracy theories, works at the LSE and she has access to the library. I am certain that she must have caused some surprise when she asked for the two-volume book. According to the borrowing records the first volume was taken out in the eighties once and the second never until now.
A careful look through the volumes discovers some use in house. There were pencil marks and some of the pages showed signs of wear and tear, some of it due to age of the work.
I found it fascinating and could not put it down once I started reading it. It is a work packed with facts and stories meticulously collected over seven years in Morocco over a period of two decades in which that the author visited and revisited Morocco.
The preface to the book was written in 1926, the thirtieth of March 1926 at Villa Balbina outside Tanger. (I prefer local spelling of the city of the Straits)
I am neither competent to make any comments nor is there enough space and time to do it here even if I were. I am not too harsh on myself for there is hardly anyone who would be competent to pass a judgment let alone to add or deduct from this epic work. Also those that know Morocco today would not be able to comment on the times of the book. I can only assume that much has remained the same and yet much has changed.
I will venture to say and that is in my humble opinion that this is probably the most authoritative work of collected stories and beliefs of Morocco of the period and ever. It is fascinating that Westermarck undertook such a journey when he did- many of them- and survived. It should be remembered that this is the time when Walter Harris was there and which period he described in his masterly work Morocco that Was.
Walter Harris is another must and the first book that anyone who wishes to learn about Morocco should read. If that is the first author to read, Westermarck should be the last. When reading Westermarck one is overwhelmed by sheer size of information and detail. The beauty of it is that the author refrains from lecturing or questioning and only subtly makes some comments. You have a feeling that he himself believes all the stories collected so objective he managed to remain. You almost become a believer yourself.
If you wish to know about Baraka, Jinni or Evil Eye, there is no book better than this.
**********
A note on the coach journey from Casablanca to Agadir via the coast road
The winding road from Essaouira to Agadir, though not new to me was most enjoyable. This time, being on my own and not distracted by my other problems as I was in May of 2004, I actually noticed the scenery. Some of the drive was a bit scary, as the driver tried to make it on schedule to Agadir. I often wandered what would have happened if the brakes failed at any one bend that he was taking so sharply. It turned the whole experience into a religious one so I suddenly trusted in Allah.
There was some most beautiful scenery in front of us when we reached the actual coast just before Cap Ghir (Also spelt Rhir on one of the maps I have). Once we passed Cap Ghir with its lighthouse we encountered gusts of strong wind which shook the coach from time to time and made the see rise in clouds of mist when the wind and the waves clashed. It was most extraordinary and I tried to take photos with my phone camera but it did not quite capture the true scenery and experience.
Luckily I was seated at the right hand side of the coach and was able to watch all the beautiful bays parading in front of me like sets of beautiful pearls. There are quite a few little villages and bays before we reached Taghazoute, the picturesque fishing village some ten miles north of Agadir.
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On the beach I had a swim and the ocean was not cold; I had my usual nous-nous at the Jour et Nuit and I met a trio of young kids, two brothers from Meknes, in their mid teens and their Agadiri friend, Abdella who they say was the oldest but looked by far the smallest of the three. The brothers are called Imad and Moussema. All three of them were sweet and friendly. I enjoyed practicing my scant Arabic and their shyness turned into a game to get some money from me. I could not resist as they spent time with me so I gave them twenty dirhams, (£1.25) for which they seem very grateful.
Moussema bought two cigarettes and two lollipops for his brother and the Agadiri. Abdella bought a doughnut which he kindly offered the first bite to me. I did not accept protesting I was too fat for such sweet delights which made him laugh heartily.. (This is how I discovered that the price of doughnut on the beach for tourist is much inflated, two dirham against five or ten they charge the tourists. It should be two dirham for everybody as I buy them for only one dirham at the Abattoir).
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This morning I had a problem getting up and unusually it was gone ten o’clock when I forced myself to get up. I could smell something like varnish and I discovered that some workers were varnishing doors of the remaining flats on my floor by leaning them against my own door. The considerable gap between the door and the marble flooring let the evaporating fumes in and they knocked me out. When I tried to leave the flat I found my door barricaded with pieces of cardboard probably to prevent any damage to my already varnished door. One of the guys knew that I was there, at least he saw me the day before. By way of apology they said they would re-varnish my door. When they did it they had a cheek to expect a tip. My door was perfectly all right and needed no other coat of varnish. They will use every trick in the book. And I can proudly say I did not cave in. there is a limit to my stupidity and unwarranted generosity.
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A brief note on prejudice
Moroccans come in all shades may be that is why their prejudices are on religious grounds not on grounds of colour.
It strikes me that being prejudiced is instinctive being tolerant is civilised. Not much is made of ‘negative’ prejudice; that is when people who belong to the prejudiced group use it as an advantage. I remember a black guy trying to steal a bottle of wine when I was working for wine company many moons ago. He tried to use this to get away with his attempted theft. When I warned him he said, ‘You are only saying this because I am black. You are a racist.’ I did not budge and made him place the bottle back on the shelf which he did pulling it out from underneath his coat. Then I let him go as no damage was done.
When one thinks of racial prejudice one hardly thinks of a white person being prejudiced against. I personally experienced it when I was hosting a group of Congolese youth who took a refuge in Yugoslavia in the times of great troubles in Congo back in 1961; Lumumba at al. My new pair of trousers were all cut up and ended up on the bottom of the sea and some of my books were also thrown in for a good measure. The only possible explanation was the prejudice as I was the only white there. At the time I was flabbergasted blissfully unaware of what prejudice was. Now I forgive them as their experiences with the whites must have been the cause. However, forgiving it is not excusing it.
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Timitar
The town was bustling this evening with throngs of people crowded at the Al Amal square listening to the opening night of the Agadir festival of Berber (and other) music called Timitar. I listened to some Berber music going to the beachfront and on the way back stopped and heard some jazz from Cameroon.
This is really the first real opportunity to grasp the size of the city. People were milling everywhere. I only just got home and it is nearly midnight, the square was still quite full so was the rest of the town. The security measures are visible both the police and the army; plain clothes notwithstanding.
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I am meaning to write down how I feel about the beach for some time now and finally here it is.
The beach is like book of new stories that I open and read every time I visit. Each day is a new book of stories. Some told, others untold, some without ending and some about to start. It is impossible to tell what will every day bring and that is the beauty of it. If only you bother to watch.
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It is Sunday evening as I write these lines after a crowded Sunday on the beach. I cannot quite believe that tomorrow is the last day here. Actually I said my au-revoirs to the beach today.
Agadir 2007