The Dash North- 4 days to the Spanish coast
After two days of rest and recovery and some musical evenings at our
hosts establishment we broke camp and headed for the city. Buoyed up
with confidence we struck a shameless and outrageously conspicuous
profile in Marrakesh train station as we stumped down the platform in
our great packs and adopted Arabic headgear, running boyishly through
the Morroci to hunt an empty carriage. The night train to Asilah
seemed to have no beds, and we were suddenly gripped with the terror
of being pressed upright into a full seated carriage between
strangers all night! With relief we dropped our bags in an empty
carriage, which consisted of two parallel benches facing each other
(long enough to sleep on comfortably we calculated). And then we were
invaded by a gang of 4 South American girls, who had their own fears
about being pressed in between North African men all night long (which
their infamously optimistic views on the chastity of foreign women).
Having spied our t-shirts and packs, they decided we were the safer
option and made a bee-line for our carriage. They burst in and
immediately dropped coke on the floor, apologizing in Spanish as we
budged up to make room begrudgingly, knowing our chances of a good
nights kip were ruined. We attempted to make polite conversation as
they wolfed smelly hamburgers, and after a while the ice melted and we
began to compare stories and photos of travel in Morocco. They told us
about the wariness of travelling as Latin women in a North African
country, we told them about the strangeness of living amongst the
Portuguese. After a while we began to laugh, mostly about the
absurdity of cross-cultural misunderstandings and enjoying the sound
of their high pitched laughter I began to crack more jokes just to
hear the sound of it again. How strange it is when two groups of
travellers meet, and so amicably yet so transiently bond.
In the middle of the night a strange man tried to advance upon them
even in our carriage, to our disbelief and no small amusement. Having
no luck, and disliking our cold stares he attempted to ‘order’ the
Argentinian girl to come speak with him. She declined plainly, and he
seemed surprised as if he had expected her to obey him. He returned
after a while to inform us that the girls should get off at the next
stop with him. I made a few discreet enquiries with the conductor and
was horrified to find that he now lying about the train itinerary, and
in fact the girls were not due to depart for three more stops. They
had obviously made a shrewd decision joining our carriage and we
defended them from further unwanted advances until they were safely
off the train at the correct stop. We waved goodbye to our charges and
wondered how they had survived so far without being sold as camel
slaves in the Sahara desert. We lay down in our slightly sticky
carriage and slept briefly for the last few hours of the night,
awakening to see a line of soft rolling green hills extending
unendingly by the train. We rubbed our eyes at the announcement of
arrival in Asilah, and stood peckish and yawning in the soft morning
light of dawn.
Asilah was lovely, so relaxed after the pressure of Marrakesh and full
of nothing but artists, merchants and shopkeepers – and hordes of
Spanish tourists. We found private lodgings in a simple rooftop room,
where we had to share the bathrooms with our host, and our bedroom
with a large number of impudent children who came and left as they
pleased; One small boy upon seeing me joyously grabbed hold of my leg
and hugged me like I was his natural father, and we quickly became
friendly with the residents of the adjacent buildings too, in a free
way which simply would not be possible in the Western world as we know
it. We discussed this wonderful apparent social freedom of the third
world with renewed bewilderment (having drawn similarities between
many such countries we knew), where warmth is customary instead of
conditional, and wondered how it could be possible to inject some of
this infectious human openness into western cities such as the ones we
know. After debating at length we found no solution, except that whole
communities in apartment blocks in London and New York be moved
temporarily to Morocco and Vanuatu and such places so that they could
learn how to treat one another in day-to-day life.
After deciding not to buy anything in Asilah, but ogling the colourful
art galleries, we decided to investigate rumours of a Paradise beach
somewhere south of the Medina. We first attempted to find this on
foot, and subjected ourselves to the parody of asking and being asked
directions by groups of other tourists, all of whom were looking for
the same thing. We slumped dustily back into the Medina only to be
scolded by a young man who accused us of undermining the tourist
trade.
‘You have to let us take you their on a horse and cart’ he said
sternly, ‘it is our tradition!’ We were seriously taken in by the
prospect of such antiquated transport. In our minds we glided gently
on an ancient cliff top track, the pleasures of the rich countryside
rolling slowly by as we relived the timeless experience of a Morocco
unchanged for centuries. We could drink cokes and snooze, dangling our
limbs playfully off of the sides or on the horses flanks…SLOW? No NO
NO chuckled our driver gleefully as we set off from the Medina with a
suspiciously athletic looking horse. We ARE GOING TO TAKE THE
MOTORWAY!
And in increasing fear and incredulity we hung tightly to the
mercilessly hard frame as horse, cart, driver and two frightened
passengers thundered like Ben Hur down the freeway south of Asilah.
Sometimes we were just on the road, sometimes we were just off the
road. Mostly we were right in between, and we bounced sickenly
every time the wheels hit the tars edge, the traffic roaring close
around us and the horse foaming and thrashing like a devil at the
tresses. After a while, finding death not immediately imminent and
having successfully overtaken an 18 wheeler truck, our horror gave way
to a certain devil-may-care enjoyment and we began to grin toothily.
Our driver took this as encouragement, and urged our steed onto
greater efforts. A large gobbet of foamy green horse saliva streaked
past the thrashing mane and hit me full in the face. I smiled all the
more, and my sunglasses became suddenly opaque and I had to hold on
blindly until the turn-off to paradise beach. This breath-taking spin
on the fast tar road was followed by a back-breakingly rugged jolt
through a truly eroded dirt track, and for the first time since
childhood we felt that we had been spanked afterwards. We stopped to
pull a car out of the mud, hitching the horse and cart to the
tow-hitch and pushing ourselves. And this is Morocco, I thought..where
cars are rescued from the mud by horse and cart. The Paradise beach at
Morocco looked like it had seen better days, and the only Eden-like
effect was given by the luke warm water. After months and months of
surfing in the frozen Atlantic I played childlike in the waves for
hours, reliving my memories of Vanuatu as a South Pacific boy. We sat
on the scruffy beach and drank the sweetest Morocco tea to date, and
suddenly realized we could not drink the stuff anymore. We did our
best to protect our tender seats as we pounded back to Asilah the same
way, the driver overtaking another similar cart with ease and not an
immodest amount of pride. As we trotted through the narrow backstreets
of Asilah, built for the mode of transport we were using the rich
light gave the alleyways a creeping magical feel. The driver called
out greetings to many passers-bye, and various urchins climbed
cheekily onto the back unnoticed by the driver. We saw people drinking
tea lazily on the rooftops, and mothers taking in washing off of
home made lines. We hung on expertly now, seasoned cart travellers,
bobbing our heads and limbs in tempo with the rhythm of the horses
back..smiling back into open stares and even boldy calling out our own
greetings.
This moment crystallized in my memory into one of my precious moments
which I hope never to forget, and I felt a sudden flood of love for
the experience of life in all parts of Africa, North of South. Life
seemed to be somehow bolder, rawer, more vivid and sensually engaging
down here..it went for your throat and shook you as if to say…’DO you
now realise that you are alive?’ The freedom of communication between
all peoples regardless of petty divisions was also so apparent in
afternoon pleasantries. Noone in Africa is really a stranger, just a
long lost member of your extended family. A strange woman is your
sister, auntie or mother. A strange man is your brother, uncle or your
father. People are seen as worthy and welcome, until they prove to be
otherwise. The reverse is more true of the West, where some
commonality must be sought for before meaningful contact can be made
with anyone. Why is the West so cold by comparison? The problem still
puzzles me..and I still have no answer, but right then I felt such a
strange sense of belonging in that alien town I am unable to explain.
Upon returning to the marketplace this warm fuzzy feeling was sniffed
out by a wily tradesmen who induced me to trade almost everything I
was wearing for a few trinkets and a dangerous looking knife. I traded
my sunglasses, leather jacket, pen knife, Mike’s ballpoint and would
have lost my trousers too had not reason returned to me in time. Upon
reflection the trader definitely got a better deal, considering he
also walked away with my house keys which were in the jacket pocket.
This is a fact which I was reminded off unhappily upon returning to
Porto.
We struggled hard to get an English cup of tea in the café before
leaving Asilah. The waiter seemed a bit offended that we didn’t want
Moroccan tea. In the end we painstakingly explained how to make a
perfect cuppa, black tea with milk and one spoon of sugar. He went off
in a huff, and then returned with a steaming mug of hot milk, a burst
tea bag looming underneath a floating mat of loose tea leaves. This
provoked a long discussion on the essential hopelessness of trying to
obtain this simple beverage, easily made, outside of the British Isles
and former colonies of. Why, when the world had mastered coffee, had
they failed at tea? It’s a good drink…and according to Confucius
Tea tempers the spirit,
And harmonizes the mind,
Dispels lassitude and relieves fatigues
Awakens or refreshes the body
And clears the perceptive faculties.
This shows clearly that the Chinese are going to take over the world one day.
In the end we decided the tea could be worse, and in our minds we
created a tea judging scale which could be used by the unprepared
traveller in conjunction with lonely planet.
Running 1-10, as follows:
10 – Really good cup of tea..perfect
8 – Bad tea bag, but made correctly..milk may be absent
6- Wierd tea bag, and dunked in some pleasantly warm water, cheap hotel style.
No milk, but coffee creamer is available as well as artificial
sweetener. Drink if
desperate.
4- Dodgy tea bag again, lukewarm water, polystyrene cup and plastic
lid. Straw optional. Pretty bad option.
2- Steamed milk, burst tea bag. (tea ala Alisa Breakfast café). Almost
the worst possible tea.
0- Waiter brings no tea. Instead he brings a tea bag on a tray, sticks
it inside your mouth and then slaps you round the face. WORST Possible
cup of tea ever (hypothetical but not impossible).
Tangine has a good train service, and the sweet rolling hills of
Northern Morocco slipped by on our morning train from Asilah with
glorious ease…