D-Dog’s Blog

I know that, at this late stage, any farewell post from me will seem unnecessary or irrelevant. To be honest, anyone who views it as such will have my full support, if indeed anyone views it at all. In truth, this post has been created more out of a sense of duty than out of any real need to inform. Duncan has more or less “filled you in” on what the trip was all about, and I have rather little to add, sharing as I did with my companions the whole experience. Morocco is an amazing country, though, worthy of a second volley of praise, at least. The calls to prayer, the roof terraces, the macaroons, the jus d’orange, and “Hashish? Hashish? You want smoke? Make you fly to the moon! Smoke? It’s good quality, dog’s bollocks!” all made the trip a really great experience. But what really cemented my wellbeing was the company. It might sound a little strange, coming from a source such as this blog, a forum which has seen much lip-licking and hand-rubbing, and lasciviousness over the ups and, importantly, downs of our relationship (I jest), but I had a fantastic time, and I can’t thank Morocco, so I suppose I’ll just have to thank the two friends who accompanied (and, let’s face it, guided) me through the whole gig. Even if Frank’s insults have turned me into a nervous wreck, constantly checking over my shoulder for the supposed source of the next barbed quip. Really, though, when you spend a month with only two people, you develop a sort of special “group dynamic”, as the nice Californian chap we met in Fes called it. I believe he meant that we didn’t really talk to each other. Still, we learned lessons and arsed about and things, and generally had a good time, and I would do it again, exactly the same. Call me a bailer all you want, I’ve come back, I’ve had a drink and two packs of deep-fried pig scrapings in the Locomotive, wasted a load of money in the Itbox and put The Smiths on the jukebox, so I’m past caring. Farewell Morocco, hello Cool Britannia a.k.a. Sh*t Island, and roll on the Great British Summertime!

Ddogsblog has now moved to thehashmark.com under the title “Frank’s Travels.”

Well, here it is, the end of the line; Pascoe and I are ‘bailing.’ I use inverted commas because I do not entirely agree with the use of the word in this context. While Frank, whose obscene bank balance is allowing him to continue onwards (probably south, I’m sure he will go into more detail), has been besmirching my good name to you all, I have kept my silence so as to maintain the fragile peace. But no more. I am ‘bailing’ because I’ve run out of money. I checked my balance today, and I have, before subtracting the money I owe Pascoe for the flight (about a hundred quid) £203. Enough said. Honestly, I’m not altogether saddened by my enforced departure; I’ll have thehashmark.com to work on, and I’m looking forward to seeing everyone over Easter. Of course, I’m not speaking for Pascoe – I’m sure he’ll explain himself of his own accord. But two months is no measley amount of time to be travelling; the trip, for me, has consisted of: one night in Paris (wahey!), two in Marseille, four in Barcelona, four in Valencia, four in Seville, two in Gibraltar (known as ‘Gib’ to the Tommy Saxondale look-a-like we met in Tangier), six in Tangier, nine in Chefchaouen, twelve in Marrakech, three in Essaouria, three in Casablanca (by this point we were making up time after our extended stay in Marrakech), three in Meknes and six in Fes. I’ve spent over £2000 (god knows how – even HSBC seem a little vague on the subject), eaten about twenty chickens (perhaps more), been in an earthquake (okay, so it was tiny, but I hardly think that’s the point), caught a cold, been punched, grabbed and gestured at by mentalists, been conned (well, almost), hustled, gotten lost on HUNDREDS of occasions, travelled god knows how many miles by train and coach, heard the call to prayer five times a day for six weeks (I’m going to really miss it), met Americans, Canadians, French people, Italians, Spaniards, a bloke from Chile (or ‘Tsile’ as he pronounced it), an Argentinian, some Slovenian missionaries and an 85 year-old Cornish anthropologist who cares for his 105 year-old father in between trips to Morocco and long-winded speeches about ancient Mesopotamia. I’ve been soaking wet, freezing cold, scorched by the sun, bored (only occasionally) and anxious. I’ve stamped on cockroaches (so satisfying, especially when you grind them into the ground), enjoyed cold showers (not so satisfying) and had the worst smelling feet I’ve ever known anyone to have.

Frank may be bitter about me leaving (I can understand why – perhaps I should even take it as a compliment) but I have no regrets. I’ve enjoyed pretty much the whole trip, and am enjoying home, peace and quiet. I’m sure at some point someone will ask me which part of the trip I enjoyed the most, so here goes. I’d have to say Fes is probably the most impressive city, but I think I enjoyed our stay in Marrakech more. I wish we’d spent longer in Essaouria and less time in Casablanca (okay, two regrets). I’d say Valencia was the European highlight. So, it’s been good. Back to civilization, 70p Guardians, expensive coffee and buses, surly public officials, subdued hawkers and the cold, cold weather. The journey home was nondescript, we got all of our connections blah blah blah. Flight was short, ferry choppy (at one point one of my ears quite literally went BANG and I couldn’t stand up straight. I had a good sit down and I was fine. Until I was sick). I’m going to miss a lot, and I can tell that within a couple of days I’ll be bored again, but I’m not bothered.

D-Dog has left the trip (although Frank is going to keep posting, so as of this point I suppose he should adopt the title seeing as you can’t change the name of the blog). Keep reading.

 duncan (the traveller formerly known as D-Dog).

To all who frequent this travelog, I apologise for the delay in the writing of this post. I have, recently, been distracted by the hearty cries of “bailer, bailer” coming from one of my traveling compadres, possessed, as he is, by the demons of his own contorted fury. But the lateness is my fault; I would have done it last night, but I was too busy drinking expensive alcohol and watching Pascoe run amok with a broom handle to get to an internet café. Before I begin proper, a recap of Meknes: nice, but not overly so. Nothing to write home about, but a welcome change from the sordid hole that is the biggest city in
Africa, Casablanca. Fes, I think, is the nicest place we have been on the entire trip. The medina is simply breathtaking in its scale. It beats everywhere else hands down; the streets are narrower, longer, more festooned with goods and more interesting. Plus, there seem to be fewer hustlers, which is a bonus. Actually, the medina is almost too big; when walking through it, I am plagued by fears that I will get lost and never find my way out, and will have to spend the rest of my life walking in circles around the shops selling fake pairs of Ray-Bans (a pair of which I am tempted to buy). This morning, for example, I was walking along a route I have come to know quite well (I’m not going to lie to you, it’s a straight line leading from the hotel’s front door to a spot near the local cash machine), when I decided to excite my sense of adventure and turn up a hill to the left. I was shocked to turn straight into an enormous group of souk-shopping locals; I was the only westerner in view, and the crowd was drawing in. I was approached by two guys who, amazingly, had managed to remain stationery amongst the waves of people washing past. They asked me the usual questions (“English? Lost? Hashish?”), but I was horrified to discover that one of them was frisking my pocket. Well, I thought, I’m damned if I’m going to let the bastard find the tiny pocket (you know the one – I’ve never found a use for it before) in my jeans where I keep my healthy, heavy wad of money. Defiant, I turned and briskly paced away. Another victory for prudence.  I’ve said it already, but the streets here are phenomenally narrow, twisted and winding. Coming from the wide open expanses of South Devon, I sometimes find it hard to breathe, suffocated by the proximity of people. Yesterday, we had coffee in a café that can only be described as Kafkaesque; we were directed up a tiny spiral staircase to a first floor with a ceiling so low that I struggled to stand up straight. Each wall was adorned with a mirror; to our left was a group of thick-tashed Germans, who, when the lab-coat wearing waiter enunciated the words “ice cream”, would laugh with typical Germanic heartiness. The layout here is like Hampton Court maze but without the careful structuring, if that makes sense. Essentially, it’s just a maze. The only way to ferry in the goods is by horse, donkey, mule or half-breeds, cross-breeds and no-breeds thereof. Fully aware that a kick from an angry horse would do more than simply prematurely end my trip, I try and steer clear, but sometimes it isn’t that easy. This morning I followed a poorly-shod horse up a three hundred metre, near forty degree slope and kept my silence as it grunted and whinnied in distress. Tragic. Incidentally, we have yet to buy the hats that made the town famous, but I’m sure that at some point in the next couple days we will do so, and it will brilliant. Look forward to a cheesy group photo.  I think I’ve missed out a description of last night. Well, desperate for booze, we journeyed into the heart of the ville nouvelle by taxi and finally found a well-stacked shop. Pascoe, as you will have gathered, joyfully got stuck into the Heineken. Craziness ensued, but I sat back and observed. It was fascinating, and I think it may be a perspective I will adopt in the future. We meet some people from various parts of
Europe and someone from California, and delighted in watching the mentalists on the street below tussle with each other and drunkenly stumble and shout. It all turned a little sour, however, when the police arrived and dispatched a bit of rough justice, especially to a particularly manic character in an orange top. Some may say a firm clip-round-the-ear works wonders, but it wasn’t all that pleasant to watch.  

Anyway, I think that’s all that needs to be said for now. To anyone who is interested, Pascoe and I are returning on the evening of the thirteenth, while Frank (or ‘rich boy’ as he has been known since he found out his bank balance) is staying on longer.

duncan

We seem to have been rushing along at quite a speed recently. I think it’s because of the relaxed pace of life in this country, three nights never seems enough. That’s what I thought until I went to Casablanca, anyway, where three nights is at least two too many. The place is dull and unattractive, covered in big puddles of piss, there’s nothing to do, the children attempt to knife my friends, and it’s full of drunks, all of which amounts to a taste of home that’s too much to bear at present. As Frank said while we were conversing over coffee at one point, “It’s like Paris would be if you took the people out of Detroit, put them in Paris and left it for twenty years.” It is a hole. We did hope, however, that we would find some shred of charisma in the form of the tallest building in Morocco, the Hassan II mosque. Under construction since 1980, the building is the jewel in the crown of Casablanca. But, sadly, it’s shit. For one thing, it’s not very tall, and, although it’s an imposing sight, surrounded as it is by a huge, flat plaza, and the tiling looks great from a distance, up close, it looks like my dad did the grouting. Except he might have done it more neatly. The whole thing is disappointing, the paving is bumpy and chipped, the flowerbeds have no flowers in them, only weeds, there’s grass growing in all the corners of the cloisters which border the square, and there are large piles of rubbish and construction detritus gathering pools of stagnant green seawater, plain for all to see if you look over the sea wall at the square’s edge.

We left Casablanca endowed with a sense of jubilation, to be honest. It did nothing to dampen the mood when the bus journey here (to Meknes, that is), despite taking a good four hours, seemed to fly by. Plus the petit taxi driver* drove us straight to the hotel’s very door, and didn’t even charge us over the odds, which you normally expect when wearing rucksacks. Our new room is clean and ant-free, and has separate beds, too! Dimly lit, though, which for a hack like me is slightly bad news. Anyways, first impressions of Meknes were gained with a stroll around the souks, and through the meat-market, which was pretty bloody disturbing (bloody being the operative word – I swear I saw a rhino head minus horn), which was all good, despite the stalls being rather more practical than I’m used to. By this I mean that in Marrakesh, for example, you can’t move for swords and hookahs, whereas here it’s all phone chargers and “FAT PHARM”(sic) clothing. Anyway, the place looks okay, despite the fact that the bloke next to me in the internet cafe as I write is playing Akon and nodding! Oy vey… At least this place is cheap. Am I right or am I right? Sorry. And sorry for this post’s atrocious title. It’s supposed to be a play on “Mike and the Mechanics” but I don’t think I pulled it off. Once I thought of it, I had to use it. Anyway, the next post could be from here or Fes, we just don’t know yet. Keep tuning in, and keep tuning in to The Hashmark at www.thehashmark.com. Yes, that’s right, we’re a dotcom now!

Keep watching the skies,

Pascoe

*= The taxi’s petit, not the driver. He may have been, but that’s not what I meant.