D-Dog’s Blog

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