Riding the Marrakech Express - senior railcard style

Like, wow, man. It's Marrakesh. Groovy, fab and far out. So said Dylan. Boing said Zebedee.
Get the rabbit connection? No, perhaps a little too esoteric - or ancient. Kind of appropriate for Marrakech though, a little Magic Roundabout reference for the uninitiated.
So, off to Marrakech to meet my old mate Mikey who is jetting in on Cheapo airlines whilst I travel 1st class sur le train. I was ready for some taxi malarkey in Marrakech - everyone warns you about it. Forewarned, I argue hotly with the taxi driver who insists my hotel is 20k from M whilst I insist it is 11k as per website info. It turns out to be 20k - 1 nil to the taximan and a hefty fare.
Mikey booked the hotel - remember this factoid.
Lovely hotel and I've glugged a couple of beers by the time Mikey arrives.
Coughing, spluttering, wheezing like he's got TB and avian flu all in one.
Sorry, I've got the lergy he says.
It wasn't a good idea to get a twin room - after 2 hours (max) I had taken my bedding down to the Riad courtyard and was kipping down there.
"You look bloody miserable", opined my friend in the morning as he viewed me in my makeshift bed on the way to petit dejeuner. He looked like he'd slept well.  We agreed that separate rooms would be a good idea unless he was either miraculously cured that day or he got run over by a camel.
The weather didn't help either. Cold and wet and I didn't take a jumper. Mikey kindly lent me one. Good lad really. Somehow, Marrakech isn't quite so attractive when it's raining and cold. Not many bars to repair to though we did find a hotel later in the afternoon selling small cans of beer for a fiver each.
Not a lot of excitement but we had a leisurely, comfortable couple of days there.
Things I learned: tagines can become boring after a while; Marrakech market boys are heavy duty; snake charmers should stop trying to "charm" pythons, they won't do anything (actually they should stop tormenting the poor snakes at all); Graham Nash doesn't live in Marrakech; go there in September.
We both returned by train to Rabat - second class as First Class was full. The lady sitting next to me decided her fingernails needed trimming - it was like listening to half inch cable being cut! Mikey thought this was most amusing until 2 ladies came to sit next to him - the closer one having a bum the size of a large mosque. Then our train stopped in the middle of nowhere - like, far out. People jumped off the train, chatted and smoked fags in the fields so I jumped off too and asked why we had stopped. Le Roi, I was told. Is the King coming on our train? I quipped. Several of my fellow travellers began to speak amongst themselves and I got the impression my question had gone down like a camel with cramp. Turned out he was in the vicinity so they had kept the level crossing 1k ahead open just in case his kingliness decide to go that way. He didn't, he went by helicopter to his nearby chateau.  As we neared Rabat, my rather splendid straw hat fell off the hat rack and the lady (a new one) next to me tried it on to the amusement of the rest of the passengers. Looks better on me doesn't it?

That's me on the Great Wall in China, by the way

 

In Rabat now and back to work for me. Mikey explored the length and breadth of the road I live in on the first day - saving himself for the Big Tour of Rabat. He liked the bar Riad and the Moroccan resto next door which was well authentic. Skewers of all sorts of meat, salad, bread and chips. And rice if you want it. Marvellous. Carbo heaven

Looked everywhere for a resto serving booze the next night (holiday next day so it was effectively Friday night for me). Ended up in the Chinese next to mine.

So, Thursday was a holiday for the Embassy because it was Muharram, Islamic New Year.

No, wait, the moon spotter on Weds evening had said, cancel Thursday, it's Friday now. Imagine how silly we felt, wandering round Rabat thinking it was New Year's Day only to find it wasn't! Oh well, they think it's quite normal to announce holidays at the last minute - and close the bleedin' bars.

So Mikey and I did the souk (that's not a dance) and had a little lunch in the Medina - piccy time.

 

 



Then I went and bought 4 carpets. It was a hoot. Mikey sat and wet himself (he does that a lot anyway) and chatted up a young lady customer. She was with another nice (pregnant) Moroccan lady who decide to come and help me negotiate with the 2 crones who apparently owned the shop. Unusually not a male owner. Well, these 2 toothless hags kept hurling carpets on the floor, all colours and sizes and I was all the time trying to explain the size and colour I was looking for. Pregnant lady was relaying my wishes. White carpet please! And a couple of blue ones would be chucked down. Orange carpet please! You get the picture.Well we had lots of fun as did the other customers, it was like a floor show - ha! And I bought 4 carpets of the finest quality Morocco has to offer. When you pop round for a drink, let me know what you think.

And what did we rockin' and rollin' guys do that evening? Take away pizza and a nice dvd.

I bet Crosby Stills and Nash (and Young) aren't lashing it up like they used to, either. 

changing places

I moved from my upmarket location in Hay Riad to the more "happening" area of Agdal last week. Wow, it really happens here. The big supermarket is heaving with people buying 2 items each and creating a queue half the length of the store; there's a stupid dog in a neighbouring apartment who can't bark properly - 2 slow barks and the second is higher in pitch. Must stop whingeing.
So, off I go exploring my new manor on Friday afternoon. Up the hill and suddenly, it's Bond St and Regent St rolled into one but with the flavour of Paris - Avenue de France. Wide, clean, full of beautiful people having coffee, pastries, ice creams in the very smart pavement cafes. And lots of high end shops - for those interested in those things.
Nearer home, an Asian resto 1 min away. Nice boulangerie. The cafe Paris next door (owned by my landlord's bother)  where I had brekkies yesterday and discovered khlii. Dried meat is the simplest description of it which was cooked with a couple of eggs - check out this link if you want to make it (bet no one does!)  http://dafina.net/viandesechee_en.htm
And then there's the Bar Riad. A couple of hundred metres down the road is this bar. Exclusively men with moustaches (they make an exception for grey haired old gits) and, inevitably, smokey. But a whole lot better than the bars by the railway station. At least you can see further than 2 metres through the fug, no dubious ladies and no men doing silly drunken dances with each other. At least not at 1830. Typical decor though. Nicotine coloured walls and ceilings and shit brown painted wood. But for the pinball machine in the corner, it could be the Stout House in Horsham. I await deserved abuse from my good friend, the landlord, Colonel Hunt.
  

I'd rather be a rabbit than a sheep

Silly title but not sillier than "I'd rather be a sparrow than a snail", I feel. Anyway there isn't a day in the year when snails face snailageddon or sparrows fear to fly. For the sheeps of Morocco, yesterday was a dark day. There is, apparently, a special day (like Christmas but bloodier) when it is the duty of the faithful to buy a sheep, kill it, butcher it and eat it. As a committed carnivore, I heartily approve of people who eat meat having to see what it really means - ie killing the animal you want to eat. But to make such a song and dance about it? Only one person can cut its throat; someone else skins it (after the blower has blown the skin from the carcass); not entirely sure who butchers it but the ladies (of course) cook it.
On a lighter note, the air was full of smoke yesterday from the fires used to burn the sheeps heads. They do that on any patch of open ground. Chaps on motorbikes, donkey drawn carts and pickup trucks were charging round the neighbourhood shouting "annaaa" (I think) and collecting the skins and assorted bits from the households who had done the business on their moutons.
One is unable to purchase alchohol at all during the 3 day period so I have had to resort to Sancerre instead of beer after the visit of my good friend Grahame who necked all the beer. Who said a diplomat's life was easy?
Today in the supermarche to stock up on some essentials - the restaurants are also closed for the hols - I found that the meat counter consisted only of a whole sheep, half a sheep or an extremely large lump of sheep. Too much for the rogon jhosh I was intending.
I found a lone poulet though (which I ritually cut up at home)  It was dead and wrapped in plastic, of course. I took my purchases to the checkout, and, waiting there - for her mum probably - was a girl of 11 or 12 with a shopping trolley containing 1 item only, a whole sheep (skinned of course) - hooves up and barely fitting into the trolley. Wouldn't see that too often in Sainsbury's in Deal, I thought.
Funny old world.

smoked rabbit

A jolly nice week - in my opinion anyway. Met the President of the Moroccan Cricket Association - not with exactly the same status as president of the MCC but, I was impressed. The ambo invited me to a farewell dinner chez prez. Fantastic home cooked Moroccan grub impressed me too. Monday night was a reception on HMS Edinburgh in Casablanca. Drinking with sailors in Casablanca - so gay! And I use the word in its original and proper sense. And, some of the sailors were quite attractive young ladies. Our stupid driver got lost on the way there and on the way back. One navy chap questioned how one could get lost with Rabat on the coast, Casa on the coast - just keep the sea on your right!
So to this weekend and I'm invited to a night out with some Moroccans on Saturday. To set the scene, it's a big pub with several interconnected rooms and ours has about 60 people in it (nearly all men, of course) and a band. And everyone is smoking. Chain smoking. And probably more than one fag at a time. Though you do get olives and nuts with your pint. But it's smokier than a smoke filled room at a smokers convention with extra smoke being piped in through the AC. I needed several unnecessary visits to the loo and (and outside) to survive the evening. The band were cool though. Tom tom drums, very versatile keyboard and Morocco's answer to Carlos Santana. Some very exciting Santana style music (and a bit of Eric too) and the band are sporting Carlos pork pie hats. After the break, the band rips into the crowd's favourite stuff, the Rai. And of course, it's Aisha first. This is good stuff, I'm going to see if the Melody Maker would like me to write for them*. And if you've ever heard Rai music - Khaled, Cheb Mami etc - this was a different level. And so was the freakin volume! So now, my eyes and throat are being poisoned by smoke and my eardrums are about to start bleeding. But the music was fab. Rai with a Santana guitar - marvellous.
Clothes straight in the basket and a shower as soon as I get home. Somehow though, I can still smell smoke as i write this the next day. Worse than a Turkish Airlines flight 20 years ago. Merhaba arkadaslar!
* I hear the MM is now defunct. 

Pavements are for........

Parking, pineapples and anything but pietons. A bit of an exaggeration but see the pics. And the kerbs. You can get vertigo standing on them. Oh, and don't forget the cleverly concealed holes.

My interest in pavements has increased since I started walking to work - well I can't get a taxi, can I?
Continuing the transport theme. Took a bendy bus into town today (Sat) and there were 2 bus conductors on board. 1 in the back part and 1 in the front. 1 had yellow tickets and 1 had green. Ah, I thought, I've cracked that system. No, front coach conductor decided he'd had enough and sat down and back coach conductor had to do the whole bus. Well, I found it interesting.
Sunday and it's off to the beach on my bike. Oh no, not more boring transportation tales!
No, this one's fairly interesting.
It's about 8km to Temara beach and that's a bike ride here. En route I saw loads of fishermen on the rocks and edge of the (what's a small cliff called?). Well I never, another similarity with that jewel in the south, Deal. The slight difference being that they catch fish here. Spotting a man attempting to stand up on the small cliff with his rod bent at a very sharp angle - titter ye not - and his chum holding on to him for dear life. I leapt off me bike to go and investigate. I wish I had a video of this. He's on this 100ft cliff with loads of massive rocks down below and another mate clambering back and forth on the rocks trying to be in the right position if he lands the fish. Eventually about 15 mins later, we see the fish just off the rocks - this I know is the dangerous time. If the line catches the rocks.... No worries for these chaps. they wait for a big wave to lift the fish over the rocks and deposit it in a sort of rock pool. I can't do justice to the nerve and agility of the chap who speared the fish, carried it to a place where he could climb up and brought the fish to the top. I couldn't have climbed it with Chris bonington hauling me up let alone with a monster fish. Just look:

  And he was a big lad holding fish.
What an adventure and I was jolly excited. Til I reached Temara and one of the the feckin pedals fell off. Ever tried cycling 8K up and down hills with one pedal? No I bet you haven't Bradley Wiggins. Should be an Olympic sport I think. Seems to make your bum more sore than normal cycling.
I had a quiet and restful rest of the day.

More taxi drivers

Phew, the week just sped by. Suddenly it's Thursday and a colleague confides in me, as we are chugging cold Casablancas in the Embassy bar,  ".....get used to it, this is the highlight of the week!"
Probably a bit of an exaggeration but the bar is only open once a week - on Thursdays.
BUT, and it's quite a jolly good but, a chum took me to downtown Rabat on Friday. More bars and restos than you can throw a camel at. Obviously I jumped in the first taxi back to my safe and dry neighbourhood to avoid such a depraved area.
And on the same theme (though I'm not obsessed, honest) I nipped down to the supermarche for some provisions on Saturday. Laden down with a half dozen plastic bags, I went looking for a taxi. On the plastic bag issue, they are plentiful, too big and free. My concience is troubled. Anyway, no sign of Bobby (see earlier blog) and the first taxi driver looked at me, looked at the bags "do you have alcohol in there?" (in French of course). Oui, says I. Non, says he. And so does the next one. Then they point at another, rather dilapidated taxi which I took to mean "that scumbag driver will accept drunken, infidel types like you" . Which he did. I check the meter - it's in Spanish and clearly hasn't worked since Franco was a lad. Sanmarshpa, I query? Much gesticulation, unintelligible ranting and the phrase "vant dirhams" (20 dirhams) erupted. I swiftly understood exactly what he was saying. "Those other taxis wouldn't take you because you are an alcohol swilling infidel and so you can bloody well pay 20 dirhams for a 10 dirham ride".  Copacetic, man.
I'll bet there's a law about blogging. The longer you do it, the more likely you are to write less and brevity rules. Pictures next time.  

the weekend continues to Tuesday

0930 sunday morning (I think I'll blog weekly from now) and the streets of Hay Ryad, the very posh area in which I reside, are deserted. I'm off to the local convenience store to get brekky essentials to accompany my weekly date with the Archers. It's omnibus day and there's trouble with a gay East European strawberry picker and the Grundys are getting the Christmas turkeys in. Marvellous
I have several missions today:
1. Pick up velo from Embassy which a colleague has kindly lent me.
2. Find supermarche nominated by Robert de Niro (top taxi driver...geddit) yesterday where I can buy better quality vin etc
On me bike, avoiding the highways, along the ubiquitous red dirt tracks of Africa and a supermarche appears like an oasis. And Bobby's spot on. It's not a Waitrose but it's certainly Sainsburys and a cut above yesterday.
Cycling to the shops, just like being at home in Deal.
Love this cycling lark so off to the local forest to commune with nature. Hello birds, hello sky. The forest sounds interesting, a major global supplier of cork. Well, it's just cork trees and once you've seen one cork tree...
Local cafe for a coffee (70p, result) watching Morocco get spanked by Mozambique (yawn)
So what shall we do Sunday evening? Pop down the pub for a couple of beers before dins. Pas possible you think, dear reader, (how sad that is if no one reads this). Mais non, I leap on the velo and pedal off to the English Pub I chanced upon earlier. Couple of (expensive) Casablancas, a Moroccan baby's head wetting party next door (lemonade and mint tea) and a repeat of the footy and I'm ready for dinner. The Pub rather reminded me of an hostelry in Horsham, Ye Olde Stoute House. I'll bet a million pounds I'm the only person in Rabat today - possibly this side of the Rif - who went shopping on me bike and then went out for a pint on me bike.
Monday to work and I return home to find the velo gone! Oh la la la la la la la la la! The more las, the more shocking the incident. Bastard voleurs - and I thought this was a good neighbourhood.
Tuesday, I shamefacedly report the crime to our CLO (community liaison officer) and the Management Section. They appear quite concerned but they all think I'm a numpty really. And they're right.
Couple of jobs need doing in my apartment - straightening the rugs and doing the washing up so Mohammed the Handyman is sent round. Actually he is going to fix the shower and the satellite tv so he is also tasked to ask the concierge if he knows anything about the disappearance of the velo.
Mo-Han does a great job and discovers the concierge also thought I was a numpty leaving the bike where I did and he put it somewhere safe. Phew.
After all that excitement I need a cup of tea.

Weekend the first in Rabat

So, here I am in Morocco. Yay!
Like a good representative of Her Majesty abroad, I looked at a fair amount of information about Morocco before coming here so, of course, I knew all about the place.
Moving on, bear with me on my learning curve.
The first few days have been taken up with learning about the work and finding my way to and from my apartment. Cracked the latter now.
My first weekend. A dry Friday night. Probably good for me.
Saturday, a walk to the supermarché. Stocked the larder.
Then off to the Medina. Predictably, got lost and ended up walking through the residential area. You have to like your neighbours (or be good at ignoring them) if you live there. By this time, my feet were killing me because Nike flip flops are not meant for walking further than the sea to the beach bar. Not miles round hot Moroccan streets. I gladly paid over the odds for a pair of hooky Converse to save my poor plates. Then I did happy walking and went down to the sea and watched young lads leaping off the dock into the water; fishermen catching nothing (just like on Deal pier) and seagulls doing seagull stuff (just like Deal but better).
Then a coffee at a nice bar on the seafront. I sat there thinking how, in Morocco, the coffee tastes like real coffee, the olives taste like real olives and salade marocaine tastes like...well, a Moroccan salad. Having seen only elegant, not so elegant and downright scruffy people all day but all of them unchallenged sizewise, a couple of porkers came and sat down next to me and spoke English in a sort of nasal way. Stereotypes? No.
My next mission was to locate the one supermarket in Rabat that sells alcohol (sssh). I was told it wasn't far from my coffee bar by the sea. What I wasn't told was that I would have to follow some tram lines, cross a 6 lane dual carriageway and walk down a deserted road until finding my way across another busy road to the supermarket car park. I should mention the helpful chap who asked me where I was going - the supermarket I said - ah, for la biere, he said. Got my number. Bagged my booze and grabbed a taxi to get home. What a taxi driver. Guide tour on the way back, pointing out all the supermarkets much nearer to my apartment than the one he had picked me up from. Particularly one which sold le vin (if that's what I wanted). Not only that, but he recommended the best wine at 80 dirhams. Anything less than that would be pas bon. I said nothing as I had bought two 40 dirham bottles. We pulled up outside my house and he opened the boot to get my shopping out. However, he felt the need to go through my purchases and discovered the cheap wine and beer. He pronounced a couple of the beers ok but both bottles of red to be rubbish. One of them only good for killing flies. I felt like apologising but he laughed and said "next time".