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".