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.
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.
I could post you a Bag for Life?
ReplyDelete