One shoe by the side of the road

Just like the recent Jimi Hendrix album of unreleased songs comes an unpublished blog from the renowned Moroccan adventurer. Let's give up thanks that it was rescued from oblivion and, more importantly, it's the last one.


How many times have you seen a solitary shoe in the gutter or by the side of a major road? If the answer is never, it won't be soon because you will see one. Here's one I made earlier on the road out of Rabat to somewhere.

And I didn't put it there either. Scoff ye not because it is a phenomenon of the modern day. I may start up a website dedicated to this very phenomenon.
And so, it's farewell to Rabat. I will miss the millions of cafes where you can get a real coffee and mix with your fellow man (no women allowed apparently)
I'll miss my taxi driver offering a bite of of his sarnie.
Taxi drivers have been a feature of these blogs and quite rightly. The other day, on the way to work (0745) the driver is singing away in Arabic -  something like "Allah is just alright with me..etc" and I'm belting out "Swing low sweet chariot". We arrived far too soon.
I'll miss the best olives in the world, mint tea and awesome bread.
I won't miss being woken up by some git wailing at 0530.
I won't miss the rubbish everywhere but I will miss the ace dustmen who clear it all up from time to time.
And I won't miss the drama of going to buy a bottle of wine.......
It was "Blood on the supermarket steps" today, as I descended into the basement of Carrefour where they sell the demon drink (it is deliberately separated from the main supermarket), I witnessed a sight not even my Glaswegian friends would be familiar with. The "bouncer" in the booze section of Carrefour - and he is a bouncer, he's there all the time and he just stands behind the cashiers and shouts at people occasionally. Oh, and he's also built like a brick shithouse. Said bouncer, I'll call him Ali, was manhandling a chap out of the supermarche and then punched him, slammed him against the wall and threw him down on the steps. There was blood spattered all over the steps and Ali was about to pound the other guy into oblivion. A very brave chap stepped in and prevented further damage. It's not like a trip to Sainsburys. 
It rained as I left Rabat, quite a lot. Was Rabat crying at my departure...?

It's Tangier, my dear

Tangier has an absolutely fascinating and notorious history. I couldn't wait to get a good look for myself. Chatted with some nice Dutch folk on the 4 hour train journey, including the 7 year old daughter who proudly told me she could speak English (and Dutch, French and Arabic)
Checked into the hotel and then braved the rain cos I wasn't going to waste any time. It being the birthday of the prophet, not much was open. Except all the shops. It turned out I was staying in absolutely number one position for all the sights, restos and bars. If only they were open of course. Having trudged around the streets for 3 hours, back to the hotel for a shower and small restette. As I rested on my bed, a little verse came in my head. No, not that one.
"Twas a rainswept day in Tangier.
And twas big A's birthday, oh dear.
So with naff all to do
Big A, cos of you
You don't mind if I have a beer?"
And that's how my new years resolution was scuppered. It wasn't my fault! But it would have been scandalous, nay, unnatural not to have had a drink in Tangier so I would have cracked anyway. I popped down to the wine bar and, seeing the price of wine, decided to have a beer. The walls of the bar are filled with photos of all the celebs and famous folk who have stayed in the hotel. In keeping with the spirit of the hotel, even the modern photos are black and white. My offer to buy a lovely poster of the hotel on the wall was scornfully rejected by the maitre de. People had told me the hotel was past its best, a bit shabby - nonsense. There's a sense of history all over the hotel which beats 5* luxury which you can get anywhere. This really is the coolest hotel I've stayed in. Another cold Casablanca por favor, my man.
Then following my 12 year old Rough Guide, a gift from my old mate Mikey which he got at a boot fair, I wandered down to the Africa restaurant. Completely empty and the three staff are sat a table having a chat. No problem though, everything on the menu was available. Obviously I wanted a drink and the proprietor happily informed me that Moroccans weren't allowed to buy alcohol today, but I was alright. That was ok until Don Mohammed and his 5 Goodfellas (they were wearing gangster overcoats, honest) sat down at the table opposite me and glared menacingly at my red wine. Or was it jealously? No, they definitely didn't approve. Finished with a mint tea with more mint in the the glass than in my garden. I wonder where they grow all the mint? Are there mint farmers? Are they minted? It has a number of meanings, mint. A feckless New Zealander might say "I mint to call yer, honest". 
The next day, breakfast was as I had been told. Bacon, eggs, the lot. Need to do a bit of walking to work that off. Would you adam and eve it, the lazy sods have taken today off as well! No sights open today either. I avoid mosques, temples, cathedrals these days because, on the one hand, I've seen enough of them and, on the other, I'll probably be struck by lightning for all my blasphemous thoughts. So, it's got to be bad when I had to fill up some time by visiting the nearby C of E church. Having said that, it was a nice experience. The caretaker was a pleasant fellow, the churchyard could have been in Sussex and church smelled churchy just like churches do. And this has to be worth a look, the Lord's prayer is written in Arabic around the nave.
So I trudged around the city, not so much fun when it's raining. Couple of coffee stops then, bugger it, let's find a bar. Which I did:

Nice bar, you get a tapa with every beer and I nearly had a full meal. I had to pace myself because I was meeting a chap who was going to take me out on the town in the evening. He won't mind me saying that he is well acquainted with the more outrageous and seamy side of town as well. But the evening turned out to be fairly normal. Loads to drink and only one quite polite queen joined us earlier on.
Next day, a fairly long uphill hike to the kasbah. And what a lovely kasbah it is. You'll have to see it for yourself. Au revoir Tanger, I'll be back
The train journey home took an hour longer than it should due to an unplanned stop at Ksar el Kabir, that well known landmark. This was enlivened by the station master trying to do something with a cable coming out of the back of the engine. It was so frayed it looked like a witch's broom. With the passengers all out on the platform looking on, the station master was making sparks fly every time he touched the cable. Another chap then climbed into the engine (the train) and sparks didn't fly when said cable was touched again. Perhaps he had a brainwave and switched the power off? Eventually, the cable was secured to a pipe or something with sellotape (yes sellotape) so the frayed bits weren't touching anything. Then off we went. Hurrah for common sense and no H&S police.
Footnote on the changing facilities in my gym (see previous blog) I'm beginning to hide behind my towel when I change just like the Moroccans. It's getting so bad I'm scared to have a wee in the showers.

Vive la bicyclette!

First task - get the bike roadworthy. The lovely old chap, with his old fashioned bike repair shop down the road, obliges. For those ancient enough to remember the bike shops of old - smelling of oil, metal and rubber and filled with all those little oilstained cardboard boxes containing the essential nuts and bolts you always lose? That's his shop.
First trip is in a southerly direction to Temara - about 10km or so. Quite a leisurely ride down the coast, not massively interesting to write about, great to experience though. Sitting drinking mint tea in Cafe St Germain watching the sea. The sun is shining but I think that French general might be right when he called Morocco a cold country with a warm sun.
Now the major road trip par velo in this cold country. The plan is to go to a nature reserve called Lac Sidi Boughaba where there are lots of birdies. And a lake. I book a room at a hotel about 20km from Rabat - the lac is a further 15km. Travel advice from the locals (my colleagues in the Embassy) is not to cycle to this place, the road is dangerous. And there are druggies in the forest. Methinks they live a sheltered life in Casablanca and have never cycled in Rotherhithe. In fact they have never cycled anywhere - only poor people and loonies cycle here.
Come Saturday morning, rucksack packed, one change of clothes, boiled eggs and choccy bar for elevenses in case I get famished on the way (see Van Morrison, Avalon Sunset) I set off. Roads ok til I get to the only bridge across the estuary and it's got cars, lorries, trams on it. Yippee there's a bike lane. On to Sale and I start my long haul up the coast road. This dangerous road is a very well made up dual carriageway with not much traffic on it. And then, to my surprise, the surface changes to brand new tarmac and hardly any traffic at all. Then no traffic and just me on this brand new dual carriageway. Oh how I laugh thinking of what I was going to tell them in the office about this perilous road. Til I come to this:

The Talking Heads tune , "I'm on the road to nowhere" seems appropriate now. Who builds a bleedin' dual carriageway with a u turn at the dead end? I assume the family in the pink house declined to move.
Well I take a right into the field and make my way to a parallel road and continue in the same direction. This is a really nice ride through farms and countryside - narrow road but no traffic to speak of. Usual rural scenes of women driving cattle up the road, women digging in the fields and women carrying baskets of stuff. No doubt the chaps were doing the important things like coffee drinking, smoking and moustache growing.
Then there in the distance is what looks like a massive development of apartment blocks and new roads. And it is. I have arrived at the Plage des Nations deluxe residential development and golf resort. This is where my hotel is. I make my way past the bulldozers, empty apartment blocks and there, down by the beach (I had to go up onto the cliffs first) is my hotel. Or is it an electricity generating power station? Doesn't look too deluxe at all. I arrive to chorus of barking dogs that appear to live in holes in the cliffs. Not burrows or sets or holts - what do dogs live in? The guardien greets me from his sedentary position by the roadside. No point in getting up for a bike rider, he thinks. There'll be no tip for helping him park that. M le guardien does however keep pointing to my bike, showing his tooth in what is probably meant to be a grin and shouting "mercedes!". I take it he rather approves of my velo.
Arrange to leave my rucksack at the hotel, grab a mint tea and saddle up. The ever helpful guardien tells me it's about 16-17 km to the Lac but if I go along the beach (on foot I presume?) it's 4 or 5 km. I must remember that for tomorrow.
It's about 2km to the main road and this is a different proposition. It's a 3 lane road which is fatal for drivers in this and similarly road etiquette challenged countries in that they think it's 4 lanes. This means you can overtake whichever way you're going. So pleased I got a mountain bike, I can cycle along the unmade road at the side where all the pedestrians, horse carts  and 3 wheeler goods vans go. The roadside is buzzing all the way. Shops selling pots, tagines, plates, stone lions; lots of garden centres (called pepinieres, I discovered, after seeing about 50 and cleverly connecting the name)
There are also a lot of tailors dummies stationed by the side of the road. there's no indication what the shops/buildings by them might be offering. Nearly all the dummies are female and unclad but they have no heads. Please let me know if you have any ideas. I have discounted voodoo witchcraft emporiums.
First coffee stop at a garage. As I park the bike, I notice all the chaps at the tables staring at me. What's so odd about a grey haired man in shorts parking a bike in a remote garage in Morocco? A bit further on are some fruit stalls - I buy a kilo of satsumas for 5 dirhams (not quite 50p) I feel I should pay more.
Up and down several quite serious hills for a few more kms and I arrive at the lake. Lovely view from the top of the hill over the lake. can't see it all because it's 7 or km long itself. 2 young boys come and join me as I'm scanning the lake with my binox. They are more interested in the bike which they also  appear to approve of. No English or French and my Arabic is a few words only. So I chuck them a satsuma each and swoop down the hill to the lake. At the bottom is a road going - where? Turns out to be some bigwig's house. Who has a drive 3 km long? I did see more magpies in one place than I've ever seen before though.
There follows a long uphill, relatively unexciting cycle ride to the town of Mehdiya. A nice little town with a sea front made for surfers and tourists. I take lunch of an excellent tagine on a terrace overlooking the ocean. Genial!
On my way back, the unexciting ride is made terrifically exciting by the sight of a marsh harrier, a river cormorant and 2 big eagley type birds. Just a beginner in the twitching world, I am. 
The road home is long and my bum is sore. I stop to take piccies of local things - like this local taxi that ferries folk up and down the dirt road beside the highway.

Coffee time and I stop at the Cafe Nouvelle Generation. I imagine it was nouvelle some time ago. The proprietor is a welcoming fellow who stops to chat when he brings my coffee. Ah, le cyclisme, he opines. Then he tries out his English. I tell him I work in the British Embassy in Rabat. No worries about revealing that out here in the bush. His English is not bad at all but his topics of conversation are limited. Then, do I know anyone at the Belgian Embassy? No, says I. He moves away. Two mins later he is back with a piece of paper in French. It turns out his niece was refused a Belgian visa, can I help? Those dastardly Flems I say. I'll mention it if I meet one in Rabat.
It's a long road back to the hotel and I stop several times to view the scenery, try and get a pic of the nude dummies and eat satsumas (at different times) I think I discover an ancient Roman ruin of a loo

I had a jimmy in it anyway. And see my bike having a rest too. It uses the loo after me.
Continuing the rhyming slang, I had to climb a tommytucker of a hill just before the hotel. I'm kerry packered. In the hotel, I have a bath! First bath in years and it's wonderful. Just wish I could have a cold beer. Oh, I haven't mentioned the new year res - off the booze. 
I spend a pleasant evening reading my kindle, drinking an apple milkshake (I'm sure I didn't order that) and a good seafood supper.
The next day dawns and it's a walk along the beach before brekkies. Besides the fact that it has to be 10 km or more along the beach to the Lac (I followed it yesterday) it's soft sand. it would take a long, boring, painful time to walk to the Lac. I'm not going. Stupid guardien
Breakfast is not the best. Ever eaten rancid butter?
As I prepare to leave, it's spitting with rain. The guardien suggests I and mercedes wait til it stops. The intrepid traveller ignores this advice and sets off. Pretty soon it's pissing down, the wind is my face and it seems like I'm barely going forward. It's like being back in bloody Deal riding along the seafront. I am pleased when I arrive home having fallen off only once, having sopping wet clothes and sorest bum imaginable. Only one thing to do. Have a shower and a cuppa then out to buy all the ingredients for some chicken soup. Marvellous.
And a footnote. I joined a gym in Rabat recently which has been a new experience - even though I have joined many gyms in my time. UK gyms where they mollycoddle you so much there won't be any weights in them soon because lifting heavy things is dangerous. Chinese gyms where they couldn't give a rat's bottom what you do. French gyms (Paris mainly) which are full of poseurs and mirrors. As my scottish chum says (and he should know) "In Perris, gyms are for gay men!". So back to Rabat. Gym time is segregated - girls don't mix with boys. Fair enough. A headscarfed lady sits in reception and  looks menacingly at me when I turn up. It seems I am the only person who wears shorts in the gym - decadent or what. But most puzzling to me is the fact that I am the only person who undresses to have a shower. All the Moroccans wear at least their shreddies and sometimes vests as well. I'm talking about the men of course, I don't know about the girlies but judging by what they wear outside, they probably put another track suit on. The chaps even put their y fronts on under a towel like you do on the beach. It's a far cry from the changing rooms at Blackheath rugby club where you were quite likely to have your parts flicked by a towel, receive unwanted advances from an amorous prop forward or have beer chucked at you after you'd showered. Happy days.

Early morning rabbiting

My walk to work is quite an adventure sometimes. Not an Indiana Jones adventure or even a Peter Rabbit adventure but an adventure all the same.
This last week, it's been very cold - not North Pole cold (ok, enough of that cute little literary device) but cold enough for the good folk of Rabat to be swathed in duvet coats, scarves and hats. So I get quite a lot of sideways looks (and worse) as I stride down the boulevard in shorts and a cotton zip-up. Do any Moroccans own shorts? In the nearby park, all the walkers and joggers are bundled up in full shell suit, headscarf and hats whatever the weather.
So I'm negotiating the (laughingly named) pavements - they love putting in concealed steps, inclines and holes. Question: why are pavements so wide in Rabat? So that owners of effing great big 4 wheel drives can park them comfortably on said pavements.
As I stroll past the King's golf course which, although it is never used (his highness prefers jetskiing), is in pristine condition thanks to the small contingent of greenkeepers daily looking after the course. I wonder if HRH doesn't play because no one asks him. If I had his mobile no I'd see if he was up for a game sometime.
There are piles, nay mountains, of household rubbish all over the place (except around HRH property, of course). There seems to be one wheelie bin for a whole street. Consequently, the residents just chuck bags of rubbish next to the bin and, between the cats and scavengers, the contents of the bags find their way up and down the street. But here's the amazing part, it all gets cleaned up fairly regularly! Imagine our binmen picking up rubbish not only not in the right bin but not in a bleedin' bin at all!
Another adventurous walk to work. Well, a bit adventurous. 

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.