A three-year-old runs around the departure lounge leaving a trail of cooing adults in his wake. At one point he knocks my bottle of water over, but like everyone else I can’t help but smile at his complete disregard for the universe.
After a while, his mother calls him over. She’s been spending time talking to another parent whose own toddling daughter stands nearby. This little girl offers the little boy one of her crisps. He takes it, then puts his arm around her and gives her a peck on the cheek by way of thanks. The majority of their audience collectively thinks “aww” but the boy’s mother isn’t happy; she grabs him by the arm and chastises him sternly.
This suppression of even the most innocent affection is something I most certainly will not miss about the Middle East . Now flying eight hours due west, I’m hopeful that it things won’t be quite so miserable in Morocco
Transferring from Casablanca
I’m dropped off at the top of a dusty, rocky ridge that slopes down suddenly between buildings. I look at the driver. He tells me in French to go down the slope, through the alley, turn to the right, get to the beach, turn left and I’ll find the place I’m supposed to be staying. I look down at the alley again, dubious, but by the time I turn to ask him if he’s sure about my route, he’s already back in the car.
Slipping and sliding, I just about manage to keep my feet, dragging my utterly impractical Executive Travel Case behind me. When I get to the shore, sure enough the place is there, and although it’s not exactly what I’d expected (a hostel more than anything) it’s a nice change.
I dump my bags, talk awkwardly to a couple of the guys who work there, then head into the village. Stupid with fatigue, I get some lunch outside near a couple of reeking fish stalls, then head back to pick up my camera. I take some shots of local kids in the bay as they play around on broken boards, in damaged wetsuits.
These, I find out later, are all hand-me-downs from visitors and the various surf camps in the area. Some of the kids are genuinely talented; perhaps they’ll be able to use these skills to get ahead in life, like Brazilians with football. Although I think my snapping has gone unnoticed, the moment I try to move away, the kids come charging out of the water, demanding to know what the pictures look like, and then that I take a group shot of them posing. Something about it reminds me of City of God
When I get back in, I’m awash with sleep. Night-flights and I don’t get on and with nothing much to do until dinner, I decide to take a nap on my bunk bed. No one else is in the room, so I drift off to a weird light sleep, full of dreams and the sound of the ocean…
I’m ripped awake by the loud arrival of two gigantic New York Long Island , they’re both 6’5”, comfortably over 20 stone and in this tiny room, with only the creaking bunk beds to sleep on, they look utterly ridiculous.
Through some awkward chatter, I learn that they’ve been travelling through Morocco
Sometime later, I find myself sitting beside them for dinner on the hostel’s roof-top terrace. We’re surrounded by about a dozen or so other drifters, holiday-makers and couples, all of them surfers.
The brothers’ incessant grumbling about tagine finally comes to an end when mounds of spaghetti bolognaise are presented in front of them. One, though, can only manage a couple of mouthfuls before retreating to bed with stomach cramps – the final revenge of the tagine.
Quickly, everyone settles into a rhythm of drinking. Two of the couples (both English) are going home tomorrow and intend to bow out with the typical refined grace for which the Englishman abroad is so renowned. A group of Frenchmen quickly leave for a night at the casino back in Agadir, but everyone else – Americans, Canadians, Kiwis, Brits – drink hard and fast.
Taghazout is a dry town, so this place operates an honesty sheet to keep a tally of how much of their cash-and-carry haul you get through. For my part, that’s six beers and two whiskies, which I presume are free because an English chick opened the bottle, making it almost certainly her debt.
The booze does little other than ease the burning shame I have for these international tits rolling around, singing to bad music and dancing like electrified pricks. With his brother gone, it’s just me and Blaster . It’s tough work and I soon find myself joining the crowd by ignoring him. Instead I talk to two gnarly dudes from the east coast of the US Baltimore Delaware
“Fucking hell – Delaware
“Shit, dude, I dunno. Why do you think I’m here?”
“It sounds like a budget tool depot.”
This he likes, so much so he hands me a joint. I consider smoking for a second, before passing it on to Blaster. While it’s tempting, the thought of my trademark hacking and inevitable cross-table puke puts me off.
Blaster, though, takes one drag and – to the horror of Bill and Ted – passes it on round the table. When an irritating Canadian chick hogs it, one of them makes what must be a massive effort to get up and retrieve the slavered stump. I hang around for a bit longer, but when the Moroccan chef has his mint tea spiked with vodka, I decide to hit the hay.
Zangief seems to be asleep when I get in, making no sound when I sneak into my impossibly noisy bunk. I immediately fall unconscious, only to be awoken an indeterminate amount of time later by the return of Blaster. He struggles up to the top bunk above Zangief, who if he wasn’t sleeping before, certainly isn’t now.
Zangief: “Much going on up there man?”
Blaster: “Nah, a lot of stupid girls, playing shitty music.”
Zangief: “Ah OK, didn’t miss much though?”
Blaster: “Not really. Those girls were getting all stupid and shit – I definitely could have got laid, but I just wasn’t that into it.”
Zangief: “Shit, yeah.”
I lie there in the dark, considering the colossal lie; no one spoke to him apart from me. Just as I’m drifting off once more, it occurs to me that he might actually believe it. What if they both do? What if I’m sharing this tiny room with two colossal fucking retards?