Gnarly and Me – Day Six

I’m not posh, not by a long shot. In truth, I’m a scheme rat whose path has somehow has been laid to occasionally run alongside that of the privileged. I didn’t ask for it; I’m not the one laying the bricks. This weird fate of mine, though, has taught me to know how to behave when I’m in the company of those who are several classes above me on the social scale. Sometimes I revel in wreaking havoc with it, purposely saying things I don’t mean to shock and offend. At others I remember the lessons my cartoonishly strict Great Aunt Dolly taught me; speak when spoken to, hold the cutlery in properly and love the royal family.Of all the things I thought I’d be doing this week, falling into this guffawing hyper-polite mode was not one. Certainly it couldn’t be further from my mind when sitting in the shade of the Immourane Surf Club talking to its organisers. Brahim, an old Moroccan with a squashed face and wisps of grey hair escaping his ponytail, sands a kink out of the end of a board.

 

Nearby the lad who brought it in shivers in the shadows, worried that his mistake will cost him use of the equipment for the rest of the day. This charitable organisation gives those without the means a chance to get out into the ocean, and while the number of boards is finite, the number hoping to use them is not. Brahim deliberately ignores him in favour of talking to me (I guess as some kind of punishment for being careless) but hands it back when I point out the boys trembling jaw. The youngster then disappears quickly into the water like a liberated fish.
That he can enjoy such a service at all is only down to a piece of remarkable regal intervention. The local surf club had been trying to build a surf shack to house boards and equipment, and got as far as construction before classic local council bullshit ended it. One day, one of these surf-urchins was in the water when he met King Mohammed VI, who was jet-skiing at the time. As is the custom, he asked the youngster what he would like as a gift; the boy duly asked for the surf club to be rebuilt and through one of the King’s charities, it was done. More world leaders should jetski, they really should. I shoot the shit for a while longer before being picked up by J, owner of the surf camp in which I’m staying.
By chance his mother and two of her friends are also in town, visiting for the first time since he bought the place. As I’m keen to see nearby Agadir, I am to tag along with them for the rest of the day. They’re nice enough people – honestly they are – but they’re just so posh; half-insane, colonial, all teeth and horses. As a result, it’s actually quite an effort to be confident and self-deprecating without coming across as the thrice suspended, once expelled, once arrested, tattooed thief and scumbag I really am. Still, whatever combination I use seems to work as they buy me lunch – and almost certainly not out of charity.
The meal, though, is undoubtedly one of the strangest things I’ve ever eaten. My policy of quirky ordering in foreign lands over the past couple of years has yielded mixed results and this thing is pigeon pastilla definitely falls in the Gads-A-Fuck category. I order it on J’s recommendation and am greeted by what looks like a pastie with icing sugar on top. Inside, there are potatoes and spices and what I presume are pigeon bones. The whereabouts of the pigeon remain unknown. It is at least as disgusting as it sounds.
Post lunch we leave J to work and head to a souk. I warn my middle-aged polo playing pals before we go in: “Don’t be afraid to say no – don’t let your Britishness get in the way and there’s no obligation to buy anything.”
If they listen at all, they forget it within seconds. I’ve barely turned my back before one of them is holding a bag with a pair of shoes inside.
Me: “Did you haggle?”
The queen’s cousin: “No…”
Me: “Are they the right size?”
TQC: “Well I don’t know – I’m not even sure I wanted them.”
Thus it continues for the next half hour – total carnage. Rather than try to bail them out, I abandon the cause to take pictures of nothing in particular.

For me there’s nothing remarkable here – it’s the same people selling the same shit in the same way as you would find in, say, Muscat. And that’s a nine hour flight away. Still, witnessing this scene has at least helped me understand why the hawkers are the way they are; for every five stingy cynics like me, there’s an upper-class ATM.
A while later, we’re on top of the town, overlooking the city of Agadir from the hilltop Kasbah. Largely destroyed by an earthquake in 1960, Agadir was rebuilt in the spirit of package holidays and cruises and as a result is an ugly hotel haven. Even up here, it’s all pushy shysters and sad, demented camels.

I’ve no idea if my party are impressed by what they’ve seen – they don’t really seem all that fussed one way or the other. Given how much they rue Morocco’s failings compared to the glory of Old England, I’d say probably not. They invite me out to dinner, which I initially accept, but hours later, decline at the last minute. Instead, I opt to share some newly acquired beer and wine with my two teenage roommates. We talk about music and the world is right once more.