BRIIINNNNGGGG, BRIIINNNNGGGG- its the fucking rug squad- I know it is, who else would have this number. Well they can forget about it. And ffs I thought I left specific instruction with the concierge? Well Hammed an Co can be a persuavie bunch- Maybe the front desk all have got new rugs? Doubt it. Im not picking up, I know they wont go away- so clamber outta bed and dead lock the door. Under seige- how long can I hole up for? I scan for essentials- Ive 400 smokes, so no prob there- the mini bars fairly well stocked so im not going thirsty and theres a big fruit basket (admitedly a little worse for time and I dont really like fruit) but it'l do for a while. I roll back to sleep- woken peridocally by phone calls and knocks at the door.
Its 2.30pm. No calls or knocks now for over an hour. Im hungry, fruit wont do- fuck em, they aren't gona ruin my holiday, hey whats the worst they can do? Im leaving the building. Stick the head out the door and scan the Hall- no sign. This is ridiculous, what am I worried about- im a paying guest, they are hustlers in my hotel. Besides, with the depoist im losing on the carpet and the money I gave Hammed for driving me around they've had about £80 of me- thats plenty. Even so I goose step pretty sharpish toward the Lift then across the lobby.
Jump into a Taxi outside the hotel. 'To a restraunt please'- he doesnt speak English- great. I start making frantic feeding gestures toward my face- he looks more than a little puzzled. Hmm, what French do I know- not much. 'Bein A'la Carte?' I start rubbing my belly in circular motions- Hes really confused. We sit for a bit- me rubbing my belly, making feeding motions with an imaginary spoon- repeating 'Bein A'la Carte, Bein A'la Carte' in a Northern Irish accent. Finally he gets it- 'ahh Cafe?' He says- Oui Oui Merci. He laughs and starts the car.
Down Mohammed V Boulevard- (pretty much everyone and everything is called Mohammed in Morrocco- The Eskimo's have 40 different words for snow- The Morrocans seem to have one word for everything- mohammed). Were passing lots of what seem like perfectly acceptable eateries but still he keeps driving- ffs, what kind of hustle is this- see if i end up at a bloody rug shop again ill be sooo raged. Eventually we stop at what looks like a butchers. It is a butchers- u pick the meat u want from a glass fronted counter and they cook it for u- I see a dirty great sheeps brain :( I thank the driver and am really plesently surprised when he doesnt stick the hand in for the journey. No tourists here only Morrocans, the waiter directs me to a seat right in front of the raw meat counter- hmm, this is a little weird. I order a couple of cokes and ask for a menu- no menus. Its a case of telling him what I want from the meat counter and he doesnt speak English- melt. Hes an Affable chap tho. I point at half a cooked chicken- thats ok, then i point at a side of ribs- hes unsure what ive choose and starts tapping his body; 1st his kidneys, then his ribs, then his brain and his heart! Boke! No brains or hearts for me today pal- I point to my ribs. Tbh the whole exp would be enough to turn u vegetarian- but im hungry.
3 or 4 street hawkers come up to me while im waiting for my food- one wants to polish my white runners, another wants to sell me fake designer sunglasses or a watch (preferably both)- another couple just want cash. Im in no mood- im hungry and hung over, and besides wtf do I look like? A UN aid drop? An Eldery Down Syndrome Morrocan man emptys left over olives, bread and meat into a plastic carrier bag. I feel bad for him, but no-one else is taking any heed and besides he has one of the widest smiles Ive ever seen on anyone anywhere. The food arrives- Its just meat. well meat, olives, spices and bread. Its gets ate. Ive gorged out and feel a bit sick- ask for the bill, pay and walk away- 'Monsuier, Monsuier' I hear the waiter calling after me- he hands me my camera that'd i'd left behind. U know maybe these Morrocans arn't so bad.
Head up Mohammed V Boulevard- the city is buzzing- see a stop for an hop on hop off open top bus tour and decide to buy a ticket. Im buyin my ticket and the conductor says very matter of fact- 'The King'. I turn round to see a 6 deep motorcade of Black Mercedes go past- and the King of Morroco driving by in a style on Mercedes AMG Kompressor sports car. I wave- but he obviously doesnt see me. I wonder if he still has our strimmer.
Get on the Bus and make my way up to the top deck- its cold up here. Theres a headphone jack for some tour commentary so I plug in my mp3 player headphones- unfortunatly its faulty and my options seem to be limited to Spanish or Japanese. As we pull away I see a kid being apprehended by the police. It is cold up here so when the bus stops at the city Mosque/gardens I hop off.
Chanting comes from the Mosque, suddenly dawns im quite a long way from home. I make my way across the wide courtyard. Unsure if i'll go in- I'd quite like to, but dont think id be very welcome. Im gona take a look anyway. Outside the Mosque is an old beggar woman wrapped in white, rocking with her handout. God forgive me but her face looked as rough as arseholes. The years and the sand storms have not been paticularly kind to this old woman. I give her a few quid. Then they start appearing- Old women. From outta a bush and behind walls. 'Please' 'Please'- fucking hell this is kinda scary. They are desperate, and they look it. Bit Dawn of the Deadesque. Pulling at me pleading- 'Please, Please'. Luckyly I have plenty of change- I try to give something to all of them- but still more keep coming. Eventually I get away, but the desperation in their eyes shakes me.
I walk for miles. Ive no idea where im going or what im doing- I walk thro the gardens of the mosque, across roads, thro side streets. The colours, sounds and smells of Marakech are unfamiliar and at times overwhelming- still tho keep walking. Every 20min or so I'll stop and take a photo. Its getting dark when theres a dangerous rumble in my belly. Oh oh. I hope that meat wasn't bad, tho it could as easy be the booze from lnight. Ive gotta find a Taxi, I dont fancy using a public convience- or even one in a cafe for that matter.
In the taxi en route to the hotel- another rumble- this is becoming urgent. After what seems like an eternity we arrive- pay the man, bound up the steps when who's eye do I catch nursing a coke in the hotel lobby- Hammed. He jumps to his feet with open arms 'Nitan!' If this fuck trys to hug me- or even delays me- im gona be having a serious brown accident in a 5* lobby. 'I changed my mind about the rug Hammed and I have to go'. 'But Nitan'- he makes a reach for my arm- I back off and signal to the front desk- their coming over. 'No- in a raised voice- Hammed, I have to go'. Its amazing how ignorant u can be with a turtles head. I cant wait for the lift so start up the stairs.
Climb outta the bath and lie on the bed. Flick on the TV, a daft sexy sitcom in French- flick to Sky news. Some bastard has murdered all these women in England and has been setenanced to spend his natural life in Jail. What kind of animal would do that? I dunno, I dont want to know. TV off. Suddenly I start to feel quite alone. I decide to order a couple of skesh kebabs from room service- im not hungry, but I might be later and the restraunt is closing soon. Eventually the Kebabs arrive- beautifully presented on a dining cart with flowers. Feel even more alone. Consider ringing Sinead, but leave it. Guess these windows of loneliness are the pay off for the freedom of travelling alone. I make a concious decision to get over myself- pick at a kebab and pick up my book.
I bought 4 books in Dublin airport- Id been reading Joe O'Connors 'Secret life of the Irish Male', id liked it to begin with, he can be very dry and witty- and I really liked 'Desperado's', and the 'Salesman'. But cant help feeling in this book he's a little 2 up himself. Ive just read 20 pages of a Roddy Doyle inferiority complex and now hes starting into James Joyce and thoeries of Irish Idenity ZZZZZZZZZZ it does the trick and im asleep in 30min.
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