La Vague

With an empty 1.5 liter Ciel-brand water bottle, I pounded on the wall of my Taghazout apartment like a drunken madman for about half an hour this morning. In a sleepy stupor, I tried to out-play the bastard, but he would wait for me to tire, and begin again, quickening his pace, finding new angles for enhanced amplification; he was having a great fucking time of it. I will be truly insane with this chipping away at my sleep, this chiseling through the realm of my dreams.

Incessant and metallic pounding, has drilled into my room every day this week. The action commences precisely at eight in the morning and ends just past sundown, at six thirty. The first time, I thought it was the landlady pounding away, hounding me for cash- another ridiculous and almost equally aggravating scenario, I assure you.

It turns out that some poor asshole with a hammer and chisel toils away at the exterior stucco of the building. Remember hearing about Abu Ghraib- how they played music at all hours as a form of torture? Well this little fucker has elevated the game with his homage to Chinese water torture. It is a rhythmic, penetrating tapping- like pounding two rocks together. Hell, if you want to hear it, just pound a hammer on a cement floor.

Tonight, to recompose myself, I had a lovely dinner at my favorite restaurant. It is La Vague, a small French place with actual service, charming presentation and a semblance of atmosphere (the antithesis of every other establishment in town).

At dinner, I had my notebook, and I noted how it felt good there, forgetting the sounds of metal on rock. An attractive couple at a neighboring table seemed, tonight at least, ‘happy and in love.’ Three British young-professionals in dark cashmere sweaters bantered wittily at the table behind me- a nice contrast to the semi-vagrant, empty-eyed surfers and glaring locals.

The proprietress/waitress was cheerful and patient with my French, and her husband/chef, lovingly torched crème brulees in the open-air kitchen, while incongruously blasting Pink Floyd’s “Division Bell.” The owner’s child, a squat, curly-haired boy, of say, seven, spun around in the courtyard in front of us, enamoring us with a parody of traditional break-dance form.

It was pleasant. I gave them some Dirhams, and headed towards my favorite spot for internet, Café Auberge.

As I made my way down the dark and uneven ground towards the Café, I was met with a cold and ugly thing.

Death-shouts in French and Arabic. I heard the yelling while in the dark of the alley. I moved towards it. The scene began to emerge. Pedestrians slowly gave way to me, but seemed immobilized and listening, alert like prairie dogs.

Aftas outdoor restaurant was a brawl. A violent throng. Shouting and pushing. Women screaming ‘no’ and ‘stop it.’

They were intertwined in the form of a volcano. There were perhaps fifteen participants entangled in an unnatural high-five. Some were trying to restrain their friends while others wailed and clawed at each other over the sea of restraining arms.

Every other fight I have witnessed is a brief lashing out. This was a sustained battle. The front lines welled up into each other. The pace was sickeningly leisurely, like a car sliding slowly off the icy road.

Usually, there is the expectation that “authority” will step in. It’s “oh shit, the cops,” or “guys, guys, let’s go. We’re gonna get in trouble.” This battle raged in a central area, without fear of intervention. One lanky youth pulled out of the fight, removed his shirt, and casually rejoined.

I didn’t want to see it, oddly. Usually I like to see a fight. Maybe the morning hammer has chipped away at that place in me. It is always easy for me to talk about my affinity for anarchy, but to hold its arm and feel it pulsing in my hand is unsettling so soon after dinner. Tonight, I would prefer my anarchy at a distance, please.

In my last piece, I described the surfer’s hangout, Aftas Restaurant, and the “spell” of being here in Taghazout, and I included Fergle’s apparently premonitory statement that, people get “fucking pissed,” when the spell is broken. This night had always been there, it just needed time to hack its’ way into the open.

The local fishermen stood silently in entryways, with their standard weathered and judging visages. They make me think of certain old-timers I’ve met, the ones who shake their heads and mutter, ‘kids,’ or ‘it’s the drugs.’ Tonight, I imagine them frowning to each other, saying, ‘infidels,’ and ‘Anglais.’ 
Patrons stood transfixed in the entry of Café Auberge. They were like the flies I had watched gather in the blood of The Brit’s wounded toe. One of the French waitresses has a small black and white puppy. I play with her and let her bite my hand (the puppy). The waitress stood rigidly in the cafe entrance with her face twisted unnaturally, making a low, ‘uhh,’ sound. I turned from the clash, and squeezed past the entranced faces, making my way into the building.