Garbage Day

“Garbage day today,” says Vladimir the German.

The truck aggressively overshoots its’ stop, nearly plowing through the outdoor table. I hold the black and white kitten, “Smushi,” and listen as the ‘cool surfers’ talk about surfing in a cool, hardcore way.

“About time,” I reply, sipping my café au lait.

Vladimir bummed a ride from Mystery Beach, with Darkah and I last weekend- that is how we met. He introduced me to the Berber family that became my landlords. So he is pretty much my new best friend.

Vlad, as I may start calling him, is early-forties, bald, always smoking, and is hoping to buy goat skins while here in Morocco. Apparently his son has several pictures of Hindu deities in his room, and would like to place goat skins on the wall as a sort of offering. Makes sense.

Another bald man at the table is brazenly lighting a joint and talking about how we should surf Panorama Beach today: glassy, perfect curling lip, etc. His face has devolved into a display case of sorts where he shows off the years of hard drinking, smoking, drugs and sun.

He wears those circular earrings that go inside the earlobe, stretching it out, and making a little window. The holes in this man’s ears are held open by black, rubbery, bottle-cap sized implements. Without the ear fashion statement, he would look like any Parisian drunk you will find, crouching on or near the quays. Instead of looking like a typical degenerate, his ear adornments bestow a tentative handhold- one last claim on youthfulness- he is, after all, here, in Tagazhout.

There is an invisible thread looped through the holes in his ears and it simultaneously keeps him from the precipice- for just a moment more, and holds him out as a warning to this hard-living, younger crowd. He is Tagazhout’s Sword of Damocles, hanging over the excessive lives of the surfer youth. Watch out- when he falls on you, you become him. In this way, his presence is imposed on the ‘cool-surfer’ crowd.

I wander back towards my apartment, taking pictures. The streets look like the cement-mixer operator was told to, ‘just have a good time.’ The streets are actually not streets, but winding, nameless alleys. The houses are marked only by a number affixed to the door. The door though is what gives this town character.

Each brightly colored door is either intricately patterned or interestingly warped, or both. So if you can envision a winding, rubble strewn path contrasted with flares of pastel limes, bananas, tangerines and teals, you can see how a short walk evolves into a photographic binge.



Then I got high.



Remember garbage day?

I naively thought I would be able to upload my pictures onto my computer, and take a look before I went surfing. Hell, I had woken up early, and I had the day ahead of me.

A lovely breeze rolled in with the crashing waves below my open-air sitting area. I lounged for an instant with my computer, reviewing pictures.

That’s when they started burning garbage.

I kept thinking the fumes would move on. I edited photos for two hours in the midst of a town-wide smoke-session.

Right now, my right eye is swollen, and the entire right side of my head hurts, and I’m pretty sure I stood on the ledge of my balcony and at one point during the prayer call yelled,

“Get off the mic!”

The muezzin is shit here, though.

If the muezzin in Agadir sounded like he was trying to attract a passing pod of humpbacks, the guy here moans in profound agony- I don’t even think this man’s antics have a base in religion.

From his performances so far, I have discerned this much: He yearns to be a hunted whale. His fantasy is that he is exhausted and panting from being chased and as he comes up for air, he sees he is caught: a Norwegian whaling boat is upon him and all the robust sailors stand ready with their harpoons.

There may be a rotation- Vlad swears that last week he heard a different speaker. He said the man quietly intoned,

“I like underage Asian girls. There. Okay?”

“No. Do it again, Hasim.”

It would be better if there was a rotation. They could have a different muezzin each day, and each day the guest host must confess their sexual fantasy publicly, and in this way, alleviating their need to act on it.

I suppose I seem insensitive to Islam. All I want is a little more performance value- mix it up: give us a story, give us a beat, give us a report on the surf.

Or maybe just remember this, Arabic countries:

If you burn trash and call prayers at the same time, I can’t be held responsible.

Door 53

My new home in Tagazhout, Morocco:

I had the pleasure of negotiating with a Berber woman and her daughter. 

Thanks to Couchsurfing, I met Darkah. Thanks to her, I met Vladimir. Thanks to him, I met the family that rented me this place. It doesn't look like much, but it is a two bedroom oceanfront apartment all to myself. I paid about four-hundred fifty US dollars.

Here are my friends in front of Panorama Beach- yeah, that's right, I have cool Moroccan friends, and we take pictures of each other by the beaches we surf together at. Suck it, old friends:

Did I mention this is essentially where I live now?

I'll let you know how the month progresses, and don't worry- there is an interesting confluence of traditional Berber fisherman mixed with European surf-hippies- should keep things plenty interesting. We'll see how they like me.

TIP: When negotiating in Arabic, one strategy is to act confused and uncomprehending when they mention prices (not for those with limited time).

Au Revoir Agadir or One Last Pop

This is a typical evening in Agadir- but only if you're a local. If you're like me, an American male, traveling solo, who unwittingly booked a room at the homoerotic epicenter of Morocco, then you can not even stand hunched by the fountain. Instead, your nights are spent reading cowering in your room, avoiding the advances of Tanner. I must thank the man, he gave me a great window into a dense jungle that the light of my imagination had never before seen. See my last post, and you, too, will be similarly enriched or disturbed or disappointed, depending on you.

So why didn't I get the hell out?

In fact, I did. Tanner came back for 'one last pop.'

I am never, as a rule, supposed to interact with other humans before ten o'clock in the morning. I was up at nine, meeting Darkah for a second round of surfing, I needed to check out/ pack up. So.

I said, 'bonsoir' to greet the waiter at breakfast. Clearly the wrong thing to say at nine in the morning. He smiled and laughed. So when he brought me my food, I gave him another 'bonsoir,' and a thumbs-up. He gave me food and a winning smile.

After setting down my dish, he said some French words, of which I comprehended the term, 'avocat'- lawyer. My current French results in an absurdist landscape of interaction, which, reflecting on it, I rather like. I enjoy the, like I said, absurdity, of a nonsequential wasteland of : and, how, good, if. The avocat comment was a gift that I enjoyed trying to connect to the situation and in the end, I just enjoyed the fact that it was morning, I said 'good night,' and he said, 'lawyer.'

Problem with breakfast:

As I sat relishing the exchange I had just had with the waiter....
                                          "It's Tanner..."
I have changed the guy's name, but it sounds damn close to that. I managed to extricate myself and got myself fairly painlessly to my room. All that guy does is complain.

As I packed quickly, a knock on the door....
                                        "It's Tanner..."

I let the guy in. He just wanted one last pop. One last crack on the back. I gave it to him. I didn't take one I'll have you know. Instead, I snapped a photo of him from my balcony. I did it real covert-like, too- through the slats of the wooden sliding door. Enjoy:

TIP: If you get a male whore in Morocco, just give him the money.

Calling Darkah

I am looking for a place to just hole up for a month and do some writing. In this current introspective state, it takes a certain amount of effort to accomplish any small task that involves interacting with the people. Today I needed to do two things: extend my stay at the Hotel Sindibad, and call Darkah.

The Hotel Sindibad guy gave me a thumbs up, so I guess that means I can stay again for the same rate. I haven’t deposited a credit card, there has been no receipt, nothing. It makes me a little wary because I want to make sure I have the price I that I signed up for (150 dh/night=about $15.00). The hotel is probably on the pricey side, but the maids are great here.

Yesterday, I did my laundry in the shower and hung it to dry on the balcony, pretty sloppily, really. My technique was to throw all the clothes on the shower floor, shampoo my hair and wash my body, with the idea that the clothes would get their initial cleaning that way. From there I washed each individual item and rinsed it, and hung it over the shower-curtain-bar. When I returned to my room that evening, all of the clothes I had left haphazardly strewn on the balcony had been put neatly on hangers. I appreciated that- it must’ve taken the cleaner an extra fifteen minutes.

I hate using pay phones, but I had to get in contact with Darkah. She is a local that I connected with through Couchsurfing.com. If you don’t know what that is, well, it’s a website- basically she said she would be available to take me surfing this weekend: just waves, not couch. My strategy was to use a phone for free at a store.

What ensued was a scene at a cell phone shop where my minimal French skills, under pressure, became non-existent. The store owner brought out fifteen different cell phones, naming the brand for each: “Sam-soong, al jay, No-kya, al jay, Samsoong,” (Samsung, LG, Nokia). At the end of this display, I managed to convey that I needed to think about it, but in the meantime, I wanted to try out a phone to call a local friend in Tagazhout (Tagah-zoot). See, I already knew that probably none of the phones she had shown me could make the call, but that she would let me use her personal cell phone to make the call. Darkah answered,

“Oui?”

I introduced myself, and she said that she was working and that I needed to call her back in a couple of hours. I realized it may have been easier to use a pay phone. And two hours later, I knew it was.

TIP#1: If you absolutely have no access to a pay phone
pretend to want to buy a cell phone and get the store
worker to do it for you.
TIP #2: If you go to Agadir or similar, just go and find
lodging once you arrive. Or, get lodging for the
first night, then part of your first day's
acclimation will involve negotiating a price for
a room- remember- it is all negotiable here.

TIP#3: If you are not comfortable with couchsurfing, at the
very least, use it as a resource- contact hosts at
your destination, and ask where to stay, etc. They
are all happy to help, responsive, and have their
respective teeth clamped at the jugular of the city.


I retreated to the nearby restaurant for lunch. A nice table facing the square, the place to myself, enough shade to see the screen on my computer- I anticipated, having mostly accomplished my two main human interactions for the day, a productive and introspective day of writing. What happens next is a sporadically recurring segment we will call FUNNY SCENE, and it will absolutely not be typed in Final Draft, and will, just for today, absolutely be starring YOU:


HURTING TANNER

Day. Ext. Moroccan Café looking out over square. Locals bustle about. Stray kittens seem to multiply by the second. YOU are alone, and sit typing.
MAN IN RED SWEATSHIRT: “Deutsch?”

YOU are typing and just finishing your second café au lait.

YOU (guardedly): “No. Canada- Vancouver.”
MIRS: “No. America.”

YOU take off your glasses and repeat the lie.

YOU(firmly) : Vancouver.

YOU see no recognition in MIRS’ eyes.

YOU: Vancouver- Winter Olympics?
MIRS: Yes, yes.

YOU try not to stare at the man’s left ear- completely covered in a white bandage.
He is mid-fifties, wears several silver chains. He wears a tomato-red, hooded sweatshirt that says, “NIKE.”
His bleached hair is gelled and spiked.

YOU: My last name is German.
MIRS: Ahh, yes! We have plenty of that name in my village.

MIRS takes a seat opposite you. He waves frenetically at the waiter.

MIRS: Coca! Please. Cold one.

MIRS reaches into his pocket and takes out a small leather pouch.

MIRS: Silver- you must buy silver here.

YOU look politely and make admiring, appreciative noises as he extracts
a thin silver bracelet accompanied by a matching necklace.

MIRS: Guess how much.

YOU hesitate, not wanting to undercut the price-
The jewelry look cheap and too lightweight to be something YOU would want.

YOU: 500 Dirhams
MIRS: 200!

MIRS opens his mouth and widens his eyes in his version of a triumphant look.
MIRS: Ahh. But you cannot trust these people.

YOU nod somberly. The WAITER, a slender and mustachioed man in dark clothes brings MIRS his Coca-cola
and opens it in the lifeless way of a man who serves European tourists for a living.

MIRS: See this? I had a boy and he hit me with a bottle.

YOU continue to nod, widening your eyes to imply shock at the violence.
MIRS pauses his tale and says,

MIRS: I’m TANNER.

YOU give him your name and he continues, briefly acknowledging YOU.

TANNER: It used to be, you come here a boy says 150
Dirham, it’s 150, that’s it.

YOU were not expecting him to be gay, and YOU were certainly not expecting him to
spout a hard-times whoring-story. Still, YOU appreciate and are fascinated by this odd man who
is so willing to share this insight into so many topics YOU have never known:
-Homosexuality
-Living in Germany
-Living in Morocco
-Prostitution

And a wholly new topic that emerges out of all of this:

Perils Faced by a Gay-German While Whoring in Morocco

TANNER: This boy, he has blue eyes- you never see blue
eyes here.

TANNER brings his loosely clenched fist close to his face. He looks lovingly at his hand, inhales and shudders, thinking of the boy.
A beggar enters, holding out his hand towards TANNER, lowing something, clearly looking for money.
TANNER snaps around to the man, holds up a finger and makes a tsk-tsk noise while shaking his head ‘no.’

TANNER: I offer the boy some vodka, you should never give

these boys alcohol. And after we are finish. He
asks for more.
I say, ‘easy, easy.’

TANNER’s FLASHBACK TO HOTEL ROOM:

INT: seedy hotel in AGADIR. A tanned and wrinkled old German, TANNER, stands nude, and is wiping himself off with a towel.
TANNER is not alone.
BY the bathroom vanity, a boy of, say, 21, ALI- male prostitute, fills the plastic hotel cup with vodka, drinks, repeats.

TANNER: That’s enough, now.
ALI: ees okay, ees okay.
TANNER: Enough.

TANNER fastens the towel around his waist and walks to the boy, pausing to admire him.
ALI ignores him and pours the last of the vodka into the cup and downs it.
ALI: 450 Dirhams
TANNER: It was 150
ALI: 450.

TANNER puts his hands on his hips, juts out his pelvis in defiance and shakes his head ‘no.’

BOOM!

ALI smashes vodka bottle on counter and holds it menacingly at TANNER’s throat.
TANNER: Don’t you-

ALI and TANNER struggle and TANNER is hit in the back of the head and the top of his earlobe is cut.
The boy searches and finds TANNER’s wallet, pockets it and leaves, dropping the bottle as he exits.
TANNER wakes in a pool of his blood the next day and staggers downstairs.

INT. AM- TANNER’s FLASHBACK CONT.:

Hotel Mohammed Breakfast Nook. Stray Moroccan cats mix freely with the diners,
patrolling both the restaurant and kitchen. We see TANNER alone at a table by the window.
He looks like he jumped ship before the whaling boat could finish its processing.
The HOTEL PROPRIETOR, ASSAN, approaches as TANNER calmly eats breakfast.

ASSAN: Five meen-uhts!

TANNER is moving slowly today. He nods at ASSAN and eats on.

ASSAN: There was a prob-leem wit boy las night.
You go. Five meen-uhts.
TANNER: I have all of my things, and-
ASSAN: You lookee like you try eat the boy
TANNER: I was-
ASSAN: I don’t GEEVE a fuck. FIVE meen-uhts.

We see TANNER rush from the table, not paying. ASSAN has his arms folded to imply that he knows a good area in the town for dumping body or two.

END TANNER’s FLASHBACK

YOU are still at Moroccan Café, nodding along at the recounting. During the story,
YOU have picked up a grey kitten with white paws. It is not skittish like the older ones.

TANNER: So I end up here, Hotel Sindibad.
YOU: Unbelievable. Wow.
TANNER: I not come here anymore. I change my ticket,
go home early.
Old days, I have three boys, one cooks, one cleans, one
with me, then they switch.
Mmm! In those days, 150 Dirhams means 150 Dirhams.

YOU have nothing to say to this, and look at the kitten who has groomed it’s lower abdomen with so
much saliva that the brown in the fur is accentuated and is so wet YOU think the cat has shit itself on your leg.
YOU set the cat down and try and get some information pertinent to your journey.
YOU: Is there anywhere in Morocco that is better? Or
Africa? I’m looking for a
good, but cheap place to write and be warm. Maybe
stay awhile.
TANNER: Nah! All Africa is bad people- they bad in their
blut.
YOU: Tanzania? I-
TANNER: Nah! Can’t trust ‘em. Bad blut.

YOU flag down the waiter and pay for TANNER’s Coca-cola- he gave YOU a story after all.
Also, YOU like the German word, ‘blut’- more direct and urgent than the soft, drawn-out sound of ‘blood.’

YOU: I appreciate your stopping by. We’ll catch up. I have

to call my friend for surfing.

EXT: local square, payphone in front of Moroccan version of convenience store.

We see YOU getting change from a shop keeper,
buying a Coca-cola, and sipping it while using a pay phone successfully. YOU
manage to make contact with and set up a surfing date for tomorrow.
It is a small victory for YOU. YOU hate payphones and do not trust them.

INT: Lobby, Hotel Sindibad. Evening.

YOU enter with a slight, victorious swagger, having arranged, without difficulty,
to surf tomorrow with a local girl you met via Couchsurfing.com
TANNER is there on the couch. YOU sit and take out your
Laptop, hoping for a signal.

YOU: I am going surfing tomorrow with a local girl.
TANNER: Girl? Ahh. You will have to pay money.

He motions across the room to the man at the hotel reception desk, and says,

TANNER: Local girl. He pays money, yes?

The man behind the desk gives him a ‘go fuck yourself’ shrug.
YOU are waiting to see if you can get an internet connection.
A GREY HAIRED MAN sits on the other side of TANNER- it is a
TANNER sandwich.

GHM: Internet es NO GUT

Man behind the desk looks up.
GHM gestures at him.

GHM:Do some-ting.

YOU see your computer has connected-

YOU: it works tonight!
GHM: Ahh. Must be de weather. No gut.
TANNER: she’ll want money, this girl. They all do here.
YOU: look, this is couchsurfing.com.
TANNER: can I see this?

YOU look over at the computer. TANNER notices and holds it up for YOU to see.

TANNER: On this all the time.

The website YOU see:

GAYROMEO.COM.

YOU are astounded by this man’s audacity, and
YOU have no choice but to let him
do some homoerotic online chatting while
YOU write in your notebook a bit.
Thankfully the internet service fades back out, and
YOU head to your room. TANNER is just down the hall.

INT, hotel room, night:

There are two beds in the room, outside we hear Moroccans cheering for a soccer game
At a bar across the square, and we hear little kids playing: squeals, laughs, running about,
perhaps they are chasing the stray cats.

YOU settle into your bed and begin typing while finishing your coke.

A knock.

YOU ignore it.

Another knock.

YOU hear a voice outside-

VOICE: It’s TANNER...

YOU get up slowly and open the door, standing in the threshold.

TANNER: may I come in.

HE enters and begins taking off his jacket.

TANNER: I need your help with something.
My back is hurt from the bottle.
Can you?

TANNER folds his arms across his chest to demonstrate.
YOU wonder if somehow asked for this by being polite.

YOU: I should crack your back?
TANNER: I do it to you first.

TANNER gets behind YOU and your back opens nicely,
pops all down the line of the spine.

TANNER: You like?

YOU nod, as he readies himself.
YOU get behind him and lift him- he keeps his body tensed.
YOU go again. It is almost like he is tensing on purpose.
What does he want YOU to offer him a back rub and a blow-job
to ease his pain?

Probably.

Obviously.

YOU try again.
His back pops.
TANNER: YOU did it!
I asked a big strong man to do this
Just yesterday, and he could not.
How many kilos you weigh.
YOU: Look. I don’t know kilos, I am 195 pounds, but..
TANNER: ahh. I think it is 83 kilos. How old.
YOU: 27. And
TANNER: YOU have your whole life ahead of YOU, and
At thirty, YOU get second wind.
YOU: I could use it.
TANNER: Already YOU could use second wind?

TANNER looks invitingly.

YOU: I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to finish my

writing.

TANNER quickly picks up his jacket.

TANNER: YOU want me to go?
YOU nod.
YOU: I have to finish. I’m sorry.
TANNER: Okay. Later?

YOU nod and he retreats into the dark hallway.

English Pub Morocco

I’m typing this at a blue, plastic colored table (second picture above) at the Restaurant Ibtissam in Agadir, Morocco. Someone knife me and take my laptop- I dare you. I am travelling alone, so I shouldn’t be too hard to get. If there is a hint of bitterness in my voice, it is because I had a little Moroccan tourist greeting.

Oh, there goes the muezzin- it is calming to me- like listening to recordings of humpback whales singing underwater on their way to Hawaii.

Last night I made the mistake of going to English Pub (20 Aout street). It had been a long night- I had been on a mission to find the internet, and had spent about four hours catching up on emails at the Ramada where I sat in the lobby undisturbed. It seemed like at ten o’clock, as I was leaving, my options for food might be limited, so I went to the English Pub across the street.

The place was packed with Europeans and some leather- jacketed locals. If you walk in there, you are immediately assaulted with karaoke- the place advertises karaoke every night- and that is not a good thing. The novelty of American music sung by French tourists and local Moroccan divas had worn off before my beer arrived (see first picture).

I ordered fish and chips- and I am always mildly impressed with fish and chips British style where they deep fry an entire fillet instead of the American fish-nugget interpretation; the presentation is just that much better. In short, the food was expensive and bland, the atmosphere felt seedy and the fact that I was there seemed enough to make me an enemy of the Moroccan people.

The opening bars of “Hotel California” came on. A thickly accented version of the song ensued. I had never paid much attention to the lyrics, but they became something new and transmogrified with the combined effect of the man singing and the television screens displaying and highlighting each word.

“Welcome to de hotel Calee-forn-eea….Pletee ah room….Muhr-seedys-benz,” and the insinuation of, “Wakey you up in de middle of de night..”
I only had one beer but the place had shoved me roughly into an introverted state:
“ Maybe I should stop drinking while in Morocco, it’s the place to do it…eat healthy and cheaply too.”
And reflecting deeply on international affairs:
“This is why the Muslim world hates the west.
“How would I like it if I were one of the locals working there?”

Until outside on the street:

“Sleep with me!”
A soft arm grabbed me around the waist. She was not unattractive, a little chubby for my taste, but I heard that prostitution is illegal here, and besides, I have standards, ‘I’m not into that,’ et cetera, et cetera.
“No. I have to go.”
“Takee to bed! Pleese!” She had brown smiling eyes. She seemed intelligent, not really dressed like a prostitute, but maybe they have to be covert here?
I extricated myself and walked away.
“Hey.”
Two Moroccan men were approaching me. They were slender in the way that lifelong smokers are sometimes slender.
“You furs time een Morocco?” I nodded.
“Let me see yur bagh.” I was taken off guard by this. But I loosened a strap from my bright orange backpack and let him see it.
“There you go.” He zipped it closed. It became apparent that I had almost lost my computer.
“Welcome to Morocco.” I tried to stammer Merci, but was still stunned, and awkwardly said another ‘Merci’ and quickly hailed a cab.

TIPS:
-Don’t go to touristy pubs in Morocco
-If you go to touristy pubs in Morocco, don’t have your laptop in a backpack
-If you have your laptop in a backpack, carry the bag, don’t wear it
-If you wear a backpack on your back , don’t talk to anyone
EXPLANATION of STRATEGY:

What’s that you say? Why did I bring a laptop at all? Well, it is a small and relatively inexpensive netbook, and I am prepared to possibly lose it, but I am trying to avoid that. As far as internet cafes, I was in Paris five years ago typing an email to my little sister, and the Nigerian next to me had a porn clip on a loop and was beginning to pant a little. I can do it, but I don’t have to yet. So go to hell.

QUESTIONS FOR YOU:

So I am sitting at this restaurant and looking at a menu and I am seeing words like:
-osso-bucco
-escalope
-tagine
Does anyone recommend any of these things? Let me know. Thanks for chatting.