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Tagazhout alley

The Fixer

      Three dark flies have gathered on the wounded toe. There is talk about someone they call, “The Fixer,” but I am transfixed on the gore. The flies quiver slowly on the toe; they are fraternal and intoxicated with blood. 


Fergle- the Irish farmer/ internet freelancer gestures. He has smallish hands that are thick and weathered with broad, flat fingernails- his hands have become a little pair of work gloves.

“Being here is like living under a magic spell, and when you wake, you’re fucking pissed.”

Fergle has it right- there is an internal rhythmic shift when crashing waves are always audible.

The apartment is a three-level Swiss Family Robinson affair, with a large grape-like vine, spreading luxuriantly about the wall, a potential harbor for a multitude of African insects. We sit out on the open air deck.

The Brit is the one with the bloody toe. He always seems about to talk, but it is just his goddamned concave mouth. His teeth are so disjointed, his mouth always gasping or grimacing, that in profile, his mouth is a shark’s mouth, with several rows of emerging teeth.

I was a bit derisive last time I wrote about the “cool surfers,” and their attendant old man. I spent the weekend poisoned, in case anyone cares, but on Monday, feeling better, and with a renewed sense of narcissism (retching really tones your abs), I went out hoping to find this old man and befriend him.

I started with Vlad, and at his place, met his roommates: The Brit, and Fergle. From them, I was able to learn that The Fixer, was the old man I had referred to as a sort of ‘living Sword of Damocles.’

“He likes the odd requests,” says Fergle.

“He can get ya anything,” The Brit gushed.

The restaurant/café, Aftas, is the “scene.” It is three close tables with bench seating. This set-up is on one side of the street/walkway. The beach is behind the tables and benches, and the open-window to the cooking is on the side closest to town. 
Lauren is the curly-haired server from Ottawa- she wears uniquely Moroccan footwear, the Babush. Hers are too large and they are purple, and are the offspring of a basketball shoe and a purple slipper. Jeans that fit tight at the calf make her footwear the focal point of her outfit.

Proximity to the beach as well as placement in town thoroughfare, makes Aftas, as I mentioned, a natural tide pool for the surfer crowd. I was at the right place for this type of mission- and since Julie has requested more cetacean language: it was not long before this particular leviathan breached.

Less like a whale and more like a walrus responding to his training, The Fixer approached Aftas, and in a practiced way, converged upon the bench to my right. He began to produce objects: cigarettes, lighter, and walnut-sized hash tin emblazoned with the Union Jack.

For those readers active in the world of Moroccan hashish, please forgive my naïve interest. I am intrigued by unfamiliar rituals, and, in addition, I innately cherish almost any open defiance of draconian laws, monarchic states, or authority in general.

First, the hash- it reminded me of a chunk of tan-colored landscaping bark. With his lighter, he lit a corner of the block, softening it so that he could squeeze off a nugget between his yellowed fingernails. Then, he tucked away the cube and began to work the removed piece into a ball. When the little mass was ready, he rolled it into a rather flat, imperfect worm of muddy-burnt clay. Soon he had ripped the filter off of a cigarette, opened the cigarette, and removed the tobacco.

A surfer in a dark coat and dark glasses was passing through the street behind us with his head down. He suddenly stopped. He intuitively turned, fumbled in his pocket, and handed The Fixer a rolling paper. Unsurprised by the fortuitous timing, The Fixer nodded in acknowledgement and received the gift. The tobacco was emptied into this paper and the withered clay snake was placed on top. He surgically enclosed the contents in the paper, and began to smoke.

A pumpkin-Thai soup was brought out to him in a yellow ceramic bowl. He casually smoked and consumed his soup, he began to talk. This reminded me of, in a diminuitive sense, the way I picture Hunter S. Thompson- the way he was described as holding court in his Owl Creek kitchen or at Woody’s. Hunter was constantly in motion: rolling a joint, cutting a line, pouring a drink, smoking a joint, taking a line, taking a drink, and repeat, all while conversing engagingly.

The Fixer was on my right smoking, eating his soup, and beginning to assemble another joint. Across from us was a deaf and mentally-handicapped Moroccan in classic beige mumu, miming oddly at us with the inward-folded lips of a toothless mouth and sipping a café au lait. Fergle, Vlad and The Brit had joined us, and I sipped on a kiwi-orange-ginger smoothie and listened as The Fixer imparted some local happenings to us.

“New cop in town. Don’t take bribes. Fella tries to give him 3000 Dirhams, he locks him up- sending a message. Another guy, fella selling Spanish wine out of his apartment. Had it stacked so you could only just open the door. “I take out light bulb,” the guy says to me. They’d load up a truck in Spain, bribe the border guy so they didn’t pay duty. New cop got him in for six months. Sending a message.

If I was a dope dealer, I’d introduce myself, tell him I used to deal, and let him know that I was thinking about it again. Tell him, someone’s going to do it. Might as well be someone you know.”

“Weet-Weet! Weet-Weet!”

The roasted nut vendor leaned into our table and began placing samples of glazed and roasted nuts in front of us. We all tried to avoid eye contact. The Fixer said something in harsh Berber and the man left. We sat in silence a moment, the spell broken.

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.

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.