me and my boy syncing with/despite bleating horns and the shouts of the wild boys

Sahara Desert Solitaire

kattingolartut

I've coached everywhere I've been.

I had a great team once.

Starting Five

Joey K

Junior K

David R

Eddie R

Douglas A

Joey (6’, 165 lbs.) was my best player.  He was undoubtedly one of the best players on the entire North Slope that year.  He was aggressive.   He was ferocious.  He was unrelenting.  But mainly he was violent and angry.  I sensed the simmering violence in most of the males in the community - they’re warriors - but Joey’s brand was roiling, more intense – quiet, viscous, final, scalding.  His committed and poetic drives to the basket were a challenge to any motherfucker that wanted to get in his way.  Step in for a charge, and run the risk of getting charged yourself.  By a snorting bull.  Maybe later – outside.  No referee.  That’s where he wanted opponents. He told me to fuck off once.  I had to make a decision.  I let it go.  In class, I could sometimes catch him “reading” with his book upside down.  I let that go too. He would nod at me warily, contemplatively sizing me up.  He might even say something cheeky like, “Good book.”   Overall though, I think we had a fairly respectful relationship.  I was a pretty youthful and idealistic first year teacher, and could play ball better than any teacher he had ever seen.  Joey was cool.  Really.  Spine-crushingly cool.  I could see it.  He had it.  Very physically talented, all the standards – speed and strength and athletic, like liquid…that could drain through any defense, a natural wonder.  All the boys in the school were both petrified and in awe of him.  It was like having a head inmate calling the shots from the inside and handling discipline.   If this community was still nomadic, Joey would be leading the hunting parties and claiming the best woman as his own.  In a static community, Joey’s physicality found an outlet on the court.  And with this savage on the floor, we could contend with anybody.

Joey was the coach’s son.  I should explain that I only served as an interim coach for a six week chunk of season while Tuukak (pronounced two cock) was cruising Hawaii on government money – an extended conference trip.  The Eskimos get a lot of money thrown at them.   I was only a month+ flash in the pan: a heroic grease fire I like to think.  But I did hold the reins during a demanding mid-winter chunk of the schedule, representing at three away tournaments in other villages – plane rides.  Yeah, TwoCock had a firm grip on his team, as well as the community.  Think TwoCock was the alpha male of the village?  He was.  Bigger, more aggressive, higher functioning, employed, more cock: he ruled unopposed.  Joey had been passed the alpha torch…cock – the torchcock. He was Threecock.  There was some rebellious legend about 2 Cock throwing his shoes off and dangling them someplace high and unreachable within the school during his own student days. In a strict shoes-only zone I guess.  TooCock had another son: JR.  He was the closest thing I had to a post player.

Junior was the beefiest player I had on the team.  (5’10’’ and 185 lbs.)  He was carved from the mold of ol’ Double Penis, cut of the same foreskin - baby penis.  Junior/Senior in full effect.  Meaning he was thickset then, but the future belly overhang was inevitable. I worked so hard to get him to play with his back to the basket, when he so desperately wanted to shoot jumpers and drive improbably to the basket like far-more-talented big bro Joey. He grabbed some big rebounds, but his talent was in put-backs, throwing in easy ones from the paint where his frame could greedily monopolize and grow roots.  I really liked Junior.  Saying he was soft-spoken is a bit redundant within the very nonverbal Inupiat community, but that’s what he was: a big soft-spoken bear of a kid – tough as hell, but sweet as an Eskimo doughnut. (To the politically correct: the Eskimos are not offended by the term Eskimo.  I always used “Inupiat” when I was there, not working up the guts till the end of my time there to ask students and other locals  if “Eskimo” offends, and they all laughed and said no.  The majority were also pro offshore drilling, claiming herds of caribou would pass right under pipelines, unfettered.  They didn’t want protester interference.  They wanted money.  And to round out my knowledge on the subject: the term “Inuit” refers to language.)  Jr. had a real sincerity.  I remembering waiting for him to turn in a vocabulary test: you remember: spelling, definition, part of speech, use in a sentence…sometimes you gots to go old school. He was blatantly stalling, all other tests in a pile on my desk, waiting for an opportunity to pull out his crib sheet. I know that vocabulary tests are incredibly tempting for students to cheat on (a real pitfall of rote learning), I myself once taped answers to the inside tongue of my Pony Spud Webb high tops.

I said, “Junior, you’re cheating.  Every time I look away.” 

He replied in the typically drawn out and elongated monotone, “Not now.  Later.”  Completely deadpan.  Not trying for irony or humor. I had to deal with the tension between the brothers often; they were not friends and they rarely communicated, but the pressure hung around the gym like an over-inflated ball ready to pop (kind of a cheap simile – sorry – my foul).  I actually had two sets of brothers on the starting five, not so remarkable a demographic when you consider this isolated island village, north of mainland Alaska, population 300, only sported seven different last names.  Ruby had a different last name.

She was Junior’s girlfriend.  A couple years younger, she delighted in destroying my 8^th grade English class.  She was so awful to me.  So pissed off.  Smart too.  She acted aloof, but it was camouflage (she knew her way around a rifle as well): she watched and listened for any chance to trip me up, then riled the other knuckleheads (Jules?  Levi?  Oh shit) into a distracting chaos, while smugly sitting back and smirking at the successful sabotage she set in motion. When I came back the second year, Junior and Ruby were parents – a baby girl added to the mix.  Two-Cock was now an aapa.  Mystery of the pissed off middle-schooler solved: she had been pregnant.  And scared.  Ruby had (at least) two cousins: David and Eddie.

David was my three point bomber, and he arrogantly liked to shoot well beyond the three point line.  A real hot shot.  He could get “off,” but when he was streaking it was game over.  He hit four or five in a row numerous times while I was at the helm.  David was hip-hop.  Most of the village boys were heavily affected by hip-hop: attitude, drug of choice, slang, style: sagging jeans, tilted straight bills, headphones, NBA jerseys, FUBU, etc. – but David was a gangster.  Too cool to ever have a conversation with the tuniq (white man) teacher, his intelligence came through anyway in his writing and general demeanor.  David was a bit limited on the hardwood by his height (5’ 3’’) and his ego.  He didn’t often run the risk of going inside and having his shot blocked or fully committing to defense.  I always thought he would have been an amazing ice hockey player with his stature, aggressiveness, athleticism and dedication to sport - all these boys really.  I could have fielded an all-world hockey team up there.   But basketball was it.  They had a half-ass coed volleyball season and the Native Olympics (jumping events/strength exhibitions/pain endurance), but basketball was the cultural obsession. Outside recreation was seriously thwarted by permafrost, but I could have had ice.  I was always a bit embarrassed because David saw me get

“scoped,” which is the term you use for someone that positions their eye too close to the telescopic sight on a rifle when firing, and comes away with a black eye.  School hadn’t even started out yet, and I was out with my roommate (fellow educator) and a few high school kids shooting a high-powered sniper rifle into the Beaufort Sea.  My roommate was a Desert Storm veteran with a wealth of firearms, and a proclivity for saying things like, “I haven’t killed anybody in a long time.”  I got goaded into participating, with very little instruction I might add, and the recoil blasted me into nausea and left a humiliating shiner.  First day of school, 8:00 a.m., and  I’m making my introductions to bunch of crack shots and accomplished big-game hunters with a fucking black eye.  David’s brother

Eddie was in that first period class.  (5’6’’, 145 lbs.) He differed from the other boys because he didn’t give a shit about basketball; he was not a gym rat, preferring to cruise around on his snow machine. But he was able-bodied and athletic, so he played.  That’s just how it was/is.  The community demanded it.  Eddie had an amazing talent for steals and causing turnovers, and that’s all I asked of him.  Literally.  I told him not to do anything else.  He lacked fundamentals but he was quick, cunning, physical and had a belligerent aggression that was ruthless.  He was a thief.  But his real genius was in the understanding and respect he had for his role.  And that is why I am writing about this team; that’s where this experience surpasses my other coaching gigs.  It wasn’t a team.  It was a tribe.  These boys were so close, mostly related, that they didn’t even really talk to each other.  They were beyond that.  And it translated on the court to a mature confinement of roles, as if they were surviving on the tundra during a blizzard – efficiently wringing their respective aptitudes into the talent pool: leader Joey with his scoring prowess and acceptance of being the primary offensive “go-to” player, Junior with the grunt work of being the “inside” presence and intimidator, David with the long-range shooting and Eddie the turnover king and defensive specialist.  The experience of coaching these guys was a large contributor towards supporting the loony rationale of spending two years north of the Arctic Circle. 

I went up there because I was broke.  By the time I had finished getting a teaching degree/certificate, I was $30,000 in debt to the federal government and various credit card companies.  I was missing payments and getting persistently harassed by truly sadistic creditors with malicious intentions.  I could barely feed myself and my mental stability was slipping.  I went to the Portland, Oregon Professional Educator Fair and walked right past all the brightly decorated kiosks of top school district multimedia firework displays of superior quality of life and smiling groomed representatives talking teacher student ratio and cross curricular planning interactive student-centered high technological pedagogical bullshit and found the sad lonely desk of the North Slope of Alaska tucked away in a corner.  There had a photocopied A4 map of Alaska with an X marking the spot and a pay scale – the highest in the United States. A ten minute interview, followed by another ten on the phone with the current principal, and I was an employee of the North Slope Borough School District. 

Douglas (5'10'', 150 lbs.) was my 5^th man, the odd man (out), in a lot of ways.  He was polite.  He was respectful. He was academic-minded.  He was generous.  He was serious.  He was selfless and solid.  And gentle.  Moderately damaged, domestically.  He wasn’t a talented basketball player and he didn’t fulfill an established role, except in not having a defined role.  And I think that the intangibility of his contribution, beyond what I’m willing to contemplate, might have been our X factor – our edge. Doug provided me with the best moment I had in my entire two years:  he had speed, the quickest coast-to-coast wheels on the team.  He couldn’t hit a jump shot or dribble with his left hand, but if he could get to a defender’s hip, then he was already by. And he could make a lay-up.  I constantly urged him to use his gift and contribute offensively, but the killer instinct was hard to arouse - till the late rounds of the prestigious Wainwright tournament.  I knew we needed more offensive firepower, and I had huddled with him privately multiple times before the semi, and like to think I inspired him.  Or scared him with my intensity - I probably cried a bit. The tears just come.  Regardless, he committed.  He would begin his mad dash from as far out as the three point line, head down, arcing towards the basket with very little variation or creativity.  He was just so damn fast defenders couldn’t set their feet in time to obstruct him.  He scored 20+ in the semi and the final, and earned All-Tournament Team.  It was special.  Douglas invited me to be

part of his family’s whaling crew the following September, a rare honor for a tuniq I was told.  I had all kinds of adventures up there including blizzards and polar bears and dog sled teams and the Brooks Range and things you’d expect from the Arctic.  I have a lot of respect for the culture I got to witness and the people I lived with.

Qujannamiik.

canary tramp

“Sometimes the Wind Can Sound Like a Waterfall”

you begin your ascent according to script

and for the right reason

somewhere between exercise and as an exercise

and

wisely, with no end goal, you’ve absorbed the Greats

“Be Here Now,” Bhagavan Das, mental floss

satisfied with breath with step with rice without the special sauce

until you heard it

roaring

you spun your azimuth

pursued the long hand

and exposed yourself lengthwise

soft underbelly

comp-ass

because

We All Want Something Beautiful

Steps be-labored now

past the point
of damaged return

false summits

disorientation

And

you got slapped with an indifferent and stinging gust

because you refused to acknowledge

that sometimes

the wind can sound like a waterfall

 

Paradise Valley

We hiked in Paradise Valley the other day, down Taghazout way.  Yeah, yeah, it’s cool: cascading pools, smooth sunny slabs, jumping opportunities, palm trees – an oasis ripe with canyoning and freshwater-soaking lizard-like hedonism. 

But it was the French family that was memorable.

With some difficulty (unsure footing/pregnant Josie), we had navigated the river to an in-between sanctum for picnicking and solo dipping.  Upriver a ways was the far point (river mysteriously burrowing below ground beyond), the deepest pool with established jumping spots and naturally terraced rock sprouting lunching tourist groups like uninspired mushrooms.  Heading downriver the flow petered to a shallow lack of possibility.

We thought we would be alone.

Big sister was the head of the septuplepede worming athletically up the banks.  Aptly.  Even from a distance, her beauty was obvious: tall, tanned, fit, elegantly nimble, brunette – mesmerizingly and shockingly clad in teeny yellow bikini, flash running shoes, and aviator shades.  Only.  In conservative Morocco?  Hackles.  Wariness.  Paternal-like concern. 

The other six were a blurry fringe, hushed tones out-watted-and-witted by the blinding and brilliant canary hue foreground.  Peripheral consciousness picked up a wealth of trailing exposed skin and familial ties, but little else.  

They kept coming. 

Conscious of her age, and her family behind, I tried to avert my stare, but it was a traffic accident, impossible not to gawk.  They were coming right up on us.  More hackles.  Would they respect spacing?  We were peacefully solitaire, and fiercely protective of that bubble, a cache of facial expressions and body posture set to register irritation, mystification and resentment on the ready.  I held off on cocking the trigger.  Why not have a closer look?

They broke rank and stride ever so slightly, informally huddling on the move.  Hyper-aware, my feelers exact, I confidently (and correctly) surmised they were discussing destination, while also being spurred to simultaneous realization that we were planted right  in front of what might be considered a moderately high launching point into the river for the cautious – or to the family of mixed abilities and mettle. 

We must have appeared very much the content couple in love, spread out on our India blanket over elaborate lunchables with romantic drippings, obviously reveling in our earned and isolated situation.  

They barged.  And this is what I loved about them.  They set up shop in front of us, within a meter, essentially blotting out the river and our entire agenda - endlessly jumping and screaming and splashing and cheering and cajoling and laughing and photographing.  Their boldness titillated me.  We barely warranted a glance, and certainly not consideration.  Maybe there was a highly evolved feeling-out process conducted out of my stratosphere.  Maybe there was a head nod.  But I don’t think so.

Collectively, they gave no fucks.

Big sister had a friend – a family friend.  Same outfit, different colored bikini.  If big sister was a 10 (and she certainly was), the friend was a 9.  These two are friends and high school teammates on some sort of running squad – either track & field or cross country, maybe both: they were definitely mid-distance to distance runners.  I know.  I could tell from their bodies, their rapport, their behavior, their particular athleticism – hell, their entire essence.  I know.  (Later, on the hike out, I watched them act out their runner mentality by choosing to run, with a runner’s efficiency, the steep climb to the parking lot.  Further bolstering my assuredness: they put on running shorts over their bikini bottoms when they reached the car.  Considering their brazenness, I’m sure this was only to avoid burning their upper hamstrings on hot upholstery.  Yes, I was watching closely, but our proximity was merely coincidence.  I swear.)

These two were so confident.  There was virtually no teenage insecurity present.  It wasn’t that they carried themselves like far more mature women, they carried themselves like some other species.  Aliens.  It was as if they existed outside the realm of normal human uncertainty.  I don’t think they considered for one single second how inappropriately dressed they were for this sporting endeavor, not to mention (till now) for this country, where women swim in full burka. But that was their magic.  They didn’t strut and they weren’t arrogant.  They weren’t stupid, vapid, ignorant, or uneducated.  I didn’t find them culturally insensitive or insulting.   They existed on their own plane.  A higher order.  A foreign thought process at work. 

I feel I should further address their attractiveness.  Honor the reality.  Tip my hat.  Fall to my knees.  I would like to narrow my focus to the purely aesthetic, but I’m not going to.  Let your imagination run wild.  Astounding.  Fully mature bodies, before the onset of any mature imperfections.  Crushingly pretty but not prissy. The kind of beauty that is as salty as it is sweet, just as capable of arousing anxiety, paranoia and regret as pleasure.  They’re pain inflictors.  Now…

quietly, in the back of my mind this morning, as I work my way through this experience, I’ve been debating on the necessity of some type of disclaimer regarding this sketchy subject material.  I vowed to not do it, but I’m chickening out: I would put the age of these girls around 16.  I can imagine them in Driver’s Education class.  Despite my goings-on about the exquisiteness of these two, I want you to understand my platonic observations and cravings.  The mental self-gratification I allowed myself in Paradise Valley was a clinical and premeditated exercise.  I got caught up in the idea of how I would have felt about these two when I was 16.  I tried to see them that way.   Yearning was what I experienced.  I just wanted to be around them (not now, 16 year-old Adam).  I wanted to “hang out.” I hankered for interaction.  I wanted face time.  I wanted ATTENTION.   It reminded me of standing outside the house of Pam Hamilton in the middle of the night, and getting off just on knowing she was behind that window sleeping.  I guess that was close enough.  It wasn’t sexual then (I was a late bloomer).  It wasn’t sexual this time.  AND, speaking of self-gratification, I have married a woman so beautiful, so fucking hot, that I find myself no longer capable of even keeping a stable of fantasy women or situations.  The barn door is permanently propped open.  The ol’ right hand has been made redundant.  Anyways…

the girls were really joyful in a non-cheesy way.  But they were being cheesy: tandem jumps, egging each other on, too much I Phone documentation, incessant giggling.  And this phenomenon, and all the other contradictions, is what I think I’ve been trying to mine the last few hours.  They were somehow so delightful, so good-natured, so beautiful, that they were afforded some kind of pass.  All day, in every arena, they transcended all their flaws. I spent the afternoon completely consumed by their appetite for joy and for life.  I wanted to inhale them. 

I meant to tell you about the rest of this amazing family:

-the much younger and fearless brother with the deep and smoky resonating voice that echoed through the canyon all afternoon, despite being “shushed” four thousand times

-the attractive mom, who kept peeking and exposing her breasts to check tan lines

-the smiley dad, snapping pictures with endless patience, seemingly blind to the parading half-naked troupe he was traveling with

-unremarkable little sister, gracefully unfazed by her unremarkableness

(-an aunt/sister I really didn’t examine),

 

but I am feeling the need now to mine some visceral activity. 

 

silence

Lefty

(Dear reader: Going to take you back a few months for a previously-written piece: we were living in Greece and had a good friend worthy of documenting.  Please suffer me the footnotes; I was reading The Pale King at the time.) (Also, we decided to make an exception and allow for a few photographs.)(Also, it is written in the rarely-used 2nd person.  I have no explanation for this.)

 

 

Lefty is the first person you meet, again, upon disembarking. [1]  In fact, he is the first person you see while still in the cargo holding area, as ropes are tied off and bridge is lowered.  In fact, this is the second time this holds true – one year ago, same time, same place, same story.  This is the first inkling of a sensation that you will be in bed with for the duration of your stay.  You only and initially half-wonder if it is possible to feel plagued by it, and lazily contemplate if it would be right to be indeed plagued by it, but you know yourself well enough to understand that it will actually be comforting. 

You quickly gather that Lefty likes the company of a pretty girl, and you hunch that he would just be another village face if it weren’t for the girl on your arm, and you would not be thinking about him and his offer of a ride at all, but instead focusing your attention on the dire situation of being dropped off at a port at 3:30 in the morning with no visible means of transporting to the village beyond an overpriced taxi and a front to your sense of frugality, as well as a blow to your self-perceived  travel-wise wit.   And you’re alright with that.  You think, “Use what you got.” [2] You hypothesize that Lefty likes what being seen in public with an attractive foreigner can do for him socially – for his image. 

Lefty is in pole position when it comes to picking off tourists new to town.  He meets every boat and plane that docks or lands to pick up mail for the post office as well as large parcels you gather is going to some kind of seafood wholesaler or middleman (you learn later that you were correct), evident in the scenario where halfway to the village he realizes he forgot a box of fish on the ferry and you listen to him mutter “Moto Bellini” [3]  in increasingly agitated tones as he wheels around recklessly and races back to the port only to see the lights of the ferry pulling away and the escalating “Moto Bellini’s” become sort of aggressive and you will simultaneously feel guilty and amused by his antics and wonder if it wasn’t the possibility of giving your girl a lift into town that distracted him from his responsibilities.  You are also relieved that you are not riding in the open-air cab of the pickup like the nameless and mainly faceless dude that is traveling back there ping-ponging between cab window and boxes, probably holding on for dear life but downplaying the severity of the situation as a means of preserving dignity. [4]  Your girl translates for you that yes, Lefty will indeed be in some level of trouble with a multitude of taverna owners that will not have fresh fish options until the next boat, though you remember all the wild-haired and crusty fisherman in the village from the last trip, and surely something can be worked out?  He responds directly to you: “Is no problem,” giving you most everything of what you need to gauge his rate of English comprehension and speaking ability. [5]

Lefty goes on to outline [6] his pickup schedule (consisting of mainly early mornings) and the reasons behind his decision to give up the portside café he operated (owned?)(because business was too slow in the long and unprofitable winters that see the island mostly devoid of tourists off-season and the café was only open anyway for a brief chunk of time before, during, and after each scheduled ferry drop-off/pick-up). 

Only the name “Stefano” is discernible, peppering the otherwise wall of noise Greek that Lefty spits, as you drop out entirely from the exchange, instead electing to look inwards, alternating maddeningly between three foggy and disjointed (due to your inability to get any sleep on the ferry as you don’t have that particular talent for catching naps while in the process of being transported) interior monologues [7] as well as working against allowing too much of your weight to press against the suspect closing/locking abilities of Lefty’s truck door on careening left turns. [8] It is explained that Stefano is another “friend” of Lefty’s that is in or coming soon to the village. It is not made clear whether he was also re-routed into Lefty’s favor at the port or came into his life another way.  But you are forced to reexamine your snap judgment and rat-tat-tat machine-gun labeling of Lefty as “the dirty old man,” and consider the possibility that is was a bit premature to be so dramatically shooting your girl “that look,” a variation on the eye roll featuring an emotively complex wide-eyed triage of dismay, disbelief and frustration (then, the roll), intending to drag Lefty’s motivations through the mud, assuming Stefano is a man’s name. 

And sure enough, later that very evening, after checking into “Poppi’s hotel for the night (a long-term rental in the works but not yet finalized) and accomplishing little else  beyond a hyper-extended siesta, you find yourself at dinner with all the before-mentioned characters and are served the realization (and your first of many tzatzikis) that Stefano is indeed a man, and you are now charmed by Lefty’s honest and transparent intentions, and realize that social-climbing was just a projection from your own psyche, and you further realize that Lefty simply likes the company of a pretty girl (and who doesn’t?), and probably any other tourist, man or woman, that he finds interesting, though as not to flatter yourself.

Stefano is a baby-faced 27-year-old Nordic cargo pilot from Holland, and was intercepted at the airport by Lefty on one of his “runs” a couple years back.  Using his obvious airline perks and generous schedule of intensive long hour workweek chunks followed by weeks off at a time, Stefano spends time on the island a few times a year.  An early observation of yours: Lefty’s guileless thirst for visitor/tourist company plus Stefano’s youth, immediately apparent agreeable nature and good humor make them a well-suited pair.  Your perceptiveness is rewarded when you learn that not only does Stefano fully immerse in the Lefty lifestyle when here, a sort of “Lefty Fantasy Camp” comprised of a full buffet of activities from the sedentary cafe/taverna crawling (up to five different ones in a day!) to the foraging for culinary delights in the hills - snail/mushroom/saffron, but he also now stays with Lefty in his traditional home, escalating their relationship, in your mind, and with all things considered, to more of a kidnapping. 

Like any animal, you accurately and efficiently size up Stefano’s threat to your mate in the first three seconds he was clear in your line of vision. [9]  He’s a kid.  An innocent.  He's wearing pink.  He's pudgy. You wonder how he could possibly have the training/education and flight hours to be a working pilot, but you don’t ponder on this thought for too long for fear of thinking like the old person that you have become.  You delight in indulging the old man’s role and status as the “connector,” bringing the exotic together for a meal on this far-flung island.  Lefty is visibly excited about this pairing of guests and the dizzying array of possible conversation topics, sometimes sitting back in his chair, detached from the conversation, and wallowing in what he has assembled.  And like Lefty says, the kid does have an easy and broad smile – “He always happy,” to which the kid can’t help demonstrating. Over a burnt platter of grilled fish, he even shares some pilot humor, and you laugh over-enthusiastically, recognizing the sound as an audible stamp on the warm sweet spot of your early buzz.

“How do you know when there is a pilot in the room?”

“He’ll tell you.” [10]

Stefano [11] does up the ante a bit however, when you get comfortable enough to rib him a little about his incessant tap tap tapping on his technological device only half hidden below the table line.  He informs you that he is arranging a reunion/rendezvous with a stewardess from Olympic Airlines, thereby fulfilling not exactly a fantasy, but a queasy hunch about pilot/stewardess relations.  In addition, he will proudly share a picture he snapped on said device, presumably from his seat in the cockpit, of an attractive air hostess scandalously hiking her skirt up to reveal a sexy garter belt, exploding your imagination as to what else goes on behind those curtains.

Up to that point, you had considered Stefano an almost asexual being, owing to previously described attitude, style of dress, and that fact that you hadn’t caught him even once eyeing your girl, even while she was scantily clad in short-shorts and thin, cleaving-baring linen top.   But now you are forced to consider the possibility that he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, if he is indeed pulling a racy chick like the pixelated beauty he shared.  But your jealousy bone is massaged again by the gelled hair, trendy Euro sneakers and soft physique of your limp rival, and you happily stuff another sardine into your mouth.  And with Lefty [12] now radiating grandfatherly vibes, you scold yourself for suspecting sexually devious motives from the old man.  The whole plate of fish was grilled too long and burnt and at one point in the evening the proprietor of the joint, without being spoken to or prompted, yells “Speak Greek!” at you from across the room, but you are happy to be there.

---

[1] Ferry language.

[2] Technically, what she’s got, but as you two are together, a team of sorts…

[3] Certainly a curse word (phrase), which gets put on your agonizingly slow-growing short list of work-in-progress Greek vocabulary.  It is clear that this is one which will stick, owing to the vividness and weirdness of the situation.

[4] Unless that is just your way, and he could give a damn about being seen to struggle, or more probable, he has traveled in the back of so many pick-ups that he has pared the art down to its most efficient and effortless core.

[5] This, in no way, is a shot at Lefty’s language capabilities, as you are the worst offender you know when it comes to living/visiting in/a foreign country and never achieving beyond basic survival _________ (insert language here), going as far as living in Guatemala for three years and not becoming fluent in what most consider a fairly simple language to pick up (I refer to Spanish here of course).  Furthermore, you were so bad that you were unwillingly entered into a “Worst Spanish Speaker” contest within your local expat community and placed third (meaning third worst), and you felt you were actually second (meaning second worst) or maybe had even been the victor, but instead two other guys scored higher (or lower),  probably being given the honor only because they were even better established goofballs than you, and would take the honor less personally and with a better sense of humor – better party fodder in other words.

[6] The reader can assume in situations like this, that you are receiving all this information second-hand, through your girl’s translation abilities.  The author apologizes for the assumption that “Is no problem,” would be enough to establish the fact that Lefty’s English capabilities equip him with the ability to recognize key vocabulary aiding in general comprehension and simple responses, but in no way give him (and therefore the two of you) the ability to discuss higher order concepts or specifics of any kind.

[7]

A) “Listen close to the Greek being spoken. Try and learn by using context clues and the like.”
B) “You will never learn this way.  Why don’t you have a textbook or some other kind of aid?  Why are you so unprepared?”
C) “Have you really put yourself in this position again?  Imagine all the time you are going to spend outside of any given conversation trying to force a look on your face that expresses interest and contentment  and not the reality of soul-crushing tedium.”

[8] The three characters here are all riding in the front seat of Lefty’s truck.  The small rear backseat area, the kind where seats can be folded down, is full of things you would imagine in a truck of this type, in a place like this, and being driven by a man like this: buckets, rope, fishing gear, old boxes, empty cigarette packs, liquids (?), hoses/tubing, tools, and so on.  The main protagonist’s girl is sitting in the middle, somewhat uncomfortably, as she has to contort, or at least raise left buttock, every time Lefty shifts gears.  The protagonist only slightly wonders if a feel is being copped each time this happens, and figures the least he can do is to get over far right on projected gear changes so that the girl can avoid probing hands if she should so desire, though this does put the protagonist smashed up against previously mentioned suspect door, illuminating a bit of a Catch-22, or at least a no-win situation.

[9] Should be noted that this was not only from behind (not even a full facial profile), but with the majority of his body obscured by high taverna wall (you could tell from just the visible sliver of left, puffy, cherub cheek that he sported a paunch that was even then butting up against the cheap, plastic Greek table).  Further bolstering your confidence was the beaming, innocent (bordering on naïve) and obviously non-threatening smile that lit your path to the table like a lighthouse tractor beam.   The effeminate fringe of his pink shirt collar poking out from Abercrombie-type sweatshirt (of which you knew your girl would not be impressed with, style-wise) was almost overkill, draping you with so much comfort and ease that you started to feel a bit soft, to the point that you almost started to crave a challenge, but stopped short of letting that idea fully blossom, and instead were thinking  something like, “Okay, let’s eat some squid and drink some fucking ouzo!” by the time introductions were officially made.

[10] Not to belabor a point, but this self-effacing humor even further relaxes you.

[11] Not his real name.  Upon introductions, “Stefano,” corrects you (and Lefty) with his actual name, of which I cannot honestly recall at the time of writing, but by then, it was of course too late.  Stefano.

[12] Also not his real name.  When first re-introduced by your girl at the port, you tried to employ a memory device to avoid just this type of confusion.  The memory device was this: his first name sounded like two first names put together: Left(y) + ________.  But it didn’t take.  You struggle all night (and earlier during the ride), pausing, stuck before each address: Leftarnold?  Leftandrew?  Leftalan?  Eventually you give up, and go with Lefty, gauging his reaction for perceived signs of insult or disrespect, but find none.  You feel somewhat silly, like maybe you are at too mature of an age to use such a “cutesy” nickname, or that maybe you’re level-stepping this relationship to already have gone to a term of endearment, and that maybe there is some cultural line you are overstepping, but “Lefty” seems to be responding without being charmed or visibly disgusted, so you go with it.  You also realize you have become your mother, and have now fully surrendered to her habit of mangling names of people and places to something more memorable to her (most famously attaching the typically Jewish suffix, berg, for whatever reason, to the surname “Green” of a couple that your parents were trying to buy a house from in the original move from Ohio to Florida.  The sale was a lengthy procedure, giving her many opportunities to marinate her creation in the nucleus of the immediate family unit, rewarding her with the sought after groan/laughter combination and becoming the stuff of lore) – a habit you were secretly amused and touched by, but feigned disgust in the typical complexities of parent/child dynamics.



 

A More Direct and Literal Comment on Expatriaton: a discourse on conspicuousness and invisibility through which the yo-yo effect is illustrated

The other day we had to go to the doctor.  J had to have a series of blood tests to determine whether pregnancy has inspired diabetes in her system, as per instructions from our doctor in Casablanca.

 

As Casablanca is a three hour drive and full of potential hazards (reference the “tout” series of posts), not to mention the discernible perils of urbanity, we researched and settled on an Essaouira institution to jab J in the vein. The clinic is on the “outside,” town proper (locals-only), and I took time to assess and take stock of my general level of comfort as we made our way towards the medina walls:

 

I generally oscillate between the sensations of feeling invisible and feeling conspicuous in foreign countries.  Rarely am I totally relaxed.  I’m not blended in.  I’m not absorbed. I’m not intermingling.  I’m on the outside. I have to always contend with my “presence.”  And that often makes me feel invisible or conspicuous – polarized.

 

Invisibility and conspicuousness are two sides of the same coin, only the coin is spinning so fast, purely positive or negative connotations get blurred.  It’s mish-mash.  My brain.  Six weeks ago there were far fewer tourists in the medina; it just wasn’t high season yet.  We got way too much attention: merchants, stall owners, beggars, drug dealers and restaurateurs were funneling desperation and aggression down our throats like a stale and heavy flow of cascading Old Milwaukee beer through a three-story beer bong. We were turning heads.  We were being overly-noticed. We were choking on our own brand.  It was suffocating.  I started making excuses to stay in.  I questioned my choices.  Decisions were debated. The light at the end of this tunnel was dim.  Muted. This is conspicuousness in its worst form. 

 

 

After all this time, I still haven’t learned how to lay the needle in a groove of proactive mood resuscitation.  I just have to skip for a while, warped and undulating.  I don’t make a conscious effort because I always do recover.  I trust my instincts.  It’s learned apathy; I let my frame of mind right itself – “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down” - they always right themselves.  It doesn’t take much: a kind word or act from a local, a great meal, an adventure, a stunning visual, a random thought, a look, a moment – it only takes a moment.  And it always comes.  Chemicals shift, and then I am high, and happy to be conspicuous. I am getting off on the uniqueness of my situation, relishing in the same headspace that was eating me alive only seconds before.  I’m hovering weightless above the status quo.  I’m the fucking King of the World, transforming these exotic circumstances into my plaything – a child’s toy.

 

Invisibility is just as dizzying.  I crave it in moments of conspicuousness.  I want to be unremarkable.  Typical.  I have that now.  If I go out to buy a liter of milk, I won’t draw that much attention as there are other tourists to dilute my presence.  I can focus on the actual doing or experiencing of something rather than theories or ideas (lifted from dictionary definition of practicality - fittingly).   Anxiety dissipates in the wind, the current of company blowing gale force.  Power in numbers.  Repetition soothes nerves as well.  We get less and less visible when we wind well-trod paths.  As I don the same long sleeve oxford shirt yet again for night-time medina carousing, I contemplate this reflex as premeditated, as to become more recognizable and therefore more invisible.  I bought this Chinese-made shirt of glorious nondescript nature to further supplement my disappearance ($2).  But then, I hate being invisible too.  It’s not that a “tipping point” gets reached, like I become so invisible that I crave attention and want to be “special” again.  It’s a whole other thing:  I am out of place here = not local with a long-term investment in the place, so I become invisible.  I am a “mark” at best, not to be fully considered by people living real lives all around me.  This is not being seen, different from invisible, but the same.  I’m a ghost.  And far from home.

 

 

 

The walk to the clinic is depressing.  Outside of the medina is less traditional, newer, filthier, filled with the exhaust of traffic and honking taxis.  It’s slum-like.  I’m low.  We’re sized up, curiosity intense, yet stand-offish.  Polarized.  Fear is present as well – health and the well-being of an unborn is at stake.  Are we crazy?  It’s apparent when we step into the bare-bones clinic that our white faces are not an everyday occurrence, and I’m awash with doubts – I’ll bet I was mildly shaking my head to the evil rhythm of dark thoughts.  Their conspicuous stares were a shamanic guide, directing me inwards to forcibly explore this massive feat of irresponsibility and decadence. 

 

And then everything worked out fine.  Better than fine.  Like it always does. 

 

We rule.

Who's at da beach?

The lounge chair/umbrella guardiens.  That's who.  I'm a devoted people watcher; these guys are "the show." When "on point," they position at the waist-high wall that separates sand and boardwalk.  They use a severe and sweeping hand gesture (that says, "Lookatthisbeautifulsetuphereforyou") to attack the peripheral vision and capture the attention of potential beachgoers strolling the boardwalk. They'll also verbalize, peppering the pedestrians with the standard, "Bonjour; Ola; Hello; Two people? Very nice; Good Price." But they're easygoing - not too obtrusive or harassing.  On the tout-scale, they register very mellow.  Once they've fished a customer out of the passing stream, negotiations are cleverly-handled as an afterthought, after customers have been shown to what I've come to regard, through the guardien's eyes, as stations.  After bags have been set down, after cushions have been plumped and after umbrellas have been angled to their shadiest degree, 50 dirhams is the often-quoted starting price.  As to what price is possible after haggling, I'm not sure, for my highly-developed voyeur skills are left out of the more hushed-tone proceedings.

These cabana boys have impressive bodies: suntanned and buff - really ripped.  A cabana boy doesn't go ten minutes without dropping to the sand for a set of push-ups or crunches.  I've seen creative versions of these classic resistance exercises that are brand new to me.  I steal them. Occasionally, a serious bodybuilder friend to the "boys" hangs out and shows them new exercises that I think could all be classified as isometrics.  He was the first to show them a set of handstand push-ups.  (Nobody else has been successful yet.)  I saw him give an entire clinic of drills utilizing the lifeguard stand: each movement building upon the last, climaxing in quasi-levitation.  The friend is very short but almost as wide as he is tall.  He wears a djellaba which I think he enjoys taking on and off for his demonstrations on the beach - life the sheathing and unsheathing of a knife.  I enjoy the show too.  When the boys intermingle, talk and attention always centers around developing bodies.  This I can gather from a distance: the flexing, obvious assessing, playful abdomen striking and feats of strength. 

The cabana boy takes on subcontractors.  Littler boys.  When "the boys" want to socialize, flirt, exercise, smoke hashish, or generally leave their posts, they employ very young kids to assume the position at the boardwalk edge and drum up business.  They are much crasser and less polished (less interested, less at stake) with the passersby than a knowledgeable cabana boy, wrongly employing the aggression of a shop owner within the medina walls.  If they collect money, they immediately run the profits over to the senior executive.  If they cabana boy is between sets, he will shell out a commission.  The young ones do push-ups too, but need years to beef up their skinny frames.

The cabana boy has assumed the style of a surfer.  On bigger swells, there is a wave right in front of their domain.  Smaller swells break a kilometer down the beach at a more strategic and shifting sandbar, in the middle and at the shallowest point of this crescent bay. Higher quality surf is littered up and down the coastline.  But these are not surfers.  I can tell.  The majority of them are way too beefy for surfers = loss of flexibility.  They are swollen up in all the wrong places to be surfers - all biceps and pectorals.  No matter, they have assumed the style and swagger of surfers - no one's judging.  They all wear surf baggies pulled low, exposing name-brand underwear (one read, "Gavin Klein")(also, not a surfer trait - at least not of the soul surfer).  The majority sport shoulder length sun-bleached hair, kinked and natty.  They don't wear shirts: their tanned torsos shrug off the sun and their musculature is like body armor.  Who needs a shirt?  The shakas they throw at each other are more versatile than a Westerner's use of "dude."  The boys resemble each other so closely they could almost be interchangeable - whittled aesthetically from the elements.

The cabana boys are flirtatious.  Surrounded by sunbathing European hotties in bikinis, who could blame them?  I'm sure that's the reason for their dedication to fitness, hell,  I'm a believer in the notion that that is why anybody does anything.  Always quick to help reposition a lounge chair, shake sand out of a towel, or adjust an umbrella position in their station, but watch them  l i n g e r   at a station that includes scandalous beachwear.  I watched one dance with the miniature poodle of a Dutch (?) mom and daughter team today.  He waited till the daughter had her beach cover-up off, then went over, lifted the dog's front paws off the ground and spun like a whirling dervish.  I think he charmed all three of them.  I give way too much thought to how often these guys are pulling foreign chicks.  I haven't seen evidence of it (and I've looked - a lot), but I'm sure they score.

I have a real soft spot for these guys.  They're always smiling and joking around.  They work at the beach!  The parking lot "guardiens" are extortionists that provide an illusory service, protecting you (your car) from themselves - like the mafia.  The cabana boys charge for a legitimate product: a soft seat for your fat ass and shade from the sun.  If I ever come back to this earth as an employable wage-earning Esso local, somebody please direct me through the parking lot and out to the beach.

Little Man

I can't go anywhere around here without intruding on a soccer/football game.  (It still feels pretentious to call it football.)  All the little alleyways that sprout off the main arteries crisscrossing the medina have an active game in progress, day and night.  Often, these are the really young kids, the under-ten set.  I imagine mama has set their boundaries, full freedom in the twisting veins, right up to the main thoroughfare where the flow gets heavy with chaos and potential trouble.

There is no choice but to interrupt the game - shit is narrow.  First priority is protecting J's belly as the game stops for nothing, no injury stoppage, no extra time.  She's been clipped before, so have I.  I don't blame them, if they stopped for every passerby it wouldn't be much of a game.  I think sometimes they aim for us.  Hell, I wouldn't have been above it at that age, or ten years on.  Softening the blow is the lack of a quality pumped-up ball.  We walk right through the impact, melon-sized red plastic ball pinging off us without any visible reaction, so as not to give them any satisfaction.

 

I've grown comfortable with the boys in my alley - familiar.  I'll approach nonchalantly and then pounce on the ball if it is in my vicinity.  Once I've gotten possession, I'll wave over a defender, with taunting if I have to, and try to dribble around with something impressive - nutmegging is all I really got.  They humored me at first, but my limited skill-set was quickly sussed by superior football IQ's.  Now, when I get the ball, they just stand paralyzed until I've had my fun.  A peaceful demonstration.

The teenagers play on the beach.  The "fields" are more elaborately drawn out than I've seen in other places, etched to an almost-permanent depth.  They use "real" goals - futeca-sized.  One end line almost reaches the end line of the adjoining pitch.  It's tough to get to the water.  There's lots of arguing.  They all have six-packs.

The adults play in sunken concrete arenas that temporarily split the cornice/boardwalk into two. There are fans.  Pace is fast.  Skill level is high.

But yesterday I watched the most fascinating game. They were playing on a huge asphalt slab just outside the Bab Marrakech entrance to the medina, which I have to cut across to get to la plage.  What caught my eye on the approach, partially obscured by a car, was the way a striker made one deft nudge with the outside of his foot toward the center of the field, lowered a shoulder, and struck the ball without raising his head. At a target goal that was about a meter wide and built of piled-up shirts.  Amazing focus and court sense/field vision.  And so fluid.  Though I have some history with football, I don't claim to be a expert, but I do have hours of World Cup play still fresh in my memory. Robben, Van Persie, Benzema, Neymar, Messi - that's what it looked like - that polished. His shot was like a rocket, but careened wide.  He gaped to the sky in disbelief, hands on cheeks, opportunity blown - I guess it was a "good look."  As he jogged back up the field and into position with that efficient soccer-shuffle gait meant to preserve energy for the next explosive attack, he chastised his buddy for getting him the ball too late. There wasn't a player on the court older than nine.

The young'uns had taken their game outside the city walls.  It had the feel and organization of a "standing game," maybe maman cutting the jalaba strings for "special permission Saturdays."  I was pleased to see them out there - it nags at me a bit to see their ultra-confined games, like an itch I can't quite scratch. The quality of play was beyond impressive, but their "mature" demeanors was almost like an optical illusion.  I had trouble believing what I was seeing.

I'm always mesmerized by the appearance and behavior of third-world(ish) children living adult lives - specifically, the adoption of adult mannerisms.  With boring consistency, I'll say, "That's a little man right there."  I think it's understood that I don't intend this comment to be one of admiration or even respect, but also not one of sobbing sympathy.  It's fascination.  I know I'm witnessing a childhood robbed.  I'm just an observer.

"How old do you think that kid is?"

"Six, seven?"

"Maybe.  That's a little man right there."

And he's drumming up business: shining shoes, serving tea, pushing carts, selling tissues, giving haircuts, playing music, singing, dancing, performing, giving directions, guiding, pitching, begging, pleading, manipulating, stealing, lying, selling, selling, selling.  Little man.

There's little smiling.  There's no baby fat.  There's only "adult" models, and they're all involved with scraping by. Food and shelter.  Maybe candy.  That's their reality.  Five years before my world even expanded to allow for wrapping toilet paper around neighbor's trees or jacking basketball nets from neighborhood hoops, these kids are making a living, and probably helping to provide for their families.

They dress like adults.  They tilt their hats like adults.  They relate to each like adults.  They move like adults.  They talk like adults.  They fight and argue like adults.  They work like adults.

And play football in their spare time.

Take

 

typical day

Well, I'm gonna circle back to conclude the tout saga later - I'm bored with it at the moment.

I want to tell you what a typical day looks like before it's not typical anymore.  Don't expect adventure stories, 'cause that's not how we're living.  Things are quite mellow, and we're both good with that - feels as though we're wallowing in these uneventful days (and fighting the urge to feel guilty about it), stacking'n em up faster than harira soup is inhaled at an iftar-signaling call to prayer.  We're keeping a wary eye on each other to see who will cave first and suggest a road trip or other exploratory mission, thereby shattering this luscious zone of comfort we're basking in.    

Here's what the last month has been like:

On my better mornings I roll out of bed at 7:00 and run the beach, 2k out to the ruin at the far end of the horseshoe bay and back, but more often we get up slowly between 8:00 and 8:30.  Ramadan just ended, so we hopefully will have the opportunity to pedal an earlier sleep cycle soon, as the medina is quiet and the beaches are empty in the morning.  Up to this point, our sleep has been disrupted regularly.  My experience is that participants in the month-long daylight hours fast rearrange their schedules to varying degrees for aid in matters of diligence.  I lived through several Ramadans in Lebanon, and was granted access one summer to the complete reverse-sleep patterns of a pair of  Beiruti socialites.  These two women (sisters-in-law, living in adjoining suites in a posh Hamra apartment complex - I tutored their daughters four days a week)  simply slept all day, and were up though the night, presumably stuffing their plastic-surgery enhanced selves with sushi and full Lebanese mezze spreads.  Cheating?  What do I know? But I had  front row observation deck seats for the humble Moroccan version of Ramadan endurance, as we are on the third and top floor of a traditional riad with a large and open inner courtyard light shaft running consistent through the structure - imagine taking the roof off a dollhouse and peering down.  These guys haven't fully reversed sleep cycles, but they stay up late, nap, then fortify themselves with pre-dawn breakfast before sleeping till noon.

We're sipping coffee by 8:15.  We listen to news radio - usually BBC (for posterity: Ukraine/Russia, Israel/Palestine, Malaysia Flight 370 AND 17).  We linger for an hour or more. Josie makes bread. It's a pleasure. Besides a two month stint working for room and board at my friend's surf camp in San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua (which consisted mainly of going surfing) and J's later-mentioned goat gig, we haven't worked a day in ten months.  And we have tried to stay conscious, with the proper amount of appreciation, for that fact.  We mainly succeed.

Late morning, we split paths.  J goes medina cruisin' and souk shopping - she comes back with herbs/spices, vegetables, milk and yogurt, eggs, and seafood from the fish market (sardines, shrimp or dorado).  Conservatively dressed, she takes a wicker basket like a loc-dog, and recedes towards invisibility with each trip.  She walks with purpose.  We revel in how cheap everything is, frugality caressed.  I take this time to write essays (15 and counting to date) towards my teacher license recertification, or more accurately the transition to an Oregon Initial II Teaching License.  If I take the time to tangent on the process and requirement I will become so incensed about this no-sense license (to be read with rhythm) I will get grumpy.

 

We make lunch: sardines fried, sardine spread, sardine pizza, sardine salad. We nap, lay around. 

We go swimming, sometimes for distance, sometimes to bob.

We make love.  I indulge in Moroccan treats, J drinks a smoothie.

We transition to evening with a podcast (I like Joe Rogan and Marc Maron - suggestions?  I'm new) and dinner prep: sardines, soup, pasta, salad.

We stream documentaries from "Top Documentary Films," the only site that functions uninterrupted.

We sleep.


A theory on why we're so content to do little (and be home):

a) We've been transient/homeless for nine months. A quick account: since I left New Zealand last October, shortly after to chase down J in Fuerteventura, Canary Islands, Spain (where she was herding goats and making cheese), we've been on the move: Greece, Italy, France, Florida, Nicaragua, Florida II, France II, Spain II, and finally Morocco. 

b) The Spanish road trip.  Greece and Nicaragua were multi-month situations with almost regular schedules, but the other stops we were guests or tourists, never static enough to own our surroundings, culminating in a six-week roadtrip thru Spain that was hardcore by anyone's standards: (mainly) camping on rivers or beaches or lagoons or in fields in sand dunes in campgrounds in forests, sleeping on the ground, eating by campstove, hiking, canyoning, swimming, cliff jumping, slab soaking, shapeshifting, driving: a complete delight but exhausting as hell.

c) Josie is almost six months pregnant and slowing down.  Slowing way down to live in strict accordance with What to Expect When You're Expecting. I'm slowing down by association.

There are derivations of course.  Sometimes we take a picnic to the rampart wall overlooking the ocean.  We hiked in Paradise Valley.  We read.  There's French lessons.  J sketches.  We eat out occasionally.  We stroll.