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.

(cops are the biggest) Touts - part trois

Fast-forward five shaky kilometers down the highway (at a conservative 30mph).  The nervous chatter in the car revolves around the fact that we have driven all the way from Nice without incident, and now, so close to our final destination, we run into trouble.  So fitting.  I'm keeping up a conversational front, but internally I'm trying to stay buoyant in a rising tide of conflicting emotions. Josie is returning the cordiality, thinking she's pacifying me with clumsily churned out and chapped lip service, but she's clearly even more in her own head than usual. So many daydreamed scenarios are vying for my direct attention, that I'm conscious of active sorting - working one out to its logical conclusion and then dealing with the next one that has slotted into place.

Until I'm getting waved over again.  There are a few cops in the middle of the street, and some cars pulled over to the side, victim to some sort of random "check." Coasting down this descent, the fortified Medina walls of Essaouira clearly visible now, I refuse the possibility that we could be singled out for another scam.  The odds are against it. But it is definitely me he wants.  My first thought is that "Senior" has radioed ahead with our vehicle description and plate number to exact more dirham from the disrespectful tourists. And I'm handing over: license...passport...registration... insurance.  A beefier cop this time, he's off on a tri-lingual (English, French and some Arabic), mainly-incomprehensible monotone monologue of semi-rehearsed proportions.  I interrupt his flow several times to find out the "charge."  He signals for me to shut up, rewinding a paragraph or so each time.

I sink mutely back into my own thoughts, submissively facilitating his concluding.  I muse how I have the sensation of driving through a minefield.  I feel like "they're" out to get me (though deduced from tone, it's apparent that this stop is unrelated/independent of the last one).  Taking stock, I'm not sure if I'm more frightened for our physical safety or depressed about the sequence of events that has led me back to a lifestyle like this - I marinate in the mix.  My breathing is labored, deep gulps helping to soothe the idea that far from being able to protect me, the "authorities" are the biggest criminals.  I feel exposed like an open wound.  I'm not an active humanitarian, but I take a moment to commiserate with those for whom this is part of daily consciousness. 

I'm slapped back to the present moment by the price tag - 700 dirham (70 euro).
I ask, "What'd I do?"  Seems a fair question.  Not too exasperated, he pages back into the monologue, to the part about "keep people safe must pull over."  I forcefully interject, consequences be damned (I'm at that point), asking Josie to get the straight French version.  We're informed we didn't react quick enough to the "wave over," as we are a few feet past a makeshift stop sign.  It's insulting in its un-creativity and implausibility, and I wonder if all the cars pulled over are hearing the same explanation, or do the cops improvise with each vehicle?  I realize that speed traps and immoral traffic-stops-for-profit exist everywhere, but it feels a lot "heavier" here - my skin crawls.

I tell him that I'm a teacher, "Here to educate the youth.  I'm on a peace-keeping mission." (The part about the peace keeping was ridiculous.  I was nervous! But the educator bullshit can be effective sometimes - works for discounts as well.)(It used to work well in Guatemala to say, "I'll let the American Embassy know about the problem you have with me."  That could scare off low-level or underage security forces, but I forget this gem in the moment.) He smile is wide enough that I think I might have just skated out of this one.  He pages back into his script again: delivery quickening, words running together, shifting from one foot to the other,  attention back up the road with maybe his next victim, and then I see it.  He rolls his eyes! He's just physically recognized what a farce this is.

Newly confident, I tell him, "I'll be happy to pay this fine in town at the police station after I go to a cash machine.  Give me the ticket. I don't have any money."  He grins. 

Happy to be in the later stages of the negotiation, he looks me directly in the eyes (all bullshitting aside), "Okay okay, you are a peace-keeper (I'm delighted to hear this absurdness come out his mouth), 300 dirham for you today."  Delivered like a fucking car salesman. And what a coincidence.  This must be the bottom line fine for the day, all up and down the highway.  I vehemently repeat my offer, desperate to avoid paying two bogus fines in 15 minutes - would be such a defeat.  He blabbers a bit about getting the money and then coming back, and then thinks better of it. There are potential victims stealthily sneaking by us at a steady steam, a million sardines in this sea (an Esso specialty), and he cuts his losses.  He cheerfully indicates that we should carry on, even giving us half-ass directions for the Medina.

Bolstered by his soft spot revealed, I take a parting shot, "Great job today officer; keep those streets safe."  He is unaffected.

Next: Touts - part quatre (I battle the parking "guardien" - same day)(will be last tout-centric post: didn't mean to get this deep into it, but now I must finish)

Touts - part deux

So, the 16 year old cop was waving the Peugeot over.  I'm immediately thinking this is a shakedown - bribe time.  I'm trying to relax, deep breathing and bracing myself for the inevitable bullshit to follow.  He asks for my license (in French - Josie translating).  Snatch! he grabs it with so much aggression that I involuntarily bare my teeth, my face going at least mini-snarl in the way that it does. 

"Registration," he spits.  Snatch!  Even quicker this time.  I couldn't see his hand.  It was like a magic trick.  I'm clenching my fists now.  I want to smash this kid.

"Insurance." Snatch! Gratefully, the third time tickled me.  It was officially ridiculous now - shark jumped - and the tension evaporates from my pores.  I simultaneously work on suppressing a giggle and formulating strategy for escaping this situation without paying.  I'm percolating.

In Nicaragua, when the police demanded that I "pay ticket" for "crossing the center line," I feigned confusion and lack of language (I had been coached).  Unable to navigate my filibuster with protocol, that cop dropped all pretense, opened up his citation book, pointed to where I should insert the money, and screamed "20 dollars!"  Charade abandoned.

"No entiendo," I persisted.  Calmly.  For maximum aggravation.  He got frustrated and gave up. Based on that experience I assume these guys can only ask for the money, but will stop short of  car detention, arrest, violence or murder.  Maybe because the money is going in their own pocket, they don't have the backing of the "system" to further pursue?

 

The kid starts babbling about how I was over the speed limit and I realize I hadn't even considered what my offense was, I just assumed I was being carjacked.  I get out of the car to sweet talk him, but he shoves the crude handheld radar in my face - it has video!  Clever.  I understand nothing.

"Non compren," I say, doing my best bewilderment.  He wants 300 dirham (30 euros).  I switch tactics.  Because I'm pissed off.  Because I'm stubborn.  Because I don't want to "lose" to this kid.  Because I can't resist the risky proposition.  I tell him I have no money, and that I would be happy to pay my fine at the police station in Esso once I've visited a money machine (Josie still translating).  I'm quite certain this is not a possibility, as it defeats the whole purpose for the stop.  Maybe I've found a flaw in their game.  Before it's even out of my mouth though, I see the potential problems I could have just created.  Maybe they'll keep my license, and I'll have to go into town, get money, and drive all the way back to pay.  Maybe they'll keep the car.  Maybe they'll keep Josie! Then I'll say, "Oh wait, I do have the money, I forgot it was in my wallet"?  Then they'll get pissed about the lying and I'll suffer for being such a smartass.  We're at a stand-off. It's a duel.  I literally turn my pockets inside out and shrug my shoulders.  His raised tone has more fear than authority - "300 dirham!"  Not exactly the Wild West. He motions me to follow, and there around the back of a dilapidated shed is his back-up.  Who knew? 

Here is the half-asleep senior officer, reclining in an official police vehicle.  The kid relays the circumstance.  He barks at me. 

"Non-compren." 

Anger. 

I reluctantly call Josie over for translating duties.

Josie: "They say you were 8 km over the limit (68k in a 60k zone: on a deserted highway: 35 mph?!) and must pay 300 dirham."  I feel a bit trapped in having to stick to my story but I'm committed now. 

"Tell him we'll happily pay in town at the police station."  I think I grin a little, cause it feels good to call out these fucking crooks.  Josie and the cop go back and forth a bit, volume escalating, body language gesticulating.  Then Josie goes ballistic.  She's through the car window, screaming in French, but I make out "fucker."  Fucker?  I don't think I've ever heard her use that word.  And.  And she pokes him in the chest!  I see myself sitting in a Moroccan prison.  It has dirt floors.  Senior screams back, hand poised on the handle, threatening to exit the vehicle.  He's pounding the passenger seat, pointing and screaming at me to get in the vehicle.  I stop and start my way to the passenger side.  Josie's telling me not to get in, the cop pounding the seat, Josie telling me not to get in, the cop pounding the seat.  I stop.  I start.  Ridiculous again.  This time I'm not giggling.  I'm seeing my life flash before my eyes.  Really.  (Turns out he did not want to take me to jail, but to take me to see the speed limit sign back up the road - nobody tells me anything.)  I bear-hug Josie and forcibly walk her back to the car.  I walk back to senior, hand over 300 dirham, sign some papers, and we're shaking hands.  He pantomimes, "Why you let your woman act this way?"  I can't even be disgusted; I'm thankful. Things mellow so quickly I get the sense this was "routine."  We're back on the road.

(The cop had told Josie, "I don't talk to women," and that was what fueled the freakout.)

Looks like there'll be a  "Touts - part three," because this day was just getting started.

Touts

Well, I've been meaning to tell you about the (often) suffocating tout presence in this place, and the addition of today's anecdote has given me sufficient motivation.  In under a month, we have already amassed an explosive handful of interactions - real over-achievers. You're probably thinking this is out of character, eh? 

It's all a bit humbling, or disappointing really.  I like to think of myself as quite seasoned and thick-skinned, floating above the drama of your average tour-on like a Zen puff pastry cloud stuffed with wisdom and patience.  Lots of patience. (J reading over my shoulder: "You're the opposite of that.") Anyway...

I've had plenty of experience with touts.  I didn't let it ruin my experience at the Giza Pyramids, and those guys are commonly regarded as the most relentless on the planet.  I got kidnapped/scammed for an entire morning in Sri Lanka when a seemingly well-meaning local offered to give me a lift to the bus station in his tuk-tuk (he insisted I tour a few temples and visit the businesses of multiple merchants he was in cahoots with), and came out smiling, still in good spirits and only 390 rupees lighter (and with an understanding of Colombo geography).  And I've developed a highly efficient brush-off move for the beggar, street vendor and hashish salesman.   Chiseled down to the gracefully callous through  repetitive use on the mean streets of Guatemala and Lebanon (pursed lips, lowered eyebrows, barely-audible "tsk," and the hand motion of a one-armed baseball umpire signaling "safe"),  it's almost undetectable to the casual bystander, but they know.

The wheels fell off just outside Essaouira city limit though, twisted off in ironic fashion, as we had cruised through the tout hotbeds of Tangiers and Casablanca without incident.  Further irony: we at least halfway picked this place (Esso) to lay up for a few months (I start teaching at an American school in the fall) because of numerous descriptions in guidebooks and online forums praising the place's mellow vibe and less persistent toutage - it is something that has to be considered. The fact that Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix famously spent time here is used hilariously as proof positive - 40 years later. Tangiers and Marrakesh, one expects to be touted, but Esso is supposed to be an oasis-like respite.  And it is more relaxed here, but we have managed to find the cracks.  Ten kilometers from the city, after a roadtrip originating in Nice, France, we got pulled over by a 16 year old cop standing in the middle of the road with a speed gun. 

To be continued.

Title explained

Not really solitaire.  I’m here with my wife, but the blogging is evidence of my isolation.  The other night I went almost sleepless, manically binging on newly-acquired internet access.  Fairly successful in resisting porn and social media, I scrolled Edward Abbey quotes and my admiration for the man got rekindled.  I have been to these pages before, in much the same way I always scan his section in a bookstore or library even though I know damn well I've consumed his catalog (same for Ken Kesey, Hunter Thompson, David Foster Wallace and Charles Bukowski: all the dead and degenerate that I crave).  Does everyone do that?  So it’s a shout out, and I’ll work real hard to achieve some sort of paralleling thematic bent to my writing to properly represent.  So, that's how we start: back-asswards and cheesy.  Medina = the old Arab quarter of a North African city.