The Ramblings of Boots

Old people should not travel, amend, old women should not travel, amend, old women who like the simple necessities in life like doctors, chemists and black cabs should not travel.

Day three and the sky is still grey. Granted, it is warm – but definitely grey.

No country suits grey. Actually few people suit grey, black definitely, white if young, toned and tanned, but grey? No.

So once again I breakfast in the hotel and try to think of new ways to describe the street below me. The restaurant is on the fifth floor with floor to ceiling windows and views over the faux Parisian avenue. The topiary trees are ficus’ trees. 12′ square green clipped boxes atop thick trunks. The avenue is wide with an island running down the centre. A mini 200 yard residential dual carriageway. At one end the unremarkable mosque, at the other a grand institute of education flanked by palm trees proudly sprouting red Moroccan flags presumably to make up for their lack of flowers

The car cleaners are busy. In all ‘Lands of Sand’ the cars are grey. No doubt beneath the layer of grime they were once gleaming black or Ferrari red or even, foolishly, white, but every morning they are, grey. The thin layer of the previous day’s dust fallout ensuring that the car cleaners at least will have job security.

I briefly wonder why the trees aren’t grey, or the brightly coloured rubbish being shovelled into an open, donkey led cart by a barefooted, toothless Arab aren’t grey, but only briefly; I have far more important issues to deal with.

Not satisfied with burdening my feet and their chipolata appendages (no one would ever recognise them as toes)  with angry, red, bursting blisters, some malevolent higher being has deemed it right and proper that I should be afflicted with a woman’s complaint.

A woman’s complaint that only several tubes of cream, copious pessaries and a tablet will relieve.

Last time I visited Morocco, indeed every time I travel to foreign climes where fungus can thrive, I am blessed with this woman’s complaint. I know this. I’ve known this for 4 decades. Why then do I not pack a spare case full of creams, pessaries and pills? Why? Because every time I set off for foreign climes, I optimistically believe it won’t happen again.

As I sit in the busy cafe at the bottom of the avenue surrounded by young and old going about their daily business of eating their petite déjeuner, reading their papers, embracing their ‘classy way to commit suicide’ (Kurt Vonnegut on smoking), I notice that the sun is finally burning off the grey. Wonderful. For some, bikini weather.

I move one bum cheek to a more bearable position, knowing that the relief will be shorter than temporary, and rack my brain for words in any foreign language that will spare me the acute embarrassment of sign language when I finally pluck up the courage to enter the pharmacy.

It isn’t. The weather. It isn’t glorious, it’s grey, muggy and grey. I catch up on face book and see a friend’s post “Have you ever seen a sky so blue?” I want to throw my Al Jazeera plasma screen out of the window.

I breakfast and ask where I can buy a bus ticket.

A half hour walk, (it should have only been ten minutes but I got a little lost and coffee seemed a good idea) takes me to the Supratours office.

“Un billet pour Tarodant, si’l vous plais?”

Blank look. Perhaps if I précis it?

“Taroudant?”

Perhaps if I hire an interpreter?

‘Non, pas ici’ (my French will have to be phonetic).

I know it’s not bloody here, I want to get there, you imbecile!

Much sign language later, I am in proud possession of a bus ticket to Essouira on the 6^th April but I now have to travel across town to the other bus station to buy my ticket to Taroudant. I have also discovered that the taxi across town should cost me 22 whatevers.

Taxi driver is a sweetie, we arrive at the bus station and I am only charged 15 whatevers. I am warming to Moroccan taxi drivers. (I should have known that that was dangerous).

The sun is trying to force its way through the clouds and life is looking up.

Ticket to Taroudant secured, (although I have to be up at some ridiculous hour to catch the bus), I hail another taxi to take me back to le Plage.

Much laughter and joking and a 1 million Euro  fare  quoted and arguing that 40 whatevers was not a fair price, and attempted overfamiliarity, which courted a hefty slap from my glove clad hand, a kilometre down the road in an area I would not be able to find on any map, I escape at the traffic lights to the strains of ‘Stupid English woman’.

Actually not so stupid, Knob!

Great.

Now what?

Not a tourist in sight.

Even worse, not a taxi in sight.

I figure that Le Plage is somewhere to my right, now if the bloody sun would come out, I could tell you exactly where it was.

Heading off down a fairly busy road, hailing the occasional passing taxi, whether full or not and thankful that I am yet again, almost Abaya clad, I am cautious but relieved when a taxi with only one other passenger already in residence pulls up.

A little detour to the Souk, where we drop off the other passenger and I am safely deposited on Le Plage, and all for 20 whatevers.

My faith in taxi drivers restored, I explore Le Plage and have lunch in a cafe with free wifi. The cafe is filled with young locals, Mummy’s with prams, miserable matrimonials, ancient wrinkled females hunting in pairs, and even more miserable, unattractive and  ageing, single European men – it could be anyone’s home town.

Everywhere the staff are delightful, but Agadir? Without sunshine it is not a town that has a lot to offer.

It has a souk, which I may explore tomorrow, although souks, like temples, can be overdosed on.

The beach is long and sandy and I’m sure on sunny days, a delight.

It has the equivalent of chalk horses (Arab writing) carved on the mountain – hardly  life changing.

Moroccans don’t eat before seven, Ramadan or not. They drink before seven; ironic for a Muslim country.

Having discovered the perfect little Italian restaurant – well it had Spag Bol on the menu, and deciding that as it was quarter to seven and one beer wouldn’t get me so lashed I would be rendered unconscious and sold into slavery, note I say slavery and not the slave trade, (I fear my days of ever being attractive enough to take up any position in the harem are long gone), I settle down to enjoy nursing my beer and watching the world go by.

The world consisted of more miserable matrimonials, the occasional vendor trying to sell pictures that you wouldn’t wish on your mother in law and Arabs spitting on the ground. Hmmm.

Five to seven and the waiter brings me a basket of fresh bread and the most noxious whorled fat I have ever had the misfortune to spread on anything. It is now getting a tad chilly to eat outside and I appear to be the only one wishing to do so; could this be a mistake?

I gather up my beer and enter the restaurant leaving the whorled fat behind.

Yes. It is a mistake.

This is clearly not a charming Bistro, this is a men only drinking club.

Gay bar perhaps? (One has to be optimistic in situations like this).

No, definitely straight. Had it been a gay bar I would have been welcomed with much bonhomie and had several shots or, at the very least, a decent cocktail would have been put in front of me.

Straight –  Men only –  Arab bar – Brilliant. Two choices, leave, or front it?

By now the waiter has retrieved the noxious spread and deposited it on a table to which he beckons me.

Bugger it, I’m starving. I order the Spag Bol and crunch my way through the bread.

20 or so Arab men of varying ages and attractiveness are busy putting the world to rights, throwing me the occasional cursory glances of disapproval,

“Excuse me I am covered from head to toe, not a bit of flesh exposed!’

I am ignored. OK, I might have been sitting behind a pillar and flashing my wedding ring to all points of the compass but frankly a ‘Welcome to Morocco’ would have been appreciated.

The only good thing about this restaurant so far is the ashtrays. Oh, if anyone is thinking of giving up smoking on a holiday in Morocco, forget it. It would, quite frankly, be bad manners. Everyone smokes, everywhere.

The food arrives. The Spag Bol lives up to all my expectations, overcooked, white worm, spaghetti, orange cheese that has never been anywhere near Italy and a sauce with a twist, curry.

Wondering how much I actually have to swallow before I can decently leave, I work my way through a few mouthfuls, finish my beer and ask for the bill, citing lack of hunger as the reason for my poor appetite.

Starving, I return home. An evening of Al Jeezera does little to improve my humour but I am sure tomorrow the weather will be glorious and I have to buy bus tickets for the next exciting adventure. I wonder what’s happening on ‘Enders?

In days gone by flights were my nemesis, being of the unwavering opinion that jumbo sized baked bean cans are defying every rule in the book by taking to the air. Valium would get me on the plane and with luck and no turbulence Diazepam would keep me in my seat.

Now, loathing the airport experience even more, I welcome the flight. I almost spring on board. If I am about to die, I am at least going to have my own 2 square feet to do it in.

In fact, all credit to BMI and, no, I didn’t drop any names to try and get an upgrade, the boneshaker that took to the skies did have leather seats and the on board crew weren’t fiddling with their worry beads or crossing themselves at every opportunity, as in past experience.

My travelling companions, Antoinette, a building surveyor (“You get to work with men all the time, it’s great!”), about to be married to her childhood sweetheart, and Sophie, her ‘something to do with advertising’, best friend are setting off for the second half of Antoinette’s hen weekend. The first half having been dedicated to copious cocktails and fancy dress in a well known five star London hotel. I hoped the pampering week they had planned wouldn’t disappoint though, judging by the rest of the baked beans in the can, I was doubtful that Agadir would be anything like Antigua.

Three hours and round two of the airport endurance test later, I thank L’Oreal that I am blonde and can at least say ‘thank you’ in Arabic as I fill in form after form and worry if I will ever see my passport again.

Finally Mohamed (Memmi Hed, if you please) throws my case into the boot of a vehicle that has patently never passed an MOT and we head into town. Moroccan drivers, having been trained at the KSM (Kuwaiti School of Motoring) are intent on death by first impression so unless you have a strong post flight stomach best not look out of the window.

Now is an excellent time to introduce yourself to the money you have exchanged at a rate unrecognisable from the one you saw on the FX site. 10 to one is not a bad way to work, it won’t hurt quite as much and you might not spend the rest of your holiday moaning about it. Enough that the sky is grey and, aside from the magnificent hedges of multi coloured Bougainvillea lining the route, your first impression of Agadir is third world Skegness.

Mohamed is 38, has two children, a girl of 3 and a new born boy. I have Mohamed’s card. If all else fails I can get back to the airport. This information is imparted in French and sign language, and of course I don’t look 60, 48 at the worst… Hmm, 45 would have been better, Mohamed.

Hotel New Farah, though not 5 star, is clean and, as with everything in the middle east, dark. I believe this is to keep the buildings cool but as we are barely above 24 degrees, it hardly seems necessary.

For antique travellers the hotel is safe and workable. Set in a trying, but failing, to emulate a Parisian topiary tree lined avenue replete with faux art deco buildings. It has friendly staff, and balconys that overlook the tiny but perfectly formed pool, and the internet works in the lobby. Good start.

A mini two hour  exploration convinces me that all seaside towns are the same. The promenade could be Ramsgate, Wimereux or a down market Corniche in Kuwait. I’m sure in mid summer skimpily clad youth and bronzed toned bodies will make it look vibrant, but at four o’clock on a decidedly grey afternoon with few shops, and even fewer restaurants, open, it more closely resembles a fairground without the neon lights; tawdry and tired.

The Town is populated almost entirely with ageing, leathered, French and German couples who have absolutely nothing to say to each other after their life sentences of matrimony.

The vendors, delighting in having a single ageing female to pounce upon, slyly fall into step with you as if they are, coincidentally, heading in your direction. After a socially acceptable pause (less than a nano second), they attempt to engage in conversation. French first, then German, English is obviously not a requirement. A few curt ‘La Shukran’s’ (apart from counting from one to ten ‘no thank you’ is the full extent of my Arabic vocabulary), and much lack of eye contact later they mutter, what I’m sure must be a charming compliment, and return to their stalls.

Having managed to get lost, I spy the most dreaded sight a would be serious traveller ever wishes to see: “The English Pub”. Ah well at least I will hear the sound of my native tongue and I do need to find my way home. I ask a couple sitting near the front of the pub if they know they way to my hotel. Blank looks respond. Yes, they’re French, (if nothing else my language skills may improve) and ‘No’, they don’t know the way to the hotel.

Stoically embracing the return of my ubiquitous holiday foot blisters, I hobble back to the giant topiary tree lined avenue that houses my hotel; the mosque at the top of the road being my Northern Star.

Time for a wash then dinner. There is a quiet looking italian restaurant two doors down which looks quite delightful. It wasn’t of course.

Do you remember when airports were like Aladdin’s caves? Exciting, glamorous, filled with tempting treasure and with the promise of a magic carpet ride to exotic lands?

Now passing through an airport is as much fun as an extended visit to the dentist for root canal treatment.

The fast track, check yourself in (if you can find your glasses, passport and that piece of paper the internet promised would be all you needed), machine,  screams out its challenged printing status in silent neon, forcing you to reconsider your position on cruelty to electronic devices.

The Queue Police, a single humanoid (I say that loosely) advises you to join the ‘baggage drop’ line, 150 deep and tutting in a harmony worthy of a well rehearsed Last Night of the Proms.

The solitary ‘baggage dropper’ is, understandably, a tad underwhelmed with her starring role, and has no intention of anyone setting a lap record on her watch. She is joined by two Fuhrers in waiting as the Queue Police attempts to put the queue into a ‘who’s going to miss their flight first’, line.

The delight of seeing your suitcase finally embarking on its ‘lost luggage’ journey is all too soon replaced by the seedy misery of the strip club audition and ‘let’s cop a feel’ member’s club.

As a seasoned traveler, you will have put all your haemorrhoid creams, denture fresheners and polyfiller foundation into a clear toiletry bag – you’re no fool. Pile sufferer possibly, proud owner of polyfiller for a complexion that never left puberty perhaps, but no fool.

Shit! The belt. The bloody belt! It has to come off, there’s no way round that. Will the extra loose  ‘I know what it’s like travelling in tight clothes’ trousers stay up without it?

And the sandals? You thought you only had to take off boots. Sorry, those blingy sandals will set off the alarm just as surely as a broken down Luger pistol. Can you break down a Luger pistol?

Violated and more than a little vexed, you head to Aladdin’s cave to punish the credit card but, as you have now used up an  hour and a half of the ‘arrive two hours before departure’  time, and you dread the thought of airline food, decisions and the need to empty your bladder dictate.

The bladder wins. The queues for food, unless you want to risk the overpriced and usually dodgy seafood bar, mean you will be eating the food on the plane and, bugger me , they’ve just opened the gate – a twenty minute walk – who knew?

On a good trip, once on the plane, the airport experience dulls, however never assume it’s over.

Ice on the wings, computers not registering the smoke detector, a wing falling off, little things can all delay take off for at least an hour and a half.

Today it was the smoke detector’s computer. The captain reassures us by saying that as a last resort they will turn off the engines and then power up again, as “this sometimes solves the problem.”  How comforting… don’t know what’s wrong so let’s reboot the plane.

Apparently it did, solve the problem, though, as we taxied for an hour and a half late to our new place in the take off slots, the rebooted plane made noises that, had they been emanating from my car on the M25, I would be on that hard shoulder and dialling the AA faster than you can say ‘ready for take off’.