A less amazing day...

Le dimanche, 29 novembre 2009

The rain tapping on the tent cover tells me: “Don’t get up…”. My sleeping bag tells me: “Brrr… don’t go out!” My sore throat tells me : “Hm, sleep some more…” Only my bladder is telling me “Come ON! You waiting for the tent to get wet INSIDE too?”

1. Look, rain. Oh. 2. It's pretty. From inside. 3. thinking "isn't this the life?"

We have breakfast in the camping “restaurant” and vote on packing and leaving the camping to bus back to Tangier, the intention being to -hopefully- sleep through the rain storm. The campsite of the European hippies, with their fire suffocating under the rain, is quiet and still as they’re all out sightseeing. A mental goodbye, and we cab to the bus station, shivering and wet. We wait one hour for the next bus. This calls for a hot green tea. The cashier of the casse-croûte offers me some of his royal couscous as he prepares de tea, yuuuummmmm.

Then, nature calls and comes crashing into a culture shock. I go for the first time in a Turkish toilet (or latrine?), basically a hole in the ground. Whatever, like camping. There’s no paper of course. But I'm prepared. The place is disgusting and the owner of the WC shack has the gall to make me pay 2 dirhams to piss. Well, piss… or shiss, as you prefer. Let’s just say it was about the worst possible context to make me recall my Amazonian digestive problems in Peru almost 6 years ago. It did bring me an evil sense of satisfaction to leave a terrible stench in the bloke’s “toilet”.

So now, three hours in a wet and stinky bus with my intestines upside-down and inside-out, a sore throat and wet clothes. Woohoo! And a taxi back to Tanger would cost 20 euros each. So, we save 15 euros each. Hm, don’t know if being cheap is paying off right now… First half of the trip goes well with a bunch of Morrocan boys singing tradicional songs in Arab at the back. One fellow who speaks Spanish offers that we sleep at his house, his mom doesn’t mind. We say we’ll discuss it. As I’m the only who can communicate with the dude, I’d be the one making conversation all night. And, in my shitty state (literaly), this doesn't seem like a charming perpective. In Tetouan, I run to the “toilets” again while our new friend says goodbye to his friends and buys a Tetouan-Tanger bus ticket. Ah-hah, so ya didn’t have the full ticket did yah! This brings about an argument in arbic between the driver and our friend Abdul, who doesn’t have priority. We somehow find seats for everyone and the newcomers from Tetouan. Abdul sits next to me, and here goes...

Second half of the bus ride, not so fun. First, Abdul is smothering me with “are you cold?”s and “want my coat? My glove? My scarf?”. I tell him I’m ill and must –pretend to– sleep. I lie on the window. Abdul lies on my shoulder. Hm. Yea, no. Maybe by chatting will make our intentions clearer. And it goes from small talk, to awkward, to boring, to inappropriate, to him imposing me his opinions. All the while, I’m gripping the seat in front of me to avoid shitting everywhere. At some point I flat out tell him “dude, have to shit myself. Talking does not help. I must concentrate to not unleash the fury of hell. Shut up.” K, didn’t say it exactly like that. From the corner of my eye, I see him remove his bracelet and I think “oh pah-hah-leaaasah… he’s not gonna give me…” “Here! Have my bracelet!” Nono, yesyes, no thank you, please do, no really it’s yours, if you don’t take it I throw it away! Gddmnt FINE! Man do they insist indefinitely. Deep down inside, I know were not going to his place. Nooooo way. I also know he abandoned his friends in Tetouan AND bought a bus ticket BECAUSE he thinks he’s going to host us. Fuck… this calls for a council meeting.

When we reach Tanger, I run, fesses serrées, to the latrines, and come back to realize I’ll have to break it to Abdul myself that were going to a hotel, as I speak Spanish. Great. No need to describe the conversation, the guilt trip, the feeling of liberation (as I would have rather slept anywhere even the street than that guy’s house)… We scavenge the hotels. We've learned that they don’t list the prices so they can invent a price once they've had a look at us strangers… but we finally enter in a hotel where the reception guy, who was smoking outside, isn’t fast enough to put the price list out of sight as we lean over the reception counter. Fooooled you! Room for three please: 50 dirhams each, sssir. (less than 5 euros, baha). We are all in a bit of an "acting stupid and laughing for nothing" euphoric state, because we are tired and excited about sleeping in a real, warm bed. Who cares if the whole place smells of urine! The oh-so-welcoming paperless, waterless, latrine is not to far, perfect.

One hour in a café internet, and they we search for food. As it’s still a holiday weekend for muslims, nearly everything is closed and the opened restaurants have barely a fraction of their menus available. So we buy cheap sandwiches and go back to the hotel for a “mémère” evening for the sick girls. Cip prepares us some tea as I read a bit of the Alchimist out loud to Alinna. I pack my bag and set my alarm for 6h30 AM. Cip and Alinna will be accompanying my to the port at 7hAM, where a boat will ferry me back to my home: Andalucia.