My day started with a few minutes quiet contemplation about my friend, Heather, competing in her first ever full distance Ironman triathlon today in Florida. Swim 2.4 miles, cycle 112 miles, run 26.2 miles – that’s a hard day.
For me? A simple trip to the airport, avoid the neat uniform, heavy makeup brigade and chat to the police and the freight handlers to get some real information. Nothing they could do for me within my timescale a
t Agadir but I got some useful pointers about Casablanca airport. My bike, and my solo trip, had intrigued them and my French, though still grammatically disastrous, was now good enough to make conversations like this enjoyable and not at all stressful. One of the policemen was so pleased that I had stayed at his home town of Erfoud that he took my photos for me. I think that was my first armed photographer.
60 kilometres west to Taroudannt and, surprise, surprise my chosen hotel didn’t exist – or at least so the touts told me. It’s still a good game though so I let one of them lead me on his moped at great speed through many busy narrow streets to his recommended hotel. It wasn’t very nice and cost 25% more than he had promised, plus he was waiting for a tip from me. I told him Taroudannt was too dear for me and I would ride on elsewhere. He immediately abandoned me and roared off leaving me lost. Actually I knew I was back nearly where we had started and I had seen a sign for the other hotel on the way. I do let the good ones win, honest.
Taroudannt within the walls was everything a Moroccan town should be: fortified Berber commercial town; apparently insane traffic actually not getting anywhere in the tiny streets; reasonably priced real food; friendly people and everything you could possibly want to buy, all sold in impossibly small shops.
I tested this theory by going into an impossibly small stationery shop. I had made so many route changes that my Morocco map was covered in pencil lines and was nearly unusable and of course I hadn’t brought a rubber. The French word for rubber eluded me but I had a go anyway. No success. Then a sudden and worrying thought. To any English speaker under the age of 40 the word rubber has been hijacked – it now means condom. Had the same thing happened in French? Had I just asked this puzzled looking Muslim teenager if she would supply me with a condom? Would I have to share a cell with Gary Glitter? I got my eraser. I didn’t go to jail. The French word for eraser is gomme. The French word for condom is préservatif. I will never attempt to purchase jam in any French speaking territory.
For me? A simple trip to the airport, avoid the neat uniform, heavy makeup brigade and chat to the police and the freight handlers to get some real information. Nothing they could do for me within my timescale a
t Agadir but I got some useful pointers about Casablanca airport. My bike, and my solo trip, had intrigued them and my French, though still grammatically disastrous, was now good enough to make conversations like this enjoyable and not at all stressful. One of the policemen was so pleased that I had stayed at his home town of Erfoud that he took my photos for me. I think that was my first armed photographer.60 kilometres west to Taroudannt and, surprise, surprise my chosen hotel didn’t exist – or at least so the touts told me. It’s still a good game though so I let one of them lead me on his moped at great speed through many busy narrow streets to his recommended hotel. It wasn’t very nice and cost 25% more than he had promised, plus he was waiting for a tip from me. I told him Taroudannt was too dear for me and I would ride on elsewhere. He immediately abandoned me and roared off leaving me lost. Actually I knew I was back nearly where we had started and I had seen a sign for the other hotel on the way. I do let the good ones win, honest.
Taroudannt within the walls was everything a Moroccan town should be: fortified Berber commercial town; apparently insane traffic actually not getting anywhere in the tiny streets; reasonably priced real food; friendly people and everything you could possibly want to buy, all sold in impossibly small shops.
I tested this theory by going into an impossibly small stationery shop. I had made so many route changes that my Morocco map was covered in pencil lines and was nearly unusable and of course I hadn’t brought a rubber. The French word for rubber eluded me but I had a go anyway. No success. Then a sudden and worrying thought. To any English speaker under the age of 40 the word rubber has been hijacked – it now means condom. Had the same thing happened in French? Had I just asked this puzzled looking Muslim teenager if she would supply me with a condom? Would I have to share a cell with Gary Glitter? I got my eraser. I didn’t go to jail. The French word for eraser is gomme. The French word for condom is préservatif. I will never attempt to purchase jam in any French speaking territory.
3 comments:
Well done the survivor. By the time you get this you will probably be well on way home. Bon Voyage and well done. (you still need your head examined!!!)
mairead and Paul
Drew-just back from a few days checking out oideas gael -more of which when you return. You are returning aren't you? I think you should. Remember all those motorbike and car mags you used to have? Well apparently the Oxfam Shop have had to rent new premises...fairly recently too.Apparently it's stuffed with items I'm pretty sure I saw in your house.Oh yes and that's another thing....the house...maybe you should fly back. And another thing.I have noticed that when you are really ill your grammar goes to hell.It'is important to maintain standards. Also my granny had a saying-'Listen to the Berbers'. She was completely nuts and never moved out of Carrick but she was right on this (one) occasion. If only you had talked to her,fifty years ago before she died...you would have been three.Ok time for serious stuff.You probably don't know this but we're heading for a global recession/depression.What's the capital of Iceland? Reykjavik? No ..three dollars, boom boom.Do you have any idea what this means? Well remember that business you used to have? Plus ca change plus ca rest la meme as my granny used to say...one of the many things she was wrong about. A bientot.How's the trip going?
Well done that man.
You are not seriously going to tell me that the two wheel wanderlust is now out of your system!!!No more Horizons Unlimited, no more planning and dreaming. Agh go on with ye!! There is always South America!!!!!
Safe home.
But you may wish you had stayed in Morocco what with the chaos happening here!
Liam
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