constanttrek

Rabat

June 16th, 2005

Elle "the body" McPherson; Kate "the rake" Moss:

Paula, "THE GODDESS" Constant. 

Oh, yeah, baby, I really do look this stupid.  Every day.

Utterly absurd headgear and tent-like material swathes notwithstanding, we have arrived in Rabat at last.   I think we are still in Morocco; though this modern, sterile space feels rather more Paris than Marrakech.  I mean, there is actually flesh on display!  Loads of it!  Legs, arms, hair…singlet tops for goodness sake!  The brazen hussies.  I was positively shocked.

It is rather a contrast after the past few days walking.  We left Ksar el Kebir and headed back out to the coast, where there is still a blissful Atlantic breeze to take the edge off the heat.  Once past Casablanca, we have no choice but to head inland, so we figure we should make the most of any possible breeze whilst we can.  Moulay Bousselham, where we stopped for a couple of days to restore our delicate intestines, is not much more than a fishing village with a strip of overpriced tourist restaurants – but we had a great view of the lagoon, and more importantly, a cool space to recover in.  Which we really needed.

We left in rather better shape than we arrived, and headed down a minor road toward Kenitra, eighty kilometres away.  Just out of Moulay Bousselham we came around a bend in the road and across a strip of potholed tarmac lined with smoking litter heaps and tumbledown shanties.  The street was absolutely heaving with men milling about; it looked as though the road was an assembly point for workers looking for a day’s labour in the nearby fields, and everywhere they stood about in groups.  There were literally hundreds of them, and we, very obviously, weren’t local. 

We took a breath and just kept on walking, straight through the crowd, which closed behind us and followed us up the road.  If you have ever wondered what it feels like to be a mannequin in a Christmas window at Harrods, I suggest you try it sometime; Claudia Schiffer naked could not have attracted more attention than we did.  But Gary, bless him, looked at all and sundry and gave a cheery smile and (really badly accented) "Bonjour" to everyone – and we got exactly the same back.  I was absolutely astounded.  We kept on walking, though, I tell you!

After that the road became a peaceful wander past fields full of strawberries and sunflowers, beside mule drawn carts loaded with workers.  Everybody waved, smiled, and exchanged "salaams" with us as we went by – we had sore faces from returning all the huge smiles.

We learned very quickly that it is almost impossible to stop for a water break in solitude; the sight of us sitting by the roadside is an immediate invitation for every local about to come out and squat down beside us, conducting an entirely one sided conversation in Arabic, which we add little to aside from big smiles and the odd bit of comic theatre in an attempt to convey our meaning.   Not that it matters.  The inevitable end to these exchanges is a written address pressed into our hand with a telephone number and invitation to come and eat, drink tea, or stay the night.  I have a bum bag stuffed with addresses – mostly in Arabic.

That night we asked a sunflower farmer if we could camp.  His name is Said, and he and his wife were absolutely lovely to us.  They have two children, the eldest of whom is a little boy by the somewhat unfortunate name of Osama – even his Dad winced as he told us – who was absolutely fascinated by us.  He hung about the tent all through the process of setting up and cooking, and found the sight of me writing my journal irresistable.  Here he is peeking under the tent at the weird Western woman who writes backwards.

Said’s wife very kindly drew us some water from the well to have a wash in – she probably smelt us coming three kilometres before we got there – and we spent a very peaceful night overlooking their beautiful sunflowers.

The following morning we were most astonished, as we wandered along seemingly in the middle of nowhere, to be suddenly overtaken by two French guys on bikes – they had cycled from Paris.  And get this: it has only taken them ONE MONTH.

Man, wheels are a good invention.

We all stopped and de-packed and had a wonderful chat.  They told us that they get harassed a lot through the shanty towns, asked for pens and money by all the children.  We think that we have been pretty lucky; maybe because we look so overladen and exhausted, we rarely get harassed much past a shy child or two asking for a dirham, but even they give up pretty fast when they see us up close.  I don’t think we exude wealth, with our scavenged trolley and rope tied packs.  We certainly don’t smell of it – unless Versace has invented eau de shhhtinking lately.

We made it into Kenitra late that day, past the vile stretch of burning rubbish dump which ran for several kilometres and nearly fried our olfactory function into oblivion.  I mean, this thing made us smell good. 

Yesterday we walked the forty kilometres into Rabat down a totally different road again; this was also a national route road, like the one to Ksar el Kebir, but out here on the coast it is a different world to the endless parade of shanty towns and starving roadside sellers that is the inland route.  Along this road, everyone is working, and smiling, and singing; they all call out to us and everyone – and I do mean everyone, no matter how overloaded the wagon – offers us a lift.  We have turned down more rides in the last week than in the entire time we have been walking.  Everybody shakes their head and gives us a bemused laugh – like: what the hell do you want to walk for when there is a perfectly good horse and cart here for your convenience?

Indeed.

About twenty kilometres from Rabat we ran into a police block, and gary got his big laugh of the day.  At my expense, of course.

Since Gary still doesn’t speak French ( I am dumping him in it since he laughed at me) I got stuck talking to the policeman.  After the initial greetings and in response to his questions, the conversation went something like this:

Me: "We are two Australians, and we have been walking for ten months, through France, Portugal, Spain, and now Morocco.  We love Morocco, it is a very beautiful country:"

HIM: "Are you married?"

ME: "Um, yes, this is my husband."

HIM: " Do you have children?"

ME: "No."

HIM: "How old are you?"

ME (lying so he didn’t think we were weird without children): "twenty five."

HIM (nodding dismissively at Gary) "how old is he?"

ME: " thirty."

HIM: (dismissing gary entirely at this point) "that is the problem.  He is too old for you.  You need a younger husband who can give you children."

At this point he gently nudged Gary out of view altogether and began talking very merrily away to me, making it generally obvious that he would be a rather better option marriage wise than Gary, who was obviously stupid as he spoke no French, useless as he hasn’t knocked me up yet, and ridiculous anyway because he has a "tourist beard".

One would think that my husband would begin to get rather irate at this point; but if you thought that, you obviously haven’t met the Constant boys, who are so laid back they make a hammock look stressed out; Gary just stood on the sidelines and pissed himself laughing at the entire scenario, until eventually I declined the offers of marriage and we went on our way, leaving the policeman very bemused as to why I would actually choose to stay married to such a useless Western bloke when I could have a proper Moroccan man in uniform.

You know what – maybe he has a point.

Anyway, we headed onwards until we eventually got here, the cosmopolitan, very sophisticated and not remotely busy modern capital, where we have the usual array of embassy visa things to get sorted out.  It really feels as though we have landed in a different country from the one we have been walking through.  But it will be a nice break for a few days.

On to Casablanca from here, hopefully no more than a week away, and then -gasp, shudder, horror – inland through the stifling heat to Marrakech. 

Meanwhile, the tajine on the way in was the best we have had so far, and the rgayef – flaky crepey thing – with honey was a gorgeous brekky this morning, so I am holding out high hopes of wallowing in food for a bit. 

Yum.  All is well in my world now that I can eat again.

 

Entry Filed under: trekking