Twice-Converted

One of the first things you'll notice driving the highway from Agadir to Tangiers is that there are cops holding what look like 19th century cameras at right angles to their eyes while dressed in their pretty suits and standing in the bushes. They only pop up every half hour or so, thus greatly reducing the chances of actually photographing one of these marvelous creatures in their newly adopted habitats when speeding by at a whopping 80km/h. Thanks to the French plates on Emilie and Sliman's camper, we didn't have to bribe our way out of any bullshit. The first night we stopped in Marrakech, I ate brain and slept in a tent just off the highway. Wasn't too keen on the sleeping situation, but the camper blocked my tent from sight, and I have strong enough lungs to wake up Emilie and Sliman 5 feet and one metal door away, if need be. I was refreshed in the morning (think it was the brain) and ready for another day of driving and music played too loud. Being on the road is almost a surefire bet to spark a rash of optimism, and it did...more or less.

The second night we camped in a mobile home lot. The most precious memory of this place was walking into the public bathroom and watching a guy combing his hair in the mirror; nothing particularly odd, it just struck me. Next day Emilie and Sliman dropped me in Tangiers as they made way for France. Took a bus from Tangiers to Ceuta/Sebta, a Spanish city on the Moroccan mainland. Whoever says Spain isn't part of Africa, I'd like to give'm a knuckle sandwich. At the border I was approached by a Moroccan with immigration forms, proffering his pen, telling me what each line required (It's okay, I can read English. French, too); I knew where this was going, but for some reason or other, allowed the drama to play out. After the form was filled I got the money hastle, responded with a reprimand (pliantly accepted!), gave the guy 5 dirhams, and was called a good man by an on-looker (couldn't tell if he was mocking me by playing the Uncle Tom). And so I went through the border and explored Ceuta for about three hours before heading back from "Spain" into Morocco. Three hours was enough for me to get a sense of this border town--everybody looks like they've done something wrong and they're trying to blame it on you. The people who live there know what they're doing, and the people who move there do, too. Also, I stopped by a gas station convenience store to pick up some Christ of the Sea mussels, fruit juice, a fun-size can of Pringles with which to scoop aforementioned Christ of the Sea mussels, an ice cream sandwich, and a 70 centiliter bottle of Gordon's Special Import Gin.

With my booty in tow, I walked toward the Moroccan border. This time, instead of letting the immigration slip get out of hand, I just took it from the guy offering them, said thanks, and walked on to the line ahead of me. He attempted to explain the sheet to me and I told him it was in my language, so I didn't need his help. He went back to his perch and muttered something in Arabic I could tell was directed at me, and so I asked him --What? --what? --you said something and I didn't understand --you didn't understand? --no, I didn't (everybody in line is looking over their shoulders despite the cordial affect we've both taken on) --oh, I said thank you --hmm. That was it, I filled out my form in peace and waited in line until this man was moved (good will? resignation? respect?) to tell me I could find a shorter line for non-Moroccans around the corner, and indeed, I did. The Moroccan immigration officer gave me a bit of grief, but stamped me through in the end. Then it was a bus to Tangiers and the night train to Marrakech. Then the bus to Tiznit. Then the grand taxi to Mirleft. And I'm back. Hard travel turned me into a grump for a day or two, made me want to make someone cry so I'd cry. On the up and up, now; finished a poem (though I don't believe it is finished with me) which is over on The Euphemist, enjoying not having to do anything I don't want (to do) or my body doesn't require (from me), playing at various virtual personalities. Narration is an ironicization of the self. Is that even a word?