Monday May 4th A minor kerfuffle over breakfast; our host did not ask what we wanted and gave us too much. More than that, with the strength of the coffee being as weak as it was Anthony wanted his made with milk. Getting the attendant's attention without being made to feel demanding was slow work, I think that on that day she was bored with being a hoteliers wife. But it gave us time to stash the food we could not eat in our bag. Three quarters of our Berber eggs went into the delicious Moroccan flatbread and the flatbread went into the bags that airports insist that liquids go in to go through security. Those bags fitted neatly in my handbag.
Packing up time, time to refill our suitcases and bags and not leave anything behind. In this respect losing the pyjamas was the loss we could live with and the warning we needed. We had packed and we were both in the car, when I said 'I am going to check the room again'. I did and I found nothing that we had left behind, but I did not know what I was to look for; Anthony did know what to look for-his credit cards. When they were not in any of the pockets of the light waistcoat he was wearing I went to check the shelf that he suggested. There were the two credit cards, in a small black folder on a shelf that was painted black. Panic well managed, we set off for Sidi Ifni via Tiznit.
The first surprise was discussing the weather with a bored policeman on the first serious roundabout we came to, the second, milder, surprise was taking a wrong turning soon after chatting about the weather. But one of the better points about making your mistakes with travel, and choosing a direction, is making your mistakes early, it minimises the seriousness of the delay you have doubling back.
Anthony spoke of the 'Leopard skin hills' as a way of describing the stunning effect of the dark of the many trees dotted against the light coloured clay of the many small mountains/big hills that we saw as Anthony drove slowly. The sheer scale of the scenery as Anthony negotiated with so many hairpin bends where the roads were narrow wowed us to silence when the CD player was not on.
The CD player was definitely off when we arrived in Tiznit; it was huge city that seemed to build up from nothing, Anthony drove along six lane highways that went on for miles with sky scraper sized buildings with big gaps between them either side. One of the skyscrapers even had the graffiti of a a single glamorous female figure on the side, all umpteen floors the height of it. If I had to guess I'd say that the image was pro-government propaganda, nothing that height and size could be attributed to the political opposition. The activity on the roads and at the side of the roads, people driving or waiting for buses at bus stops, was dwarfed by the sheer scale of the place, which also made what human activity there was seem slow and inconsequential.
Getting out of Tiznit the right way proved to be easy, the signs for Sidi Ifni were obvious. Many of the roads that we travelled on before the road into Tiznit were narrow and bendy. One of the common feature of these roads was seeing little piles of stones every few miles. Who made these these cairns and why they remained there remained unknown. On the roads out of Tiznit there were no such cairns. The road we were on was too new and the character of it was not yet formed, maybe it never will be. The signs at the side of the road giving directions in Moroccan were interesting mysteries to me.
We parked and drank some water by another dead and rather photogenic olive tree, cue the getting out of cameras and working out from which angle the tree looked best. With this light everything looks wonderful, but we will only know what is good when we see them full size on the laptop for the first time. Soon after we found what seemed to be a coast road which had more character. What we saw looked like a bigger version of Ireland, but there were still no cairns. We passed near an abandoned settlement called Mirleft. My immediate reaction was one of sadness. We had seen lots of Moroccan housing in the three days of being here. I admired the simplicity of it and the way it fitted in with the landscape. Most housing was a box with turrets on the the corners, set in a hillside. Often there were clusters of boxes, a small community with the houses painted different bright pastel colours, blues, reds and yellows. Sometimes what you would see would be strips of different colours melting into the hillside with windows in the strips of colour that to those with active imaginations could look like eyes. Mirleft was half-built estate the 'sea' side of the road that we passed through in that style community. But half the buildings were only half painted and the windows left an impression of emptiness. It was some time after Mirleft that we stopped to lick up our first hitch-hiker, we had seen a quite a few but had not stopped because of time or the way the back seat of the car had been filled. He was on his way to Sidi Ifni and got out first thing after being quiet, Anthony spoke french and he spoke Berber. I spoke only English and had the most reason to be quiet.
With Ramadan still on, the seaside town of Sidi Ifni was hot, tired looking, and it seemed unfairly shut down. We found the hotel easily once we found the boat that was the public landmark close to it. We had more water and a late lunch of leftovers from breakfast on the roof of the hotel, where we were not the only guest taking in the views. There was a German/Lithuanian gentleman called Rolando was also resting after his travels. I found some tangerines from a small corner of my suitcase which I had almost forgotten about, only the skins looked tired. Anthony enjoyed them along with the last of the strawberries he had bought several days before which had become mildly alcoholic.
With the sound of the Atlantic Ocean washing over us and the birds arguing all day long in the decorative palms to the front and left of the hotel, settling into our room was easy. The sight of the sea was more difficult, since Anthony had been here twenty five years ago developers had built another hotel in front of our hotel, which was the original beach front building.
Anthony rested all afternoon. Were there any pleasure to be gained from seeing shops and fronts that are shut and inactive until Ramadan ends, another twenty four hours away? I think there was, I found it in the murals of the local school which are there all year round. I have seen several modern looking supermarkets, both here and in Tafraout, and I have not gone into them. I did not with the one I saw here because, well, I might enjoy the air conditioning but there is nothing I want to buy in them and they seem oddly luxurious and alien to the area given the friendly down at heel character I have seen everywhere else. I was already an alien as a tourist, I would more of an alien for going in to browse.
Our evening meal was in the hotel and it was light and splendid. No vegetable soup for starter, but spicy carrots and roast potatoes with other veg for the main course, and two slices of freshly made sponge cake for pudding. Rolando introduced himself again, more fully this time. Anthony chatted with him most, and tested out the levels of outrage Rolando would accept with his (Anthony's comments on eating meat. I said little and maybe pushed Anthony to say more but even in language I do understand I often find I have little to say with people I don't know. The two slices of freshly baked sponge cake/pudding would benefited greatly from some orange juice and/or a little grated bitter chocolate over it, but it was still good without.
We walked a little and looked at the other eateries nearby, which all looked out on to the Atlantic and discovered that what they had in location they lacked in menu. They were all serving pizzas and other more downmarket touristy fare. But who knows what thy would serve when there were more customers to serve? We were there well before the height of the season.
In the comfort of our rooms we read until bedtime I could get used to a single bad again if I had to, and having Patrick McCabe, or at least his book 'The Holy City', for company was fine with me. There is something about small town mistrust and optimism in small town Ireland that seems very familiar to me. Maybe it is the male characters who are drawn up as insecure sexual fantasists for whom anything female could be sex, clothing, talk, whatever, when most things are not intimate or sexual. Anthony is reading another, more emotionally mature book that I also brought with me, like the Patrick McCabe book, it was found for nearly nothing in a County Down charity shop, His book was 'H Is For Hawk' by Helen MacDonald. It is a book that I remembered the title of, from it being read on Radio 4 when it won prizes several years ago, and I remember the readings having an effect on me, but, like many such books, I have forgotten what it was actually about.
For day 6 of this Holiday Memoir please click here.
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