Ali Baba…

The Souk

They are busy, vibrant and colourful places, culturally and economically important in the centre of most Arabian cities. Must see markets where you can buy almost everything you need at local prices

Part way through, I had sat down for a rest on a wooden bench by a simple tea seller when i noticed a tall man in a stripey, woollen kaftan, wearing mirrored sunglasses, sporting a large moustache and a fez on his head, heading over towards me. He introduced himself as Ali Baba, a local carpet trader and part time taxi driver.

“Where are you from?, London? Luvvly Jubbly?” he asked with a wry smile.

I told him I was from the north of England and he replied 

“Do you know Manchester? Good innit? Bobby Charlton?” and proceeded to kick an imaginary goal in the direction of a large stall of silver teapots.

He smiled and sat down next to me and tapped his long nose twice while continuing to ask questions in threes “You want spicey? For tonight? For you and your wife to share?”

Was he asking me if I wanted drugs?, Hasheesh? Or maybe Charlie?….(look, now Iv started the 3 question syndrome). Before I could answer he leaned in closer, I could now smell his breath, “Come, follow me, I show you! Good price”….and stood up and set off…

I followed him inquisitively, as he turned down a dimly lit, twisty passage leading to under the main souk. 

The passageway got darker as he beckoned me to continue and as we walked he started to ask more questions, “You like breasts?, I have…!, legs?, yes, I have…, beautiful thighs?, I have everything for you my friend, luvvly jubbly, Bobby Charlton, follow me…”

At this point, we entered a dimly lit but crowded area of noise and chaos with an overpowering, but unmistakable stench of butchery and slaughter. With piercing shrieking, yelling and squawking I realised we had entered the underground poultry market. Live birds were being grabbed from overcrowded cages and dispatched on bloody wooden chopping boards by machete wielding purveyors of fine, feathery flesh.

In the end, what I had failed to consider was that he had seen me sat there like a tourist with a souvenir tagine pot on my knee, clutching a wilted bunch of coriander and a bag of yellow saffron and had thought that I needed to find some fresh chicken for my traditional Berber cooking pot!

John Holts Reggie classic from 1973 is a perfect track to accompany today, here he is doing it live with the Royal Philharmonic in support.

Liability…

 liability

1. 1. 
   the state of being legally responsible for something.

I set the alarm for an early start as I needed to get to the council offices as soon as they had opened. 

Over the weekend I had noticed, and noted down, quite a few public trip hazards as I ambled around the town. I knew there was no point trying to alert the authorities on a weekend so I was ready this morning with photographic evidence and GPS locations.

Some were ridiculous holes that a bumbling, bewildered pensioner could have fallen into and easily have fractured a pelvis. 

They assured me that this matter would be dealt with today and appropriate signage and temporary heras fencing erected forthwith.

With that, I visited Fast Frank from Fez for a haircut and a cut throat shave and then visited my old mate Ahmed, who did me a good deal on a push-rod for a couple of days to visit the marina and beyond.

It was good to see on the way back that my voice had started to make a difference.

Today’s mellow offering is ‘Lorde’s’ 2017 single as reminder to anyone listening from the local Agadir council, especially the highways and byways department, to get this work done before the claims start coming in…

Fashion Crisis hits New York…

On the approach into Ukrainian airspace the pilot seemed to get suddenly diverted due to flashes of bright lights and bad turbulence so quite a few hours later we landed. The large moustachioed customs man stamped my passport on arrival with the words “Velkom to Agadoo Mr Gary”

Exhausted with jag lag I made my way to the overnight accommodation provided to find that it wasn’t quite ready as builders hadn’t quite put the finishing touches on it yet.

Things always look better in the morning sun, I told myself. The hotel didn’t,  but a morning walk revealed a more promising sight. Now, clearly in North Africa, the sun was shining and palm trees and abundant succulent cactus improved the mood.

My first job today was to nip down the shops to get some replacement clobber as i knew that walking around, wearing just a thong, was probably prohibited in a Muslim country. With it being Sunday, most of the shops were closed but i did manage to get a few bits from a helpful fella at the local souk.

I have to say, the folk are really friendly and helpful. I only needed a few things but ended up buying a complete wardrobe of traitor style cloaks, 3 thick wollen kaftans, several pairs of camel leather slippers, 4 fashionable hats, a kilo of dates, 5 litres of Argan oil and even a couple of handmade carpets due to the man knowing that not only did his three brothers had shops open today but so did his nephew and brother in law too. It took most of the day and several cups of mint tea later before we loaded up his father-in-laws taxi to head back to the hotel….

“What a hippy diddly crazy world”

The Frank and Walter’s came out with this in 1991 and it’s stuck with me since hearing it…

 

The Luckiest…

 My kick off track for this trip is slow start from a favourite of mine, Ben Folds to ease us in to the travelling mood. The MO of the blog hasn’t changed, a hand picked song from my personal archive, loosely linked to some dubious creative tomfoolery, pathetically described as a purposeful travel blog to link my memories over the years of places I have been and had fun in. A handy video always links the track to the blog to enjoy at the end….enjoy the ride!

So, let’s make a start…

The colourful adverts on the telly over the festive period, promoting sun, sea and dolphins in pristine, exclusive, all-inclusive resorts with first class travel persuaded me to enter the ‘Once in a lifetime’ mystery holiday lottery. All I had to do was text in the code ‘NTWK32’ into ‘ X ‘ to be in with a chance of winning.

Imagine my surprise when a white limousine pulled up outside and a scantily clad model climbed out of the side door, wielding a massive cardboard boarding pass, and started to walk up the garden path. I excitedly opened the front door to receive the prize and dutifully posed for the obligatory photograph to mark the occasion…..

Wow…”I’m ready for this”…I had won the dream holiday!

I borrowed a large suitcase and a small pink fanny-pack from the well traveled Darcy and Imogen, next door. Experienced travellers who had recently returned from a long Caribbean cruise. I didn’t really have enough stuff for the 36kg allowance but I spent the next few days emptying cupboards and loading it up with beachwear, flippers, teabags, donkey jacket, a lilo and several tins of Heinz beans and then sat on it until it clicked shut.

On arrival at the airport, I was taking no chances. I stood and watched in amazement as the case spun round and round on the baler machine as 25 quids worth of cling film was wound tightly round it, equating to about 4inches of added security, before I headed off to the illuminated check in barriers.

I had a feeling that the massive boarding card that I had manhandled here on the tram wouldn’t scan just as easy as a QR code on a mobile, so it wasn’t a surprise when two armed policeman showed up and helpfully escorted me to the office of the head of security to sort it out.

“It’s a crock of Grok, a scam” exclaimed the Chief Officer. “Your’e the seventh loser today that has turned up here thinking you have won a free trip”. 

He laughed as he explained that it was all part of Elong Muck’s new AI chatbot ‘Grok’ that creates visual images, now by virtual telepathy,, in your head, warping your brain and includes non-consensual sexualised images that fool you into thinking it’s reality.

It turns out that when I had seen the limousine turn up, it wasn’t a limousine, it was just Mariuz, in the local DPD van and the bikini clad model I saw was just his fat grumpy Filipino bride that helps him with the deliveries. The paparazzi photograph, again, was just him taking the usual quick snap to confirm delivery and finally, the oversized cardboard boarding pass was nothing more than a small tube of grease for the bottom bracket of the Brompton that I had ordered last week from Amazon….

All this was a bloody scam…I’m gutted.

Completely disappointed, I sat down and looked sadly up at the departure screen showing all the romantic destinations I could have been jetting off to…Tel Aviv, Bogotá, Kuala Lumpur, Frankfurt, Stansted…

….Wait, I’m not going to be beat, I’m here now and I’m packed and ready to go absolutely anywhere. 

Im not one to quit (irony)…I headed straight for the flight desk information.

There are always a few seats available at the last minute so I asked for a seat on the very next flight on the runway and it didn’t matter to me where. I would be going at least ‘somewhere’ for some well deserved ‘winter sun’ after all.

I was presented with a second boarding card and directed hastily to E17 as last call was boarding in ten minutes, no time for dilly-dallying.

I plonked down my luggage at the check-in of the Lancashire airline, ‘Th’Easyjet’ and was greeted, quite gruffly, by a battle axe dressed in orange crimplene with the words “Your over-weight!!”…

The cheeky bugger, if I’d had a bit more time I’d have explained that I’m nearly 60 and have put on a bit of timber due to my over active thyroid and slow metabolism issues but then realised awkwardly that she was pointing to my suitcase.

.”Your entitled allowance for this airline ticket is cabin baggage only” she barked, shook her head and proceeded to slap on a red sticker that said ‘CAT1 - ONLY FOR DESTRUCTION’. She then smiled menacingly, and proceeded to press the button on the desk. I watched on helplessly, as 36.2 kilo’s of cling-filmed ‘Samsonite’ slowly made its way up the conveyor belt, turning left through a curtain under a sign that said ‘ICW COMPACTOR’ never to be seen again!

I grabbed my active boarding pass off her, turned sharply on my heels, with only my borrowed pink fanny-pack as hand luggage, I snaked hurriedly through security and customs, arriving at D35 just as the gate closed behind me. 

Sweaty and breathless I boarded the plane last and sat down in the only vacant aisle seat a pushed my single piece of hand luggage, containing only an iPad and an old leopard-skin, licra thong, under the seat.

I’d made it…finally up in the air!

I sat back as the plane accelerated up the runway and thought to myself, 

Where the hell is BELARUS anyway?

Shaking body…

As part of the fiesta, I could only think that it was the turn of the Basque Separatists to start the day’s celebrations! As at 8 ‘o’ clock on a sunny Sunday morning, hundreds of loud bombs went off in the street outside, shaking and waking the dead and the post party people who were still feeling emotionally fragile!

It turned out the ‘firecrackers’ indicating that the ‘Dames & Divas’ (from Friday night …keep up…) were being rounded up from their colourfully painted houses by ‘The Donald’ Trumpeteers, who were next up the street making a bloody racket…

Valencian Pelota, played in the street was interesting to watch.

Finally, as darkness fell the final solemn parade of the day set off from the little church.

THE END

The groovy ‘Ezra Collective’ is today’s choice of music to wrap things up as these boys can blow a trumpet at a party - see them here on a live session for 6Music.

Fiesta…

Last nights celebrations went well and, as always, the good looking lass with the wealthy family tree was crowned this year’s winner as the other, less fortunate ones just clapped with acceptance.

But now, in the cold 🥶 light of day, there is a big problem in Ador…

The mayoress of Ador, Greta Trumpberg, last night dictated to the gathered masses in the square, that under no circumstances, and from immediate effect, can any fires be lit for fear of starting a wildfire. 

This now sadly means that the traditional cooking of paellllia on traditional paellllia day can no longer go ahead. Special paellllia police have been brought in to ensure that no sparks fly and anyone found with so much as a box of matches will be kettled up dog shit alley and taken away to the specially built paellllia cells in the square.

Th’Ex-Pats and Anti-Climate change activists are feeling deeply devastated and emotional. They have already been to Aldi for all the ingredients and several crates of beer to have the party rug pulled out from them at the eleventh hour.

A few gas bottles arrived and a sound system started banging out the tunes which signalled that the street party had begun…

As the first few drinks started to get poured, it was then time to leave and head back as the chicken & pie and baked spud dinner was ready and on the table!

Later that evening it was the fancy dress parade…

‘Fiesta’ by ‘The Pogues’ and the late great Shane McGowen who was also known for enjoying a chicken & ham pie or two…was the obvious choice for today’s track.