18th of September, 2010, 12/13:??, Agadir.
We finally got moving at about 11. We parked up the other end of the seafront and walked down. Within yards we encountered a beggar who looked like she’d urinated against the car she was squatting against. Moments later, we came across a Thomas Cook hotel and just sauntered in, casual like. Maybe a hundred people, defined by their socio-economic class, not their age, hung out. Thumping house music blared out, some reps sprung around in the pool-side bar area organising a game. I think the guests were mainly German. The lobby was full of cases. We guess it’s time for those people to go home. [The poor older guests looked utterly bemused, the young just wanted to sit, nobody wanted to play the game with the reps.]
Because I like the working classes, or maybe because I just like those who don’t stand on airs and graces, people who expect nothing of me, the idea of a package holiday appeals, although I admit, when a package holiday is a choice, when anything’s a choice, they are always much more appealing[; for many, the only way to see Morocco is via Thomas Cook].
We [continued walking and] passed a pub with “English Pub” written in humongous lettering across a Union Jack, which was on the wall of an overpass the pub was built into. Moroccans here [in Agadir] are more pushy to sell, but not as pushy as other countries. In a way, the Moroccans are like the Thais; they seem to have a certain amount of pride. [They may also not need the money so badly or maybe I’ve got a ‘don’t mess with me’ look in my eye (and clothes etc.) that I didn’t have ten years ago.]
I seem to remember that the civilisations of South America couldn’t grow beyond a certain size because of their technology – no wheel? These sea-side places all seem to grow to about the same size. At the heart [of the promenade] is a complex with a Maccie’s sign on the top. [The size of the place is bound by the tourist money.]
[Last night] I fell asleep early, 21:30, after pizza and water – we are both coked out (we try to drink a glass a day to kill germs). I had a sore throat and stiff muscles, again, like I am getting sick. In the day we’d been at the beach, not for long, and then we lounged on the couch. [The sliding windows open fully, the rocks are not more than a stones throw beneath us, they say the sound of swishing water reminds us of being in the womb. Bollocks.]
I woke up this morning with a sniffle, then I made a cup of tea, then I closed my eyes on the couch and listened to the waves. I fell into a deep sleep where I dreamt about not being able to wake up. I imagine people die like this, thinking, I’ll just close my eyes for 5. Faulkner and Beevor have influenced me.
We don’t drink alcohol here. Nor coffee. I hope that what I am feeling are withdrawal symptoms, however, I fear that it’s something else. The stimulants of Amsterdam seem to be vital for me, yet, even they’ve not being enough of late. Is 2010 the year my body starts to frustrate my ambitions proper?
