20th September, early.
I finally got out for a run today, the 1/2 marathon is in 4 weeks and I am woefully under prepared. This morning I had to drag myself up and down the beach.
Tagazout continues to reveal herself to me. The road in from Agadir runs along the back of the beach. The village is hidden behind a curve. After my run, when I returned around the bend the village was humming. On the last piece of road a bus, I think the 32, was loading passengers. I remember being surprised at its modernity, especially the computerized ticket dispenser. I walked on the outside of the bus; no room across the pavement. Opposite a man grabbed chickens out of a truck, by the wings, and slung them into a packed mesh cage measuring about one by one metres. Behind the chickens is a mosque, which is no more than a tower stuck on a cafe. (I’m guessing there’s a prayer room inside.) People passed, but most waited, in cars, on the little brick walls, next to the bus, etc.. This throb of life seems more real, more acceptable, than the rat-race of Amsterdam. I can’t put my finger on it, but maybe it’s this. Here in Tagazout you can (almost) see it all, the perfect toy village. The fisherman selling his wares, the factory workers waiting for a lift, the builders propping up supporting beams with driftwood. The connections, the web of life, are easy to see. In the city, it’s all arbitrary, all zeros and ones, rules and regulations. It’s the management class Orwell et al. warned us about. I carried on thinking that animal rights is a rich western thing. Seeing those chickens man-handled makes me think of parts of England that only give a fuck about what Waitrose stock while millions of their countrymen live in fear and have been seduced by the BNP [and nationalism masquerading as patriotism, ‘I am not a racist, but...’.]
I continued walking and saw a raggedy man dressed in [Arabic] layers of clothing, all of which was filthy. He shuffled slowly, in small steps, as if he’d defiled himself. In front of his mouth he held a small food bag, which expanded like the cheeks of a bull frog, which he rustled before he inhaled. It’s been a while since I last saw a glue sniffer, and it certainly wasn’t in Amsterdam, but nothing changes. That look in their eyes is that of death and murder; everything’s autonomous. I’ve never seen war, but I imagine you acquire the same gaunt, schizoid, disconnected look.
Yes, for sure this place reminds me of Hull, but it’s better for two reasons and worse for 2 (that I can think of).
1) The weather’s nicer.
2) Hope endures because of purpose. The purpose of poverty [- Christ, I’ve missed it -] which the welfare state – or more accurately, the abuse of it – which the welfare state takes away[, is still alive here]. The mirror of this, of course, is that England’s a divided nation whose inhabitants are bombarded with destroyers of esteem. This doesn’t effect everyone, but it does effect the poor of, for example, Hull. And of course viscous circles are viscous. No time to be a victim here, you want food, grab your fucking rod.
1) No matter how you look at it, for those who survive their parents, England provides a state-funded education system that is 2nd to, well, none that I can think of. Some people here would trade willingly to have just 10% of the chances that are provided to every single English child.
2) Healthcare. Everyone here has bad teeth. Many hobble.
It’s funny. In England we have opportunities but don’t take them. Here, they have hardly any and take all they can. I often wonder how bad do things have to get in Hull before people realise the situation they are in? What could be done to create the self-awareness that is so desperately needed to enable the citizens to make half-decent decisions? It’s like we are not confident enough to be ambitious but not desperate enough either.
