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 Essaouira
New Year
Author: Rob Wood
“Ourghh, God”.
It was December 31, 1999 and after a month of touring through Morocco
I had finally fallen victim to the curse of the third world. For
me the catalyst was a chicken kebab roll. That was three days ago.
I moaned, clutching my
stomach and rolled over to the least painful position. My patience
with this condition was beginning to ware thin.
Don’t get me wrong,
boiled water mixed with electrolyte powder tastes just fine, but
that had been the total of my diet during some of the most excruciatingly
painful days of my life. I had been sick before, but never like
this. Nevertheless, I was hopeful that the major effects of my condition
would wear off by this afternoon, in time for the beginning of festivities
for the new-year.
Sure, a Moslem country
wasn’t going to be the wildest place to see in the new millennium,
but I was happy to be there with a few other visitors who hadn’t
decided to fly out to Europe for the big event. Unfortunately, to
the locals the year was still 1257 or some other equally uninspiring
number, so their enthusiasm was understandably subdued.
“I am going out,
do you want me to get you anything?” said my girlfriend as
she got up from her chair to leave. She was going out to catch up
with some new friends in beautiful, downtown Essaouira.
“A bullet?”
“I’m not
getting you a bullet! C’mon, it’s new years eve,”
she retorted with a cheesy, cheer-me-up grin.
“I’ll be
fine, just leave me some more electrolyte.”
“Ok, see ya,”
she said. Her compassion was almost smothering.
It was midday. I rolled
over and popped another Peptobismol. A few more of those babies
spaced out over the afternoon was sure to see me in top shape for
tonight. I went back to a very broken sleep.
Four o’clock, I
woke up and took another Pepto. I was beginning to think of that
packet as a long lost brother.
I was feeling a lot better
than yesterday, but I began to have doubts that I would be in perfect
health by this evening. I was trying to get excited. After all,
I had it on good authority that the beer would be flowing on the
beach near Hendrix’s Castle, away from the prying eyes of
the locals.
Seven PM. Time for a
shower. I gathered my gear and went off to the bathroom. By the
time I finished the twenty-meter walk it was really time to sit
down again. Hmm, that distinct lack of stamina may prove to be an
obstacle to the two-kilometer walk out to the party. After the exhausting
effort to dry myself and the return walk to my room, it was time
for another sleep. One more Pepto for good luck.
 Nine
o’clock and it was time to get ready. My girlfriend had returned
during my kindy-nap. She had even found some beer for us to take
out to the party.
“We’re meeting
everyone at ten thirty to walk out to the castle” she informed
me. No doubt there would be a throng of party-goers there waiting
for our imminent arrival!
“No problems,”
I winced, pulling my least dirty shirt over my head. Looking bad,
feeling worse – ready to party!
With her help I shuffled
my way down to the main street in Essouira to meet some friends
and other travellers we were going to spend the evening with. All
four of them.
“Let’s go,”
came the call. The group started making their way to the beach.
After about a hundred meters it was pretty clear that I was going
to struggle to keep up with them. I was already pretty tired. All
I wanted was to sit on the beach and sip on a beer. Unfortunately
the beach was still half a kilometer away.
“Go on,”
I said, “I’ll catch up.” But they had already
gone. It was just me walking slowly towards a distant fire that
I couldn’t yet see.
Hmm. Time for another
rest. Twenty minutes later I was ready to tackle the last hundred
meters to the beach. If only I could get to the sand, my morale
would surely pick up!
It was pretty dark by
this stage. In fact I couldn’t see very much at all, but the
sound of the surf could only be thirty meters away. Maybe even less
I told myself in a fit of misplaced optimism.
The smell of the surf
was welcome, but it was mixed with something slightly more pungent.
Hmm. What was that?
Finding myself in a huge
pile of camel shit, the smell grew stronger and left no mistakes
as to where I was. This was no ordinary camel to amass this ziggurat
of dung. This was a major feat of digestive, dromedarian engineering.
It took me several steps to extricate myself from the pile.
Both boots up to the
ankles were well covered. Time to wash my boots in the surf. At
least I was feeling slightly better, if still very tired. Of course,
it being dark, me being slightly groggy and the waves being fairly
substantial meant that I ensured my trousers were washed up to the
knees as well. Hmm, comfy.
I managed to walk a few
hundred meters. The sounds of bongo drums permeated the beach. No
doubt there was a stoned German tourist doing the bashing. Indeed
the lowest form of life in Morrocco has to be the stoned German
tourist. My wrath would have to wait. Time for another rest.
“Well, it’s
eleven o’clock,” said my girlfriend, having waited for
me and starting to sound a little worried that we might miss the
party.
“Time for one last
big effort I guess.”
Half an hour later we
were still a long way from the castle, but at least our friends
had given up on that idea too. They were sitting on the beach when
we arrived, just in time for the countdown.
“Four, three, two,
one, happy new millennium,” echoed the usual hailing in. The
beer flowed. We all soaked each other in alcohol.
My friends began to look
at me, brows furrowed.
“What?” I
asked, backing away at their unwelcome and ever closer appraisals.
“Whoa man, you
smell like camel shit!
Oh, what a night.
Author: Rob Wood
Email: news@polosbastards.com
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