Sidi Ifni, Morocco II

In an endless hazy future full of rocky hills, black shrouded women balancing large ceramic brown jugs rode side saddle on donkeys plodding miles to a shallow well inside circular stones.

The two lane road ran 40 kilometers south to Sidi Ifni, an old Spanish enclave on cliffs over the Atlantic.

Sidi Ifni, with 15,000 people, existed on rolling hills above the sea. In a lush valley beneath old Moorish castles stood two cinder block construction enterprises, wadi oasis palms, gardens and tributaries running to the sea.

He watched thin men sift sand and gravel through wire screens and run belching machines pressing out bricks. Another man driving a tractor hauled them to waiting trucks.

Belonging to Spain until 1969, the faded town’s facades suffered from emptiness, wind and water. Sharp white cubist building block homes lay scattered on hills breaking light and lines. It was an old art deco town full of dead decayed deserted buildings from an elegant forgotten history. Rumor had it that European expats were buying holiday apartments for $2-10 grand.

He found a room in a cheap hotel overlooking the Atlantic and rested for three days.

Mosque masters in Sidi Ifni called five times a day. Trick or treat. Sleep deprivation became the norm. Late to bed and early to rise makes a man crazy.

He walked on the beach with an unemployed internet worker from North Carolina. Bill had never been out of the states before. He was shocked and fascinated by Morocco.

“The poverty levels are really amazing,” he said.

“You get used to economic realities, touts and price gouging. It’s a poor cheap country. The people are kind and very hospitable.”

“Fez was amazing, then I got sick for three days in Meknez. Had to rest.”

“It’s easy to get lost in the labyrinth. Why did you pick Morocco?”

“My partner, Sam, a world traveler, had it in mind and then we were laid off. He asked me if I wanted to come along. I had three weeks to get it together; shots, pack and stuff. It was pretty crazy but I made it.”

Sam was a savvy cynical travel expert. He told people he was Australian, just in case. A well rehearsed diversion after 9/11.

“The Greek islands are cheap, specifically Santorini,” Sam said one night over a bad meal of fish and rice in the hotel restaurant. “Thailand and Laos are good bargains as well.”

The deserted beach at Sidi Ifni stretched for miles. Renegade surfers relishing excellent conditions camped to the north.

They walked along wild waves talking about writing down their experience and the vagaries of publishing.

“North Carolina is somewhere over there,” Bill said, pointing west. “Imagine that. I’ve never been away from home before.”

“You either get used to it or get back where you feel comfortable.”

They shared stories about writing habits, goals and efforts to get material published.

“You need a hook, a marketing platform, be willing to fail, rejections are part of the process, murder your darlings, overcome the fear of making it perfect and be passionate about your work. We’ve learned this through trial and error.”

“Publishing is a business. Consider these numbers. The bottom line for an agent is, can they make 15% on your book? A hard back book retails for $25. The author makes $3 per copy. It all goes to publishing marketing budgets. The shelf life of a book is maybe 6 months, tops.”

“I see. Yes,” said Bill, “the pitfalls, the joy of creating, writing for yourself and not worrying about the market. Keeping it real.”

“Yes. What’s real? Give your characters desire and conflict in the first five pages. Take them on some kind of journey with wants, obstacles, resolutions and character arc. It’s about contrasts and using all your senses. Have fun with it. Nobody in 200 years will want to read it.”

“Well, knowing that takes the pressure off."

“No fear. Finally, make your query letters human, don’t kill your query in the synopsis, reduce the synopsis to a single sentence for your pitch and establish your marketing platform.”

“Thanks. I’ll give it a shot when I get back.”

“My pleasure. Just publishing stuff I’ve learned. Enjoying your trip?”

“Yes, it’s been very interesting. I rode a camel out into the dunes south of Zamora. It was really the only thing I wanted to do on the trip.”

“He paid way too much,” Sam said. “They ripped him off. He went out at 4 p.m. They rode for an hour, camped overnight, had breakfast and returned to the hotel. It’s strictly for tourists. He could have found something cheaper.”

“It was really cold out there,” Bill said. “I couldn’t sleep and stayed awake almost all night. The stars were amazing! They were so close I just stayed awake staring at them until dawn.”

It was a place of clarity, insight and understanding for him.

Bill and Sam were nervous about returning to the states coping with terrorist siege mentalities. Their days in an old Moorish civilization were numbered as they faced the unknown. They had to get their stuff out of storage when they returned and find new jobs.

In their country of birth people loved storage facilities and, over history, had accumulated tons of stuff and needed a place for it because it was precious to them.

They were attached to it. They birthed it, married it, raised it and buried it in caves of their desire.

They had to put it someplace else because their palatial homes, caves, hovels and shopping carts were filled to the brim. They consigned it to cement storage facility rooms hidden behind a maze of security gates, security fences, and secure padlocked doors in run down industrial zones trapped in the bowels of cities showing their age where it collected dust.

Later, when he rested in The Red City he remembered the fine print about packing light. He surveyed his stuff.

He was ready, willing, able and well prepared for invasions and grounded special forces with the latest killing technology.

Exploring general theories of relativity he’d assembled his Zone II medical kit, dehydration packets, emergency space blanket, 20 year old Swiss climbing boots, Swiss army knife, short-wave radio, R-11 telephone jack, energy adapters, battery charger and a zip drive for backups.

He carried phrase books, geographical maps, a water purifier, modems, lip balm, chopsticks, dental and mental floss, sarong, harmonica, immunization record, watercolors, a resume containing 50 summers, ink cartridges, journals, a warm heart and cool mind.

“Pack everything and then cut it in half” was the admonition.

His reality was carry on. Reality was overrated.