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.

Cadiz Gypsy Flat

It was a Cadiz flat with a gypsy family for a month. A room ran $500 (75,000 psts) with full board. He had a space and the family received extra cash.

Spanish gypsies left India in the 9th century. They traveled via Istanbul and Europe or through Egypt and North Africa arriving in the 15th century. Half of Spain’s 600,000 gitanos lived in Andalusia.

In 1499 Spain enacted laws intended to keep the gypsies from wandering. They were forbidden to own horses, work as blacksmiths, use Gitano names, their language or wear their clothing. They were on the outside looking in.

As a type of song, music and dance, flamenco was introduced by the Gypsies in the 18th century. The essence of flamenco is the depth of a deep song or cante jondo, a lament of the marginalized gitano. Early forms featured the accompaniment of a single hammer striking an anvil. Gypsy work.

Amelia, an overweight diabetic ate extremely fast, her unemployed husband Jasus who resembled Icabod Crane and son Jasus II, 20.

The son was a mental case; studied engineering in school played computer games and laid around their microscopic flat watching soccer on television with the volume on full blast.

His father made ends meet by selling cheap scarves on a table along chipped battered walls outside the market across from his local bar. It was a small town and everyone knew everyone. C’ la vie.

Another resident was Dortmund, a gay German flight attendant for an international airline working the South American circuit. He had a room in the apartment for a month while improving his Spanish with a private teacher. They talked from 9-12 every day.

One day in the kitchen he said, “It’s great being here, no one knows where I am and I like it like that. Nothing to do but study.” He carried a mobile.

This wasn’t exactly true. They met one day in an internet cafe.

“Hi Dortmund. How’s it going?”

“Great, I’m on-line with a boy in Germany. This is a great chat room. We’re talking about getting together when my studies are finished.”

He spent a lot of time chatting with boys on-line in Cadiz and looking at his mobile. The city was a relaxed place for his encounters with young boys at night when bars and cafes spilled people into streets and he was very happy. Spanish was the language of love. It smelled like exotic perfume. Forbidden fruit hung heavy throughout the city. Young and ripe for the picking.

The ghost’s Cadiz room was small, noisy and tolerable for completing a sentence or two and gathering digital images for future reference and creative projects.

His sentence, this sentence, was a metaphor for putting in his time somewhere in the world. He liked living on the edge. He knew if he wasn’t living on the edge he was taking up too much space. He sharpened his senses there. He’d put his time in Vietnam, Bali, China, Kuwait, Saipan, Canada, OZ, Ireland, Israel, Japan, Bhutan, Tibet and then Morocco. Part and parcel of the grand adventure called life.

In Cadiz he wrote one true sentence, murdered his darlings in their sleep when their day was down, done and out. He dispersed word garbage to wheeled curbside trash containers under the cover of darkness.

Spanish men in blue collector uniforms with yellow safety stripes rolled through at midnight. They were followed by teams of men hosing down the narrow cobblestone streets. Word flotsam flooded city grates.

An immigrant man selling liquid below his balcony sang, “Don’t be fooled by cheap imitations. Everything must go. Going out of business sale.”

Yellow street lights played on wrought iron balconies above an old man walking his creaky Labrador. Two intellectuals holding hands discussed economics in Spanish. Medical students planned future operations.

The local unemployment rate was 40%. Andalusia was the poorest province in Spain. Sexually repressed women prowled their world studying cobblestones as they walked through loneliness looking for future lovers, husbands and fathers of their countless Catholic children. Lonely heart club ads filled the paper.

Their conjecture about possibilities filled the air with hope. Young boys feeling scooter engine heat beneath them and hot girlfriend’s arms around a waist escaped their parent’s world. Zooming past pedestrians.

An old couple supported each other’s arms taking small steps toward their future. Small significant gestures of love and affection flowered. It rained flowers.

In an upstairs flat with an open balcony on the world he wrote by a single desk lamp, with Spanish jazz music a rhythm for fingers. He studied a map of the province.

After a month he was bored and visited Patricia at the tourism office to see about new places. She pointed out quiet coastal towns.

“Villages really, full of Germans this time of year. It depends on what you want.”

She highlighted areas north of Cadiz; Arcos de la Frontera and the small towns of Bornos, Villamartin, Prado del Ray. She pointed to a place named Grazalema.

“This is a national park, one of the most extensive and well protected areas in Andalusia. The pueblo has a population of 2,300 people, 146 species of birds, tracts of Spanish fir and excellent climbing. It’s a beautiful area. One of my favorites but it will be cold there in the winter.”

Her broken English was better than his Spanish. Everyone talked in broken tongues. They hinged meaning through gesture and intellectual guesswork. They attached meaning to gestures, facial expressions and vocal tone.

Orphans ate inherited soil. She took classes in the morning and did a three month practicum at the local tourism agency from 5-8 p.m. She hated it.

Her coworker, Maria, dreamed of owning a Harley.

“My dream is to graduate and move to Germany to work in the travel business,” Patricia said. “Three years in Spain doing theory and practical work is a struggle for me.”

Lhasa Meditation

This is an auspicious time to be here. Still, one needs to be aware of the energies and practice discernment especially when dealing with and recognizing sensitivities and realities on the ground. This is vital.

Be wise and prudent in your actions and behaviors. You are a guest here with responsibilities for your remaining open, vulnerable, receptive and authentic.

It is essential for you to refresh, reinforce and renew your calm warrior nature. Keep a diamond in your mind. Foster and allow the creative instincts to guide your journey with clarity, insight and wisdom. Remain open and receptive to all the spiritual forces around you now. Cultivate, nourish and manifest your inner strength and focus to accept and acknowledge lessons and their deeper meaning.

Practice dignity and restraint. Conduct yourself with the mindfulness of realizing your divine essence. Meditate on the process of death.

Any Casualities? (Iraq war talk)

“Where does The Wasteland end?” said Elliot.

“The end is the beginning,” a mystic said.

“The inside is the outside veiled in mystery,” said a child playing with DNA building blocks.

“We need to make sure, absolutely sure we connect the dots between 9/11 and Iraq,” said a military analyst. “If we are successful,” he sighed, “the politicians will get out of the way and give us a ton of money - maybe even a glorious $250 billion or more to rebuild what we’ve destroyed. It’s our way or hit the heavily mined highway of death. You’re either with us or with the terrorists is our message to the world.”

“Yes,” barked a general, “these malicious vermin are the obstacles that stand between the Iraqi people and security. They are terrorists - no, they are rebels - no, they are freedom fighters, no, they are guerillas, no, they are...insurgents...”

“Whatever. The road through Babylon is endless. This campaign will be well received. We will liberate the oppressed,” said an old white haired man named Regime wearing a pacemaker. He loved a girl from Wyoming with a big spread.

Esteemed well qualified and duly elected members of a House on Main Street and their colleagues from a Congress seeking another term and automatic pay raises looked at him with contempt, disdain, incredulity, suspicion, amazement and pure terror.

“We ain’t in no fucking jungle on this Jack,” sneered a nautical seal looking for approval from his ringmaster. “This war is on track jack.”

“Collateral damage is a sorry fact of life,” said a man with a whip. He cut through red tape and everyone got out of his way.

“Bring them on I say,” yelled Bumsfeld. “Our God is bigger than their God for God’s sake. Look, it’s easy, here’s what we do. We know the United Nations is useless, so, we’ll create false claims of nuclear and biological threats which plays into the 9/11 fear.”

Curveball came in for short relief. “I know where it is.”

“Where what is?” asked Bumsfeld.

“All the Iraqi mobile labs full of toxins and nerve agents.”

“For an alcoholic spy and fabricator you have a lot of nerve,” screamed the Tenant. He used to be Lew but now he was just a plain Jane Tenant from a housing project. He was on a speaking tour making big bucks when it happened.

“Look,” said Curveball. “I gave the Germans the high hard stuff. But they don’t understand the American pastime. They said I was past my prime. They co-opted me with women and booze. A hell of a lethal combination, let me tell you. They grilled me over a hot flame. I was beside myself. I became a double agent.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Bumsfeld, “and your mother wears combat boots. Anyway, then, we distort flimsy evidence from a worthless intel source saying the dictator is an immediate and direct threat to our national security. He’ll attack us in 45 minutes.”

“But,” said the President, “that won’t give me time to finish reading the story about goats to the elementary kids.”

“No butts sir,” said his spokesperson. “You’ll just have to skip a few pages.”

“Isn’t this strategy too vague and deceptive?” asked a garbage collector.

“Vague and deceptive stuff happens all the time,” said the man cracking his cool whip. “What planet are you from, amigo? We have the national media eating out of our filthy hands with all this flag waving patriotic bullshit. So, we con the world with these fictitious stories about the dictator as a threat to us with his weapons of mass distraction and start a war to remove him from power.”

“Brilliant,” said a very rich civilian military contractor from Texas. “What then?”

“It’s easy. We know the dictator’s been bluffing all along to maintain his power base. Just ask Curveball here when he sobers up. He’s never had weapons of mass destruction but the world doesn’t know that fact. His military will collapse like a house of cards. We send in, what, maybe 150,000 military forces, - mostly young poorly trained national guard units from America’s middle and lower class mind you - take some losses sure, but that’s the price of doing business right, while we establish a quasi-official coalition government with us in total control of everything.”

“What about the local people?” asked a relief worker.

“Screw them I say. We’ve liberated them from a dictator for God’s sake. They should be eternally grateful to us and get down on their knees in the desert sand thanking us.

A public relations flack had an idea.

“For propaganda purposes we’ll let them form a provisional government so they’ll be distracted and think they have real input in how their country is going to be run. It’s like we’ve controlled Kuwait with our remote for years. They increase production when we tell them and they shut up when we hit the off button.”

“When do we get the contracts?” asked an oil man from Texas washing his bloody hands.

“All in good time. Rebuilding the oil industry will be tied into larger deals. We’ll start you off with easy contract stuff first; mail delivery, detention camps, roads, schools, building hospitals and supplying food to the troops. That will keep your people busy for what, 5-10 years, easy.”

“Sounds great,” said the contractor. “This is going to make a lot of my friends very happy.”

“Hey,” said Hally Burden, “war is good business.”

Everyone had their own agenda. They blazed a trail as beaters fanned out into the environmental impact statement. The grass was very high. They inhaled, found Kyoto on a map, deleted it from their servers while Pablo and Salvador created sketches for an upcoming show at the asylum.

It was sold out with standing room only and their accountant was pleased beyond words. It was a good return on their investment (ROI). His calculator needed an overhaul.

An Indigo child rose up. “It’s not so much that there is something strange about time...the thing that’s strange is what’s going on inside time. We will understand how simple the universe is when we recognize how strange it is.”

“This show is X-rated. Get your ass out of the room and get to bed,” yelled their divorced manic-depressed father, “or else I will beat you with this stick and stone your mother to death for adultery.”

A bearded fellow from the Saudi Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice spoke.

“We agree. Lashes, stoning and amputation of limbs for flaunting our rigid Islamic laws is true justice.”

Tangiers to Cadiz

After eight weeks in Morocco immediately after 9/11 he leaped onto a ferry across the Mediterranean from Tangiers to Algeciras.

He met a strawberry blond American widow from a lonely hearts club tour group.

“I have many questions for you,” Jean said as seagulls played in blue wind.

“Yes. That’s the answer to the first one. The one where you ask me if I am happy?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s obvious isn’t it. It’s the first question an American away from home for the first time in her life, and returning from a day trip to Tangiers to her four star Costa del Sol hotel after being assulted by poor unemployed people begging her to buy something - anything - would ask a traveler. You’re either sitting in deep meditation or you’re moving.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“What’s question number two?”

“Where are you going?”

“Cadiz. The oldest city in Europe. Going to sit down and write. We’ve been hunting and gathering material. Doing my work.”

“Wow, that’s exciting. I’m lucky to get a letter written. Takes me forever and then I just lose my train of thought.”

“Instead of the train maybe you should consider walking. Take bus #11. It’s a magic bus.”

“Really? What’s bus #11 mean?”

“It means use your legs, it means walk, slow down, engage your senses. It’s how poor people get around in Morocco. How poor people anywhere get somewhere.”

“How romantic.”

“Depends on your perspective and interpretation. Poverty is not romantic. It’s a daily struggle. Yes, by slowing down you observe everything in minute detail, befriend strangers, be anonymous. Like a wandering ghost or a memory. It’s the perfect way to explore your nature, test your spirit, contemplate your imaginary reflection in windows and live with pure intention.”

“Just by walking? What happens if I get attacked?”

“You worry too much. Worry is interest on a bill that will never come due. Your ego loves the circus of sensory entertainment. People suffer chronic health problems because they think to much about past failures and future fears. Try just sitting. Maybe you need to slow down, unless you love the fast lane? Most people don’t intend to harm you. Learn how to yell ‘FIRE’ in multiple languages if you need help.”

“Funny. Fire eh, never thought of that before.”

“Sure, people scatter and you escape.”

Passing Gibraltar they entered a harbor as Jean poured her endless book of questions into his ears about life as a nomad, how it worked, how one survives on the road.

They said goodbye and he didn’t have the heart to tell her about the pain, suffering and joy she’d experience on her journey. He knew she’d find out for herself because they were all in transit.

One door opens and one door closes but the hallways can be a bitch.