..I head out to the edge of town, and walk up a scrub covered hillside.   I see a small stand of trees and think I’ve found my home for the night.   unfortunately, a band of stray dogs has beaten me to it.  They seem less than thrilled to see me, so I change course…

The small coastal town of Asilah is about 30 km south of Tangier, on Morocco’s north-west coast.  It is recommended to me as a destination by a couple of Moroccans I meet in Spain.   Apparently it is a popular holiday town for Tangerines, and it’s known for its arts community.

(Top: seeing these whacky slippers in the artists market was an Asilah highlight.  I think they are designed for motivating employees.)

I set out from Tangier feeling quite optimistic, because I have often read that Morocco is an easy country to hitch in.  I make a sign, carefully copying the Arabic script off my map, and set myself up on the roadside.  Sure enough, I barely have to wait an hour before I am collected by two jovial men in an elderly Mercedes  saloon.  Azi, and his friend whose name I struggle to pronounce (much to Azi’s amusement), take me all the way to Asilah, and on the way treat me to afternoon tea at Azi’s home.

(Tangier’s fringes)

(Azi’s view)

(afternoon tea)

Azi tells me, he and his brother are building the house themselves.  It is a four storey, Moroccan McMansion, complete with terrazo stairs, a thriving vegetable garden and a superb view of the Atlantic coast.  We eat home pickled olives, dates, and fresh Moroccan style round bread.   Delicious.  Azi makes the tea sweet and fragrant with herbs fresh from his garden and I smile broadly at my hosts as we relax in our chairs and take in Azi’s ocean view.

At Asilah I am immediately interrogated by the touts, who seem to have graduated from the same program as their colleagues in Tangier.
“Hey amigo!   You!   Hey friend!  Where you going?   You want cheap hotel?   Smoke hash?  Speak English friend?”
The gag is getting old, and I have started to just ignore them, because that seems to get them to stop tailing me the quickest.  Even a smile and a polite “no thanks” can prolong the whole farce by minutes, and hundreds of metres.

I check my FaceBook, and discover two Australian friends, Sandra and Richard, are also staying in Asilah that night.  We meet up, and have dinner together.  It is striking how little variety is available on Moroccan menus.   Every place I saw in Tangier and every place I see in Asilah seems to be serving the exact same dishes; Pizza, Tajine, Cous Cous or meatballs.  The standard approach seems to be to boil up a cauldron of stew, then dish it up on different shaped platters according to the name of the dish.  I eat my third restaurant meal in Morocco with a mixture of disapointment and resignation, and shortly after am subjected to my third bout of mild nausea, which I ascribe to the dubious freshness of the chicken stew.

After dinner we take a stroll around the town.  From a distance, the beach looks inviting but the sand is filthy.   Plastic bags, broken glass, paper, cigarette butts.   For visitors from hectic, polluted Tangier, the beach must be a draw, but to Australians it looks sadly neglected and abused.
The town Medina, the old city, is neat and tidy, but lacks vitality.  The much touted artistic community seems to be mostly producing souvenirs, and the murals on the cities walls are a nondescript blend of traditional and modern themes – pretty, but bland.

(Asilah’s old cemetery)

(seafood don’t come fresher n this.)

(the beach)

(under African skies… my camp at dawn)

Sandra and Richard generously offer me the couch in their hotel room, but this plan is strenuously vetoed by the concierge, who insists I must pay 15 euros extra.   Since I know I could easily get a room of my own for that price I politely decline.

I head out to the edge of town, and walk up a scrub covered hillside.   I see a small stand of trees and think I’ve found my home for the night.   unfortunately, a band of stray dogs has beaten me to it.  They seem less than thrilled to see me, so I change course and find a quiet spot between some thick patches of thistles, where the ground is flat and the barking of the dogs is reassureingly distant.
Once my canine neighbours settle down, it is a peaceful night.   The inky blackness of the sky, and the brilliance of the stars makes me feel I am at home, in Oz.

As I walk out to the road in the morning, to hitch, the touts have one last go.  “Hashish..?   Hotel..?   English..?   You Spanish amigo..?”   I stonewall the lot and keep my eyes focused on the road ahead.   They drop back, one by one.   The last one finally gives up within sight of the highway; turns on his heal in disgust, his ingratiating wheedle turning into a snarl.
“You so much paranoia”, he barks at me over his shoulder, as he stomps off.
Maybe I do.   Maybe I do.

 

 
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