October 2003 Archives
"The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity"
It was back when I was thirteen, perhaps fourteen, that I finally came to read Pride and Prejudice, and ended up being drawn into a fervor that saw me through most all the novels of Austen, as well as those of each of the Brontë sisters - comedic, tragic, belletristic without fault. For reasons tied perhaps - perhaps not - to my nature, they came to be amongst my most favoured of reads, the hardships faced by their heroines - and it had to be a heroine - rousing a crush of empathies within me, and I would live out that part as I read on, through high and through low, to its satisfying finish. And I would invariably, though not always as I'd expected, get the man, and I would be pleased.
Difficult and draining will come and go; things can always get worse, but by the same right, and more often than otherwise, things can and do get better. I remember quite clearly the days when my parents came to part company; my mother always came across as strong and more than capable of dealing, but even when I was tiny, I could sense when all was not right beneath the stoic surface of the most precious person in my Universe, and I cried for her. Back then, of course, I wasn't quite so aware of all that life can be, and saw only the sorrow, not the liberation; having the benefit of people that you can depend upon, even the smallest of purchases, can make all the difference. Things will pull together for you.
06:03 and exactly two minutes before my alarm is set to go off; I've managed to presage and disarm my alarm by two to three minutes on most given mornings since I was in my early teens, though where, exactly, this wasted skill comes from is beyond me. A couple of spoonfulls of cereal, a shower and a brief sandwich-build later, and I am on my way through sleeping Cambridge to the bus stop on the edge of a green. A small group of cold, duffled figures awaits me; most are balanced on their heels in a semi-comatose state, some managing to raise their eyebrows in my general direction. I think of penguins and smile in return.
With no skill at all, I locate the tell-tale cheery grin and general liveliness of what can only be the only other morning-person in the group, and make my inquiries; yes, right place, right time; we're off to Staffordshire to climb the Roaches.
In a little over three hours, I find myself muttering something about having captured a little piece of Eden; all around us, glacial erratics of all sizes litter the ground
, their presence and intense solidity softened by tufted carpets of pale green, yellow and grey lichens, puncuated, here and there, by tufts of fuzzy, luxuriant moss. The ground is so laden with pine needles that it feels squidgy beneath my feet, and up ahead is an unbroken rank of sheer gritstone cliffs, the Lower Tier, looking like the typical roche moutonée of geology exercise books, back in the days of school.
Breaking off as a group of four, my companions and I take to bouldering - locating a specimen boulder, guestimating the best means of ascent and then putting it into practice - in order to get a feel for the local substratum; every site is different, and this is a safer means of both warming up and gauging what you can and can't pull off on the rock type in question.
And this stuff is sandpaper; by the end of the day, my fingertips will be so raw that washing them under tepid water makes them burn, but it is a great surface over which to ascend, so we do; go spiderman. 
Just as well that it makes for an easier climb, as I am the weakest cog in the machine today because of a useless left reach; some intercostal damage and minor bruising to my ribs, courtesy of an overzealous novice at jitsu last week, means that I can't support myself on my left side beyond a point - and when I reach that point my left grip painfully fails entirely, like some tension spring that needs to be reset before each use. Babysteps up the cliffs for me; I value my beating heart.
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By the end of the afternoon, we've top-roped up a couple of sheer, vertical slopes, had our hides saved by our belayers (the saint you allocate to the end of your rope, as pictured above) in falls both practised and accidental, abseiled, seconded, barbecued, been rained on, been chilled to the bone by icy winds that actually managed to tip at least one person over, and peed in full sight of strange women. Exhausting and energising all rolled into one. A slow moment to take in the wonderful view of the Tittesworth Resevoir from on high, then down we go for the last time.
My legs are bleeding in five places; it's a great sign of quality time when you don't even notice till you've undressed.
Absently digging into one of the sidepockets of my jacket, I cross the street and find, on recovering my senses, an old, balding man waiting for me on the opposite pavement, his face dressed with an affable smile. "Hello," he greets me, "long time no see!" I stop short, lifting my chin and turning my head slightly, to study him from beneath quizzically raised eyebrows. In the same split second, I become aware of the defensiveness of my reaction to him, drop my shoulders and kill any of the imperiousness borne in my initial expression with an utterly nonsense grin.
"Err... yes... yes, long time no see!" I offer. He asks me how I've been - fine, if busy - and carries on briefly, touching on my mother's recent problems with arthritis, before telling me how nice it was to see me. "Cheers, and take care" I return, as he wanders off. I assess his case of mistaken identity momentarily, before I continue walking. Sweet, little old men.
Straight ahead, a middle-aged woman with short hair and boyish features approaches, walking in the street alongside the pavement. She is clad in a pale, turquoise-green fleece, and has her arms wrapped tightly about herself, but as a young girl walks past, "Whee!" she cries, flinging her arms out and making as if to hug her. The girl scurries out of the way and escapes, while the old woman swans over to me, arms still held wide, causing me to step out of the way. "Damn, missed her," she grins, "and I almost had you too!" As she continues past me, she calls back, "Don't mind me, I'm only mad!"
And in a moment, I am left standing alone on the street. As I am prone to doing with or without an audience, I put on the expression of one who has been totally weirded-out by one too many light, if entertaining, encounters with the terminally demented, music from the Twilight Zone playing through my head. Is this the Cambridge that people often talk about?
The majority of my time today was taken up by a single protocol. It began at 0815 this morning, is highly involving, shamefully long, and ongoing as of the moment (2143, rather black outside). I have little against working long hours when necessary, but having to attend at regular intervals all day and evening long is just killing, especially when the restful moments are of a length that is conducive to achieving just about nothing else. A ten minute lunch-break, a brief, rushed dinner and a meeting to follow, topped off by more playing-with-antibodies has made for a tiring day.
[...goes to make an adjustment...]
Thrilling; a realtime moan. What also cheers me up no end is that the college network administrator has managed to keep my computer cut-off from the network since last Thursday night, which means all sorts of inconveniences as virtually everything that goes on at the University is organised via the 'net. The problem? He doesn't really know. Someone must have peed in his mother.
Despite everything, I'm in a really good mood (I am readily categorisable as an optimistic fool), and am also pleased to have finally taken receipt of my Miyazaki DVD (Princess Mononoke), which I ordered last week, only to receive a Pamela Anderson pornographic compendium. I mean for godsakes, if I'm going to be sent the wrong item, could it not have reflected my interests to a greater degree? She doesn't even have any facial hair.
I can't say that there are any cartoons that I've bought recently, but I saw Miyazaki's most recent piece a few weeks back; Spirited Away is one of the best pieces of animation I've seen in a long time, featuring a tremendous richness of both environment and depth of character in what is, outwardly, a relatively simple stylistic approach. If you can't take weird, don't watch it, but few film-buffs, if not any aesthete outright, will find this one disappointing.
Almost time to head home.
...Chicago was my home-away-from-home, a city in which I felt pretty much at ease and a place that I knew, at least in relative terms, better than many. Tied to what was my longest and most enduring relationship before now, the mere mention of its name can, and does, bring forth a real flood of memories; many are invariably fond, some not so, yet whatever the history she and I might share, hers is a skyline, a brand of living, toward which I can feel only affection.
Though little now remains for me there, I did leave a very dear friend behind, one of those "Bloody hell! Dude, I feel like I've known you my whole life - or should have" kind of people - we all come to know one or two of those along the way - one with whom I have some very peculiar things in common. He's not someone I expected to see again any time soon, and indeed it has been a couple of years, but that all changed today, sometime after four; it has been a seemingly brief, but altogether wonderful afternoon and evening of catching up. As a matter of circumstance, occasions like this are few and far between, whether or not their succession rests in our own hands, but it happened, and I am as chuffed as a chap can be.
The streets of Casablanca are well marked; navigating the roads that lead to the coast is no problem at all, the dry and mild climate - about 28 degrees centigrade - makes for comfortable wandering. Dressed in sandals, tan chinos and a white linen shirt, I am mistaken for a local and addressed in Arabic; I answer in French that I haven't the vaguest idea what has been said. He asks again, now in French, for directions toward the medina, I point to our left, and off he goes; it wasn't a deceptive gesture - I looked over the map whilst sitting in bed the night before.
Before too long, we are on Boulevard Moulay Youssef, which runs directly toward the coast where it meets the national mosque, Masjid al Malik Hassan II; it is the second largest mosque in the world, and is, by functional area, the largest religious monument on the planet after the Ka'aba, Mecca, with a capacity for 105 000 worshippers; it is built to inspire, as surely it does, judging from the profound eloquence of my reaction, "Crikey, s'big!"
A modern building, it looks every part the opalescent jewel that was intended, yet it isn't grandiose, any potential interpretations of indulgence or vulgarity having seemingly been anticipated and avoided with great skill; the detail is astounding, and ascends from base to top, though from below, even the sharpest of eyes would be hard pressed to appreciate the thirteen years of effort that went into it; it is homage to something greater. My only reservation comes when I pivot on the spot, resting dazzled eyes on the neighbouring slum, a reality that would have so benefited from the same degree of investment and care.
A couple of photos and several hundred steps later, we enter the medina; the old city. Within the walls of the medina, the buildings close in on you, and you are taken into cool shadow. The air is that of some fantastical bazaar; a throng of brightly dressed people go about their business, and all manner of goods, from comestibles to fine clothing, are laid out on sheets, piled high in baskets, or strung up like festive decorations everywhere you look. The vegetables, if not all the produce on show, seems to be organic, the twisted chillies and deformed, muddied peppers little resembling their supermarket cousins, yet radiant with the heavy, healthy wholesomeness that intense sunshine and haphazard irrigation bring.
Their colours, rich, varied and altogether dazzling, combine with the multiple aromas of the spice sellers' wares to launch an attack on the senses. Azouagh Abdellah breaks the spell to usher us into his shop; silks, in all hues and artfully embroidered with silver thread, hang upon the walls, leaving no plaster uncovered. He gamely tries to communicate with us in English and maths, though as admiration turns to business, we are reduced to my poor French and start haggling like professionals; my vicious mother's poker-faced bargaining skills, somewhat more effective since she has to communicate through me and can pull funny looks as I return with his responses, brings the charismatic gentleman to his knees. I feel a measure of guilt, though I know how easily fleeced tourists tend to be in these parts. Nonetheless, he makes tremendous concessions, and we leave him with a bonus anyway.
As thoughts turn to food, we come upon the market stalls, where my kebab-shop heaven is suddenly made manifest. Large steel plates lie suspended by iron links over gas burners, smoking heavily in the still of the hot afternoon. The smell of cooking meat is everywhere, as skewers, made to order, are thrown onto the searing plates to be cooked to perfection, while unleavened breads do their thing alongside. A swarthy man with dark, hairy arms jabs large forks into an unusual cut, and rotates it so that it might cook more evenly; blind eyes are turned my way, and I grin, jabbing my mother to get her attention and mock-puking for effect, yet head of goat has never seemed so appetising.
There is dirt and poverty all around, but the richness in the lives of these people, if different to that which Westerners broadly value, is undeniable. I like it here.
We head for the marina, ready to eat just about anything, and settle for better when we locate a café that serves all manner of fresh seafood; the plate of grilled sardines and a calamari starter tally at less than a quid fifty, but what comes out probably amounts to half of the North Atlantic's daily takings of fresh fish, equally so for the squid, lightly breaded and oh-so-crispy. This, along with the fresh bread, olives, olive oil and freshly squeezed lemon juice, make for a perfect meal. There was a time when I detested most seafood, and I can only thank fortune for allowing me to grow beyond that childhood irrationality. Mmm, mmm, mmm!
The day draws in, and we continue to explore, but eventually time is called, and we retire to the hotel to make good our departure to Casablanca International. Fairly soon, and without hassle, we find ourselves sat on a Royal Air Maroc Boeing 737 a few hours after sunset. The darkened heavens bear hints of scarlet, though the sun has long since fled, and the sky is otherwise clear and still; our flight across the Atlas mountains to Ouarzazate, garrison town on the Marrakech-Agadir road and gateway to the Sahara, will proceed without let.
Pain.
Last night, my housemates and I sat up playing dominos over coffee, Toblerone and After Eights, discussing all those things that philosophers, scientific historians, mathematicians and molecular biologists tend to discuss - fear not, Proust aside, it was pretty low brow - and in what felt like no time at all, ten o'clock became two in the morning, and I was out for the count. Until two forty-five, when I woke up with the worst stomach pain I've had since my appendix came out; it lasted nearly two hours, leaving me on the verge of vomiting for much of that time, sweating, amd causing me, again and again, to draw my legs towards my body in search of comfort, only to force them back down again in frustration. Cycle after cycle. And then it just stopped, I fell asleep, and that was that.
Today, my forearms drew significant attention at work; I have fantastic, crimson bruises up and down the right arm, and similar, though less obvious, bruising to the left; this is, before anyone gets concerned, unrelated to last night's pain in the... stomach. I teased that I had been attacked by a dude with a bottle last night; this is partly correct, but not quite what it sounds, having been a choreographed component of a Jiu Jitsu demo. Resting my arms on the desk to type isn't all that pleasant, this evening. Everything else hurts too, though it doesn't show quite so alarmingly, leaving me feeling a bit wasted. This has been a painful day.
This post comes handwritten, courtesy of a busy but tedious afternoon waiting for agarose gels to set a hundred times over:
Daft.
Seven whole hours without a connection to the outside world; shock horror. You'd think that people would be better able to deal with a University network service suspension by doing something worthwhile outside on a lovely day like today - the reality is twisted bodies writhing in the throes of cold turkey. Well, almost. I sent a couple of emails out this morning, but understand that they'll be stuck in funny places until the backlog clears by the mid-evening. This is where people see the time stamp and wonder why I'm "Good morning" them at five in the afternoon. Admittedly, I've done weirder in my life.
Saturday night; I've gone out. It is after dark, and the tarmac under my feet looks like any other, but you can taste the difference in the breeze. Just as when I pulled off an aeroplane in Aberdeen, back in 1997, to a lungful of the cleanest smelling air I'd breathed in months, the differences here are immediately apparent. Despite the air-fuel, the unmistakeable breath of the ocean hangs about me, and it is warm. From somewhere in the distance, comes the faint scent of woodsmoke, and about me, the groundcrew sputter away in Arabic, the language of my religion, but not a tongue of my own.
When no one is looking, I kiss the ground; I've never been to Africa.
Here, one descends into the immigration hall from an escalator; it has to be tried: you can see the pall of smoke from the top, and at about eight feet from the ground, you descend through it. The atmosphere is so draped with tobacco vapour that its vitality becomes utterly questionable; it is a nightmarish, Paris gay-bar of an immigration hall, for this is where the no smoking signs disappear, and the patient addicts light up.
An airport, like any other, in a city, like any other. We look like locals, so we're likely to be left alone by the scrum of tourist-snatchers that lie in wait; I direct my mother by the shoulders toward the baggage collection belt, we collect our bags, melt into the crowds, and disappear. The motorway into the city is in good condition, but long stretches remain unlit; we fly down the near-empty road at breakneck speed, and I peer into the darkness for my first glimpses of a country I've never befriended before.
Few and far between, handsome men in smart trousers and silk shirts lean against only the blind lamp-posts, a leg hooked up against the railing here, an arm draped languorously there; far from anywhere, in the darkness, on a major road; rent boys can make a living, even in an orthodox Muslim country. Mum considerately suggests that if I'm ever stuck for work, I could come here; I consider the suggestion under a furrowed brow, and agree. Our humours are so alike, hers and mine.
By now it is approaching 2200, and we're tired; tomorrow night, we catch a flight across the Atlas toward the great desert, in search of my sister, leaving a full day beforehand in which to harass the people of the white city. We stop for a drink at the hotel bar, marvel at the exquisitely ornate tea party, and crash.
It just has to be said that stupid as this planet can be, at times, I really love people. Fuck, am I sleepy.
Since the Stateside release of Pixar's new animated feature, Finding Nemo, the number of kids flushing their pet fish down the toilet has soared. Oh, gruesome death; how could they know what their hapless pets are really in for? Not quite the freedom they had hoped to impart, no doubt.
What a crap way to die.
