Chapter 6

Then last night, the wind turned, and the depression we had been feeding on died out. The spot became too windy, and the waves too small and inconsistent. Then, as if to make the experience even less enjoyable, a messy situation escalated on the dunes. So, I chose wisdom over haste, and, why should I allow a couple of French snobs, who still think they own the country, gang-up on me, just because I punched one of their buddies and drew a little blood from his nose?

As it is always the case, this unfortunate altercation had something to do with a recurring theme titled ‘My girl,’ brought into the open by a certain Mr. Frenchman, who seemed under the impression that if we were to just open our eyes to hear his shouts, then we surely would realize that the friendly female involved in this scenario was actually, not just with him, but his –some folks can’t resist pretentiously owning others. Now, and for my defense, I didn’t even know they were together. All I remember is that last night he smoked his brains out, passed out and left her alone. Beneath a million gleaming stars, Sofie and I started talking. The conversation was fun, which means we were laughing and taking a reciprocated liking to each other’s personalities. So we took a little walk, away from the others, and then we returned, not knowing that a belligerent fool would throw a fit because of that.


But it wasn’t just the fight, for as the saying goes, when it rains, it pours, and thus, just to add more frustration to my pot of overflowing frustrations, I also nicked my board surfing in water that was too shallow, and that is even worse than a fist fight. You see, a dinged board takes in water, which not only makes it heavier than it should be but also ruins it from inside, meaning, I have to get the tools and the chemicals, and take time to make it look as if brand new, maybe tonight, on Marcos’s building rooftop, since home is out of the question, for the simple reason that resin’s toxic fumes are too strong to be handled indoors.

Plus, I’ll also get to hang out with Marcos. The last time I saw him and his followers was a week ago. They were getting drunk behind the thick and tainted double glass doors of his building. It was the beginning of a party they had planned to finish at ‘La cage’, a night club by the port, near the old city and the train station, and part of one of the first western inspired outdoor shopping centers to be added to our bloated city –another place I’ve come to avoid.

La cage used to be okay when management had a stricter door policy, one that only allowed the rich, the Jew, the foreign, and a few lucky nobodies pretending to be important kind of like myself and Marcos, past its door–locals abstain! Now, the place is full of malnourished and penniless characters from the old city and all the other slums along the port’s waters, pumped up with too much adrenaline dangerously mixed with alcohol, or, hallucinogenic pills, or a combination of the two. Naturally when that kind of clientele converges into a single space, the atmosphere tends to get ugly very quickly, and for good reasons too. Not only, the testosterone levels shoot upward and off the chart, but the pent-up sexual frustration reaches past a dangerous threshold beyond which nothing good can be expected.

Marcos doesn’t mind the madness, mainly because he is on a mission to keep boredom at bay, unwilling to stop moving, or sobering up. He just keeps on going, playing with danger, pushing past the acceptable, challenging the city, and by doing so the whole of Morocco. Although, I have to admit that he actually blends in better than I do –the Spanish conqueror, loved by the Jews, the Christians and the Muslims -a sort of peacemaker, sought by all. Sometimes, I envy him for being so much more at home than I could ever be, although, I would never want to be in his shoes. In the end, and like some wise teacher might say, ‘To each his life, and to each his demons.’ Marcos and I might seem so similar on this outside, but don’t let superficiality fool you, the differences dwell deeper within, where they actually matter.

Take my case for example… for as long as I can remember, I’ve been lost between two irreconcilable cultures that have been wrestling each other in a match where the winner takes all, and who needs a referee. Even today, my world continues to crumble before my eyes, as the French quarter is swallowed by an unstoppable nationalism. The Foreigner leaves and is replaced by the native. A few choose to stay, either because they’re too old to go back, too stubborn to compromise, or just rich enough to assume that by moving to villas and gated properties, a little closer to the beach by the royal palace, the Saudi Palace and mosque, they’d be out of change’s reach.

Change is here, and shall not be denied. Nothing can stop that flood of darker complexions, curlier hair, different flavor and noise. No. Absolutely nothing. The walls of my comfort zone keep on collapsing under the pressure of this invasion, as the North African moves back in and attempts to take over, reclaiming what is rightfully his, much like the way nature eventually reclaims it all, bringing along his music, smells, and customs to my doorsteps and window view, moving in next to, above, and all around me.

Change is here and it won’t take long. Yesterday’s dam is breached beyond repair. Who shall keep it from collapsing? Relics from the past, I doubt it. How many of us are left anyway? Not enough. We’re more like islands, too small to be called even that, in a Moroccan storming sea. Time will take care of us eventually. Time will erase all traces of our existence, and in the end even our faintest memories will dissolve with the needles of time rotate relentlessly and History unfolds.

So I am brace myself, and wait the imminent collision, as both the lower and middle class chase the shadow of its rich and wealthy, leaving them nowhere to hide. I am watching, as the inevitable takes place. Already, the brown moppet shares the road with the Class S Mercedes-Benz, the Renault defiantly passes the BMW. Even beyond this neighborhood, you can see the signs of shocking contrast, with mansions a few blocks away from the slum housings, and the whole roofline equally strewn with satellite dishes, under which the poor, as much as the rich, dreams of escape.

The rich and the poor live side by side. Separated by less than a broken line traced on shifting sands, they often meet and collude to loot my city, thieves and security guards, criminals and corrupted policemen protecting those who have too much from the rest who lack it all, with badges, titles and knifes to commit their crimes, with drugs to subdue and religion to reprimand, while poverty spawns prostitution to feed either wealth or depravation. Everything happening between infernal circles and heavenly morals, in the heart of contradiction, in so much despair that it makes the air we breathe malignantly sickening -but what else should we expect when swimming in both filth and sin?

Marcos laughs when I talk about this. He says I have the ‘surfer’s syndrome,’ which is a creation of his. According to him some surfers spend too much time in the water, and under the sun, which can’t possibly be a healthy thing. The Spaniard will have you believe that there have to be consequences to this addiction, and the first signs are awfully clear and easy to spot. Apparently, it all starts when the inflicted surfer begins withdrawing from others, getting up at impossible hours, and, has been heard fantasizing about waves. Then, the situation begins digressing, very quickly. The unhealthy subject loses interest in his girlfriend who dumps him in return, but he doesn’t care. In fact, he probably, already has stopped having a social life, except for the bare minimum, and has undoubtedly lost his drive for success along with whatever good sense he might have had.

I keep on arguing that he’s wrong –at least partly. I’m a surfer. I can’t help being drawn to the shore. Wave after wave, I struggle for the only purpose of surrendering. It’s an addiction with a heavy price: a deeper sensitivity which brings upon pain… too much pain; enough to experience life’s duality, enough to cleanse me out of all the rubbish that doesn’t matter, so that hopefully, if I am wise and lucky, I will find comfort and clarity, in the heart of agony.

I keep on telling him, that some day, all will be clear, and the way it should be. The whole universe will appear like moving water, forever similar, forever different. Life is change. Life is contrast. Yin and Yang containing and chasing one another. But Marcos shakes his head and says, “Surfer’s syndrome. I’m telling you, bro.” And I give him the finger and respond, “Someday, you too will get it. Someday, you too will let go and embody the message.”