(There was a Marrakech I and II ... so to catch up, lost)
A little advice, if you're a kid, you have long hair, red beard face freak and you feel like taking care of your ego, take a tour of Marrakech.
Sometimes just at that moment you think you begin to understand everything, something happens that makes you prove that you have no fucking clue. Walking through the souks, my English side, me in thrall. Vendors tell you friend, hello, or omelette, whatever as long as you listen to them. And I smiled, I begin to master the art of avoiding retailers. Starting to be really good when suddenly, a young, looks at me and says "George, look cheap." I admit that I made it caught, it had heard that you called by any name, pepe, paco, manolo ... but, George?.
I look, and said calling me, Jorge, to which he replied very calm and smiling with a "sure, sure your name is George."
I decided to go my way and do not ask. Hours later, as my back was receiving the gift of a massage with four hands, the image of that boy was still in my mind and is to be bastard to guess your name to thousands of kilometers. Leaves you like it or not caught. I thought, what if I get called Bonifacio? Would he have known? ... best not to think. With a massage so the better ... not thinking.
Djemaa El Fna. It's the craziest place you've ever seen. I'm sorry, did not describe what happens there. Santeros saint, or a guy who puts in the clouds the diabolo. Night falls and with it the sound of the square. The tourists gradually disappear, because the few remaining Djemaa El Fna is not a comfortable place for them when they start to get too dark. Nobody leaves there mounted his show to videotape or photographs, if payment is not and that caused me some minor problems. But my camera is not touched. I am very nervous about these things. At one point I thought about what a guy takes sixty years to dance with a chicken on his head? What day of his life decided that? Nor is that my work is much more exciting ... You walk in a group of people to a completely drugged so different, so you do not have any rules. How will I explain myself, something I do not quite understand? I can tell you is very beautiful, that has people and that seems cool, but little more!
The truth is that, in Marrakech, I have gone through some difficult sites. Walked the streets without a destination, and that made me lose by a different Marrakech on postcards, the juice and tea to foreigners, to the French with large sun glasses. Districts found that, I do not want you to know, those where people, children, work with your feet up, where to get a coin is hypnotized at all, while outside sites. There were people there pretty shitty, but no less smiling, the smile has nothing to do with all those things you think. Walking around places where women offended if you look in their eyes, where children smile at you ... if you look in their eyes, young sites sell you everything, even the have-nots, sites lying, dirty, lost, insane, retarded, suspicious, sites people different from what I have to put in my world. People without twins, no sports, or without all those stories.
Everything is different. Sites with charm, but without light. I got lost in squares and streets that have nothing, have everything I wanted, a part of my silence, and a nod to time, it dies there every night.
And it was my last day, a Saturday night, when perhaps a coup destination, I found more bleeding wound that time can make a site, as magical as Marrakech. Late, tired and dark, I found the town of rats, rats of Marrakech.
not think you are very different from here.
"money is the most dangerous of the gods," said a philosopher.
After five days lost, I admit that would have sold my soul, the same shop at the souk, the devil himself for a fucking drink of whiskey.
The way back to my riad, it was dark and easy to miss. Total, thirty years looking for me ... I
The light was on the streets of Marrakech, something that seemed not to miss the few people left. I continued my way in the dark, with my camera. Long time no hear my steps, not if happens to you, it is not easy to listen to your footsteps. Walking in heels is not hear your footsteps. Your steps, the authentic sound of sand footing, one after another, with no one to interrupt.
In the distance I could hear someone singing, and if something was lost to me is the music, I lost many things, but the "best view" and perhaps more legalized music ... a saxophone and a voice of a woman singing a famous song by The Supremes. I decided to approach. I hit the road two thugs, with a smile, a little more tired, shaky and enforced, because, smiling at two o'clock, is not so simple. Took money, they know, no one around, I know, they. They do nothing. Go. Kushi
bar, as I recall it was called the site. Or maybe not. I do not know. I remember I had big candles, lamps falling from the roof from the third floor, very bright vases at the entrance. At its roof, a terrace overlooking the Menara (Tower). The site was lovely ... snakes.
There was all these people. Now they are the children who smile at you if you look. This does not smell of jasmine, or mint, or spices. The truth is that people here is da pretty disgusting. Despite the wonderful voice of the girl, the time out of me, the worst of my face. And these sites do not end up like me. French old money, girls with lots of dreams that break, and much Briatore of life, Don Perignon bottles on the tables, laughing all rotten least one point of humanity. And is that for years that only believe in my intuition, and not always, but something tells me, here, clean money, clean what is said, there is little. The mixture of Moroccan money, and French money is very smelly. But no matter how boring it is also Marrakech, and I have to tell. A bore me telling it, of course. I do not give for more.
is curious to see these old French, do not know how to drink. They are clumsy, are fatal mixing, "he did it all, drink alcohol and I am uglier than these girls." And I so enjoy it. Life is so unfair sometimes have these things fair.
den
The manager has had me confused with Farruquito or a rock star by how good it is. I speak, but I interrupt, I say bring me a fucking whiskey, ask me that, and say (at the risk of you understand English) "that you leave the eggs." It makes me a Jack Daniels, (and I shit on inside me bitches) I pay, I feel and hear the girl sing. He sings very well but the rats do not pay much attention. Without sleep, ask for another whiskey, I take quiet, while my feet, rest after six or seven hours walking. (Is that four-handed massage I decided not to talk ... a lot). I have to admit that, to sit at my desk and see a bill of nearly three hundred euros, I shook the pulse. I thought if I had no money to pay those two Jack, I was going to play currar one of those rats ... the idea bothers me.
One guy looks bad, very bad. His world is a shit, or so I think, and still think. Surely, with that pint of assholes, cheats on his wife, probably his wife deceives him. I again look bad. Fuck you, come before he and my site is better than yours. Looks at me wrong, but I've been playing since childhood at me wrong with many people. I look at him, slowly, slowly, smiled. It is true that there could be up and giving me two wafer, or just blow your fingers, and others give me two ostia ... it is true, but hey, it did not. I love the universal language of sight. Eyes speak. You can look at anyone and tell with your eyes, "which tiomierda you right? ". Will understand perfectly. Well, anyway, in part we are all tiosmierdas. I'm fucking leaving twenty euros, a pair of Jacks. People sleep on the street, not far from me. I think, I think. (a pity that in a city as magical ...)
People are within their rights to spend their money on what will come out of eggs. You're not going to solve the world not to, nothing will change. You're not going to change you. We are all weak, I'm weak, you are. I can tell you thousand milongas that if you offer me much money, deny, deny surely. Groucho Marx said it best, these are my principles, if you do not like ... I have others.
So we are all detestable?.
No, nothing like that. I always say you have two paths, you have chosen and ... everyone else. I have tried to choose "cancel my account." I'm weak, of course I am, I am guilty, very fragile. maybe there is magic, know our limits. I'm getting to know, maybe they do not. Consciousness exists, there is another of those rolls as ricky martin ... consciousness exists.
Perhaps I am but a young man of my age of the Congo, or India or Trinidad and Tobago. But im all proud, memo, superficial, ready, alive or dead, or silly or sensible, or not, or if ... Nor are there many more differences. About us educate, others, no. People are not so great as to be able to boast of what we are. If you do not clean your mother's ass and gives you chest when you're a baby, you're nobody.
And there I was, in turn puchi bar knife. The site made me realize that Marrakech, Morocco is as magical as miserable. And has the treasure of lost time, and the wound of social differences ... differences boring! Social!.
once told me one of those secrets of bed. After the King of Morocco, that which I call going to allow delayed and depraved bastard king of Morocco, because after him, "class" social with more money in Morocco, are the judges. Damn, too bad we are if a Judge is the second richest.
The reality behind the souks, is that Morocco is a country rotten with corruption, with a high social class very very nasty, maybe more than we know here. Many Guccis, Dior, homes, yachts or private beaches, a long channel and bitches, a group of people living under the same flag of a country to die in the streets. Well, it's what you get. More of the same.
Nothingness is behind everything.
That's the difference. One lost a Thursday night, walking down a street I'm lost in Marrakech, a fucking neighborhood without light, where young people spend brushing their bikes my camera. Alleys where I have followed with amigoamigo, hachishachis, Babuchababucha and my camera, something striking, or watched.
The truth is that when you have nothing ... I do not want much.
learned that time does not exist in the alleys of the souks of Marrakech. Are iron lamps, leather bags, wood and ceramic darbuka you want. Work, and much, because I have seen. But time passes.
hundred years ago were there, and in a hundred years from now, will still be there, his sons, daughters, sitting in the square, crushing spices. They keep their rats in the palaces, with their laughter of money, jewelry or power. My contempt for that does not work much, and knowing that I am weak, very weak, I'll take the "friend friend slippers" with their smiles, their streets, kebabs, their donkeys and their mirrors at half half price. I do not care the price, I sell and buy, smile .... That is life. You, me, smile.
will not believe that life is something as simple as having or not having money or being or not being beautiful. There must be a thousand things more wonderful than that, at last, after all, happiness is in your mind.
was completed. This trip back over. Pay Jacks and I went out to the street. Walking down the street, I stood in front of a truck, one of those trucks that transports mirrors large. Well. There it was, my silence. In front of me. I gave her time, I felt that strange feeling of not understanding anything in this world ...
Who are you?.
