fresh air and healthy labour failed me. the wwoof hosts, quiet intense little english rabbits, didn't like me much cause i kept sneaking off by myself to write books instead of shovel goat manure. not that i didnt think i was holding up my end of the bargain, working the requisite four hours a day. it's just that they expected twelve.
'it's nothing personal,' said mrs rabbit. 'you're just in the wrong place at the wrong time.'
i hitched out of there and got a lift with some hippies on their way back to the commune from their hash dealer. the french one was stoned. the portuguese one was spooked cause he had just beat the crap out of another hippy. utopia is a bit lord of the flies at times. there was a talking circle about the event at which i offered to share my experiences of autonomous restorative justice but no-one seemed particularly interested. i believe they decided to create a healing vibe or some such thing. i left the meeting to make tea before the inevitable ohm.
okay i take the piss but despite the problems beneficio was a nice place with the river and all; or it would have been if i didnt get sick from the water and have to ask some dutch hippies to turn down their drumming circle so i could sleep through my fever. they yelled at me about their inalienable right to hit things for a while, but i was drifting in and out of consciousness.
wrong place, wrong time.
i fled by bus to aljeciras and thence by boat to tangier where i stood on the beach and between being harassed by curious men and hustlers i gave spain the finger. i'm over it. i can't deny it. europe is fucking boring. i don't belong there, i don't share its aspirations or its fears. as soon as i got on the ferry i felt much better about everything. though maybe its just that i have begun to belong to a state of continual departure.
anyway, after a night in tangier i was over that too (it's a sleazy city and burroughs and matisse can have it) so i slid down the coast a little to Asilah, a nice enough little town on the atlantic with white painted medina and extremely dirty beach and odd little dancing ceremonies materialising in the streets. it was the prophet's birthday yesterday and i spent it on the farm belonging to my host's in-laws, a vast family of cackling women and screaming toddlers and endless plates of couscous and freshly made bread and freshly made butter and mint tea so sweet it's almost solid. it was great but the only person with whom i could communicate was a young and deeply religious woman whose spanish was worse than mine and finished every noun with that-god-has-made.
my host abdel managed to avoid the whole shebang cause he hates his inlaws; he quite likes me though, which is both irritating and amusing. while smoking his after-lunch joint he makes helpful suggestions about the state of my soul in its various incarnations and calls me fatima. i entertain myself by pisstaking in obscure slang. but he did tell me i was in the right place at the right time, which i chose to hear.
i'm thinking i'll make my way slowly down the coast and then duck in to marrakech for a bit. i was planning to stay in spain so i could write and work but i've been reunited with my bankcard which keeps the wolf from the door and bookwise i am making more progress here than i did there. plans are silly things. i guess they make us feel better about the inherent disorder of things. anyway i'm off to scribble something under a gum tree (oh vengeful pestilence), wrapped in my headscarf and haranguements.
'it's nothing personal,' said mrs rabbit. 'you're just in the wrong place at the wrong time.'
i hitched out of there and got a lift with some hippies on their way back to the commune from their hash dealer. the french one was stoned. the portuguese one was spooked cause he had just beat the crap out of another hippy. utopia is a bit lord of the flies at times. there was a talking circle about the event at which i offered to share my experiences of autonomous restorative justice but no-one seemed particularly interested. i believe they decided to create a healing vibe or some such thing. i left the meeting to make tea before the inevitable ohm.
okay i take the piss but despite the problems beneficio was a nice place with the river and all; or it would have been if i didnt get sick from the water and have to ask some dutch hippies to turn down their drumming circle so i could sleep through my fever. they yelled at me about their inalienable right to hit things for a while, but i was drifting in and out of consciousness.
wrong place, wrong time.
i fled by bus to aljeciras and thence by boat to tangier where i stood on the beach and between being harassed by curious men and hustlers i gave spain the finger. i'm over it. i can't deny it. europe is fucking boring. i don't belong there, i don't share its aspirations or its fears. as soon as i got on the ferry i felt much better about everything. though maybe its just that i have begun to belong to a state of continual departure.
anyway, after a night in tangier i was over that too (it's a sleazy city and burroughs and matisse can have it) so i slid down the coast a little to Asilah, a nice enough little town on the atlantic with white painted medina and extremely dirty beach and odd little dancing ceremonies materialising in the streets. it was the prophet's birthday yesterday and i spent it on the farm belonging to my host's in-laws, a vast family of cackling women and screaming toddlers and endless plates of couscous and freshly made bread and freshly made butter and mint tea so sweet it's almost solid. it was great but the only person with whom i could communicate was a young and deeply religious woman whose spanish was worse than mine and finished every noun with that-god-has-made.
my host abdel managed to avoid the whole shebang cause he hates his inlaws; he quite likes me though, which is both irritating and amusing. while smoking his after-lunch joint he makes helpful suggestions about the state of my soul in its various incarnations and calls me fatima. i entertain myself by pisstaking in obscure slang. but he did tell me i was in the right place at the right time, which i chose to hear.
i'm thinking i'll make my way slowly down the coast and then duck in to marrakech for a bit. i was planning to stay in spain so i could write and work but i've been reunited with my bankcard which keeps the wolf from the door and bookwise i am making more progress here than i did there. plans are silly things. i guess they make us feel better about the inherent disorder of things. anyway i'm off to scribble something under a gum tree (oh vengeful pestilence), wrapped in my headscarf and haranguements.
subscribe
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home