Cadaques, Spain

If I had a moped I wouldn’t have to think as hard. Walking back home from Kixa’s the world changes and the cold creeps through my jacket. The rain pooling in dark corners and the street fuzzy from darkness, both make me think. The bright lights of cars pass occasionally, illuminating the rutted track and allowing me to see. If I had a moped I could speed around the bends, clattering down the semi-paved hill with my broken muffler sending muddy dogs into frenzied barking. I could concentrate on my driving and the wind in my hair. As it is my hands are wedged into pockets and I am forced to consider things I usually try and avoid as the road stretches before me.

I want to go onwards and finish this quarter and yet everything gets harder. Steve shows it more than me, his posture slightly stooped, moods erratic, idiosyncrasies more pronounced. The truth is we had fully believed things would become less of a struggle for me, for instance that any mood swings I had would have diminished or vanished. Instead I still fly from one extreme to another and as my workload increases so does my reaction. In other areas I scrape past, my math skills still hopelessly inadequate and my physical fitness level now steadily dropping.

If I had a moped then maybe I could focus on the positive. When I ride with Yuma or Maya, legs banging against theirs, one hand jamming the tiny helmet against my head, then I feel brilliant. Flying along darkened roads I can remember that last week I completed two papers, that the week before I stayed in a library for three hours without break to get the research I needed for school. My Sat score is manageable and I have time to see my friends every other day.

Of course I don’t have a moped. Most nights then, I take the long trip home on foot with leaky Blunstones getting my socks muddy. and alone, wishing for a chance to ride into oblivion.

Fez, Morocco

The noise that wakes me is as foreign as the chants from a Bangkok temple were two years ago. The sun sits lazily on the horizon, its rays not yet warming the cobbled streets of inner Fez. From dented megaphones atop elegant green towers come noise, the tirade of a preachers voice propelled over the waking city. “God is great” they say in Arabic, the noise echoing through our broken window. However wonderful it was I would prefer that they not announce this so early, my clock reading 5:30 AM.

Waking, we make preparations for leaving the room. Laptop, passports and money are hidden under a wardrobe while I scrounge around for breakfast. Finding only stale bread and olives I suddenly remember that it is Ramadan. The month of holy fasting, Ramadan is meant to remind all who worship Islam that they are not too different from beggars and the destitute. As it is illegal for anyone to eat on the street during the day I have been struggling with this and sneaking food to our room like a naughty schoolboy hiding tuck. After my unsatisfactory meal I clamber into dirty clothes, the product of failed negotiations to get our laundry washed for less than it would take to do it ourselves.

On the street things are in full flow. Stepping out of our door and narrowly missing a pile of rubbish, I feel slightly like Indiana Jones. Around me flows a stream of people, many in weird and wonderful garb, from flowing robes to strange KKK-esq pointy hoods. Every building seems to be an open-air shop selling something random, doorknobs and electrical wires for instance. Every local, from shopkeepers to beggars seems to want us to one of the following:
(A) Buy something from their shop, usually something semi-useless or overpriced
(B) Converse with them in French about how brilliant Fez is
(C) Move Out of the way of their donkey that is carrying anything from rubbish to coke bottles on its scraggy back.

I loved Morocco. The people smiling and shouting “Bonjour” at us, the sticky Ramadan treats made from fig syrup, the artisans making pottery and the view from the rooftops onto a tanning factory. Everything was foreign and yet familiar, reminding me of Asia and Central America mixed together. Although I built up an aversion to squat toilets, fasting and creepy hostel owners with fatal coughs my first experience in Africa was extremely enjoyable.