It happened in Tiznit

The main square of Tiznit is not the prettiest place in Tiznit, but it is the place where the tourists eventually gravitate to. There are coffee houses where one can sit down, drink NosNos, eat Pizza and watch the farmers coming to town from the outlying villages. I made this drawing the first time i found myself in this town. This trip Bert and me were there again. Bert had to get a Moroccan sim card for one of her phones. After scoring the Sim card and buying a pile of paperbacks with feminist content, we sat down for a coffee. I don't think a market is held in the square anymore. Neither will there be military parades. The building at its short side where one sees the picture of the ruling king was probably the garrison in the days of the French. It still looks pretty official. The square is now used as carpark. The farmers coming in park their 4wheel drives there. Some of the cars are top of the range BMW and Merc SUVs. We were looking out on the preposterous posteriors of two of those, when a poor looking, old woman in dusty wraps sat down in the shade between them. Something about the way she squatted down alerted me. I said to Bert:'I'm sure when she gets up, she will leave a mess on the pavement.' The good thing about wearing all those garments is that nobody notices when you are taking a piss or shit in public. After a while the old woman got up and walked away. A puddle was dripping down from the side of the expensive Merc onto the dust. Point taken. A little later she came back. She was in the company of a farmer, probably her son. The man zipped open the BMW SUV and got in behind the wheel. Herself stepped nimbly over her puddle and got into the passenger's seat. Poor? my ass and of course she hadn't dirtied her own car.

Tiznit

Is Tiznit on the N1 or is the N1 there because of Tiznit? It must be the latter because the French occupiers made Tiznit into a garrison town. It's famous for its silver smiths. That means that in the past it had a Jewish population. But those thing don't make an attractive town. Better drive through quickly in search of better places to visit or stay. But for some strange reason I always got stuck even though the same old man on the same old moped is on the look out for any car with foreign or car hire license plate. He attaches himself to the car like a leach as soon as we enter the walled city by its main entrance. He will offer his assistance and when we decline he will annoy us till he's bought off. By then we are on the main square ready to park the car. But Tiznit also is the centre of a whole province or 'departement' and has a great covered food market and in the outskirts a real Supermarkt. It turned out, Tiznit isn't as bad as the first impression warrants. During our discovery trip to Iligh Tiznit became a very important link and even a fun place to come to. It also has a comfortable Riad with a roomy and leafy garden inside the city walls. What sold me was the kiosk on the main square that not only sold cigarettes, bottled water, biscuits, batteries and other important items, but also books in French and Arabic. There was a whole collection of fiction and non-fiction on the 'leaden years', the years of cruel oppression during the reign of Hassan II. There were also books in French on Feminism and books with a feminist intent. The books in French were published by Fennec Press a Moroccan publisher of quality paperbacks for a very good price.

Agadir for Wifi

Agadir is actually not such a bad place considering that it is rather nondescript. At least it has lots of four star hotels where there is good Wifi reception. Agadir is more than just a beach resort town. It is the economic hub of the Souss valley. It has a university, many young people and a 'modern' outlook. It also has a seizable ex-pat population. It does not have a 'heart'. Probably due to the fact that it was flattened by the earthquake of 1960. When I first started traveling south of the High Atlas mountains I didn't want to spent any time there. I had seen some of the sun scorched, pink fleshed, crowds in shorts and halters in Marrakesh and I thought I would die of embarrassment if I saw an entire Moroccan town filled with them. Mind you I find it uncomfortable too if I see them in the Leidsestraat in Amsterdam. The first time I stayed in Agadir I was in the cheapest hotel closest to the airport: the Ibis Hotel on the eastern bypass as far as possible from the beach and surf fun. It was everything you would expect of that kind of hotel: cheap, minimal and characterless. But its position next to an Afriqia filling station and cafetaria where all the local MacGirls came to study made it bearable. However when Heleen Toet had to catch the plane in Agadir, Bert refused the Ibis. We stayed instead in the Tildi hotel close to the beach. It turned out to be a great choice. Most resort hotels also have noisy indoor entertainment of some sort. The Tildi hasn't. Instead it has a beautifully appointed garden and pool. It is a big but quiet hotel for holiday making families and couples from everywhere. It also has a helpful staff and functioning Wifi. Not only that but it is easy to find being close to the main drag that connects the important dots on the way out of town. That means that it is also a great place to come to when one needs to meet or connect with people. On top of that it turned out that Agadir has plenty of places with a typical Moroccan ambiance whether 'modern' or 'traditional'. And that is why one is in Morocco in the first place, isn't it?

What happened in Taroudant

There are some cities in Morocco that took a while for me to find likable. Among them Agadir, Tiznit and Taroudant. To me they are still not cities to spent a lot of time in, but they did grow on me. And in each I have found something that I can do when I'm there. Taroudant of course is famous for its city wall of reddish clay. Indeed a very impressive piece of work. It is the reason some call it 'Little Marrakesh'. When I was there with Heleen Toet we stayed in a 'Riad' of which the boundary was made up by part of that wall. With Heleen we stayed often in exotic and often luxurious locations. We were also driven around in a private car with chauffeur. When we were in Taroudant Khalid the driver had time off. We took taxis instead. For lunch we went to a place Bert and I had been to before. The restaurant is upstairs and on street level is a coffee house. The place is run by father and son. After lunch when we were out in the street again Heleen discovered that she had her passport no longer on her. We went back inside the restaurant but didn't find the passport. Father and son then took over the search with Bertje. While they were discussing the possibilities and retracing the steps we had taken in Taroudant. Heleen and I sat down on chairs in front of the coffee house. Heleen wasn't particular worried or upset it seemed. I thought it better not to interfere. Across the street two girls were passing the time of day. I started to sketch them. Heleen was looking on. The search party decided that the passport must have been left behind in one of the taxis we had taken. The son said that if the taxi driver had found it he most likely would have brought it to the police post next to the central taxi station. Cynical as always it seemed far fetched to me. However Bert and Heleen went off to the police post. Indeed The passport was there waiting for Heleen. Although outwardly unmoved by the episode the sketch had taken on a special meaning for Heleen.

Heleen Toet

In the fall of 2016 I spent 5 weeks in Morocco two of them in the company of 92 year old Heleen Toet. The Flying Hippo Bert's travel agency maybe floundering most of the time, but it boasts some very faithful clients. Heleen Toet is one of them. Heleen was born a very long time ago in 1924 into a comfortable middleclass Dutch family. Her father was an engineer with the Department of Water Management the most important state body in Holland. Her grandfather was a Jewish cobbler who converted to Protestantism and married a shiksa. Heleen has clearly inherited his trait of going against the grain. At eighteen she left home to work as an au-pair or nanny, not in Paris or London, but Sweden. She came back to Holland to the conformity of marriage and motherhood. She lived the elite life of a KLM pilot's wife and had two daughters. I don't know if in the end she divorced him or became a widow, but in the revolutionary sixties when she was already well into her forties, she radicalized. Her 'thing' became communal living or in Dutch 'Woongroepen'. In my youth I shared a house with friends and I squatted but I never knew there was a whole movement of people who were consciously experimenting with different forms of living apart and together. They formed associations, had newsletters, held countrywide meetings and organized worldwide conferences. Heleen was and to a much lesser extent still is, in the thick of it. Anyway it was a delight to travel in her company. She wasn't just good company she was also an intrepid traveller and quite unfazed when things didn't go according to plan. Like when she stupidly missed her plane or left her passport in a taxi. Maybe it was because of her devil may care attitude that everything came out alright and was filed as an interesting experience. She bought one of my sketches and that way made it possible for me to have my own font made.