I met M & E on the ride from Chefchaouen to Fes. I was still reeling from having been hustled onto the bus, impatient driver tapping toes as I carefully stowed my pack below in the cargo, insisting that I must hurry – as if we were already running late. We did not end up leaving for another half an hour.
The ride from Tangier to Chefchaouen was spent crammed into the back seat of an old Mercedes, shoulders twisted, abs engaged, one arm held out, palm flat against the seat in front to keep me front spilling into the lap of the stranger next to me. My initiation into the joys of travel by Grand Taxi was all I had heard it would be – uncomfortable.
I am a tidy person, perhaps this is why an illustration style with black ink lines containing the colour comes more naturally to my hand. But it is also a constricting genre, both practically and professionally. I struggle to call myself a Painter – with a capital P – because of these lines.
I arrived in Tangier after 2 days travel via ferry from Genova, Italy. The boat arrived at a port 40 kilometres outside of the city, Port de Tanger Med 2. Silly me for having assumed I would be able to walk off the boat and continue to my hostel on foot.
Morocco … how is it possible I got through this country without writing a single word before today? Honestly, I am having difficulties with this post, not because memories have faded with time, but because there are so many sharp images vying for attention, for their well deserved moment in centre stage.
