This post has been a long time coming. It's a difficult thing packing up and moving to the other side of the world. Especially when one has a tendency to hoard as I do. These logistics are time-consuming to say the least. I had it in mind that my last two weeks in London would be made up of a few days of packing up and a number of days at the V & A or perhaps the Wellcome Collection. As it stands, I still haven't been to either. The many necessary trips down to the Holloway Road to organise and to post and to print have prevented me. I did however manage to get to Marrakech which has always been a high priority. However, once there, I found that the harassment on the streets by men quite unnerving. It was chilly and therefore my cleavage was in no way on display. On the contrary, it was hidden under two scarves. I found it wearying and sordid. The city itself was a city. I'm sure that I've made the right decision to leave off traveling when my capacity for or interest in describing the wonders of a city have ceased. I'm afraid that makes me sound bitter - but I'm certainly not. I'm grateful to have done it but also happy that it is over. Perhaps this is my way of accepting the change.
This reminds me of something that I just read... Here it is, an extract from the D.F. Wallace that I'm reading, where he takes an extract from DeLillo (which is ironic in itself if you consider the irony of the passage):
Several days later Murray asked me about a tourist attraction known as the most photographed barn in America. We drove 22 miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the sign started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were 40 cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides -- pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book.
"No one sees the barn," he said finally.
A long silence followed.
"Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn."
He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced by others.
We're not here to capture an image, we're here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it, Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies."
There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides.
"Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception. It literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism."
Another silence ensued.
"They are taking pictures of taking pictures," he said.
And that's traveling.
Here's another observation that illustrates the point: apart from the camels, the Ourika Valley in the Altas Mountains reminds me very much of the Gisborne Gorge, which I have driven through on innumerable occasions.
I'm in Thailand and I've just had breakfast and I'm stuck in this lounging restaurant because the rain is hurling itself out of the sky. My room is thirty second walk away but if I attempted it I would be soaked through. All I can think is that I left the window ajar and the hammock swinging with a pillow in it. I hope that my proprietress doesn't find me and my sodden linen out. There's no sign of relent in this storm.
The family of the proprietress are playing some sort of game involving taking a small red bucket out into the rain whilst under the protection of a small red umbrella. It seems amusing. I'm amused. Although the point escapes me. Thirteen more days of this for me, wherein hopefully I see some more sunshine so that I can restore this alabaster complexion to its natural colour before I embark on the final leg of this relocation effort.
Yesterday, the electricity went out for most of the day. In the afternoon there was also a great thunderstorm which hampered my efforts to wash and dry a bundle of clothes. The thunder was so loud that it produced some rather irrational butterflies within the stomach. So long as my primitive little bungalow doesn't get washed down the cliff, I'll be able to watch another sunset from this glorious vantage point (pictured above).
Further, I saw the biggest bug in the world last night. It flew at me whilst I was engrossed in Daphne du Maurier. She served me well. She helped me to swipe the behemoth away and then again smack it through the floorboards. I shall be pleased to be home where the bugs are of an acceptable size.
Excuse any mistakes above - I shall not be editing, let alone casting my eye over it.
