the little things

i think today was a day at the right speed to catch the details of this place.

a little background of transport in the developing world is probably helpful here. in many countries there are, very broadly tzo kinds of buses: regular buses taken by the middle class and tourists, and what are sometimes called 'chicken buses.'* regular buses are, in every experience i have had, nicer than a greyhound, fairly comfortable, clean, newish, safe and reliable. chicken buses, are, well none of those things. they are old. not climate controlled. stop for anyone who wants to get on. dirt cheap. the people often smell.

so i work up in essaouira and was a fixin to move on up the coast. got some early morning pics of the city then showed up at the bus station and tried to buy a ticket on the nice bus - sold out. it had been awhile but i wanted to move, so i found the ticket on the next chicken bus. it left in over 90 minutes so i went to a small cafe behing the bus station for mint tea, crossing over a Deadwood like mud pudde in the midde of the street. after sitting down outside for tea, i really began to notice the malodorous quality of the street: excrement, both human and animal; rotten food; and the warm heat of the sun brough forth an air from that detif street sewer that was beyond foul. i kept the tea under my nose as long as i could while trying to study french but was chased back to the bus station to await my bus

the man who sold me the ticket was very kind, and when the bus pulled in he escorted me over to it as old moroccans got off and scrambled for les baggages. he even told me the correct price for baggage handling as they tried to overcharge me. i scapered onto the chicken bus, plopping onto a seat to get out of the way of an old woman, the back of my pants catching on the sharp metal bar that was once an qrm rest, ripping a large whole. away we pulled, still collecting passangers for the long, slow local trip to safi, jumping on after running to catch the bus. again this scene repeated itself, folks getting off and on beside the road in small towns and sometimes in places with no town at all.

eventually i arrived here in safi, a small sardine-packaging town/fishing village with old portugese fortifications and sea side charm. after a brief qrgument with the first innkeeper i found over the lack of an entry stamp in my passport (ignorance of the law appears to be common in every country), i found my lodging and had a look about the town. later, i continued to follow the africa cup at a local watering whole followed by a nights dinner of lamb meatballs in a pita with hot sauce and a fresh fried donut.

and off to bed

*My friend, commonly known as the french assasin, taught me this term as this is what they are called in guatemala. oddly enough, i am told the locals call them chicken buses and not bus a la pollo or anything like that. i believe the origin of the term is because people ride these buses to bring chickens to market for sale