HANNAH
We've been bumping along in the train from Calais to Seville for at least 14 hours already. Saying goodbye to Gran was painful. The fact we won't see each other for a whole year was distressing for her too. By the way: sleeping on the train. Obviously, my fantasies have been dashed. Maybe it's stupid, but ever since I was a kid, I had a naively romantic image of spending the night in a sleeping car: cuddling under the white quilt, the flower-dotted fields whisking by in front of our eyes as we drink white wine from crystal glasses, etc. The reality is a 25in wide bunk bed, where, on the upper bunk, there's a whole lot of nothing protecting you from landing on the floor 6 feet below, if exhaustion overcomes your every survival instinct. That is if you can even fall asleep. I obviously don't have the sort of death wish that would allow me to spend the night with River on the 25in-wide upper bunk, honeymoon or not. But he found the whole thing to be very funny. He said I should be happy it's just the two of us in the cabin, because the two-person cabins are usually booked well in advance, and the only ones remaining are for four people. It's not that we don't have enough money to travel (at least until Seville) in first class, but travel puritanism is River's obsession. He swears by the simplicity of low-cost travel and professes its excitement as sacrosanct and unmatched by boring luxury. The penny just dropped: my husband is not actually perfect. I was totally unable to relax when he tried to have sex with me in the sleeping car. I'm sure it's my fault. Maybe I'm a neurotic bitch, but I just can't focus on eroticism when people are coming and going in front of our cabin constantly: sometimes, they knock to check our tickets, or the moving buffet is offering fresh coffee in plastic cups. So, this is romance on a train. I didn't even sleep a wink last night, and I can't wait to get off this rolling torture chamber.
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Arriving in Seville, the heat almost obliterated me. We threw our stuff in the hotel and hit the road even though both of us were dead tired. But I couldn't waste time because we weren't staying there very long. Seville is too civilised for River's taste. He can't stay long in a tourist-ridden city like this. So I had to gently nudge him to get him to get himself together and leave the air-conditioned hotel room behind, but it was worth it. This city is beauty itself: the buildings, the Plaza de España, the Cathedral, the Alcázar. I was soaking up each and every inch of it. Our fat was melting from the heat, yet it didn’t matter. A pretty strong sangria after the sunset on the hotel's terrace, and everything uncomfortable was forgotten. Both of us got drunk. River, because he doesn't have a high tolerance for alcohol and maybe shouldn't have mixed the sangria with beer. And I, simply because no woman wouldn't get drunk from a litre and a half of sangria, no matter how many orange slices are floating at the bottom of the bottle. Out on the terrace, I already saw the sly gleam in River's eyes. The only reason we didn't jump each other's bones in the elevator was because we were not alone. He was crazy turned on, and I was too, at least as much, when we got to our door, my blouse was already almost off. The only hiccup was that the door wasn't ours. We were fumbling with the key, but then a red-faced sunburnt guy stuck his head out, and we actually fell on him. With a strong Scottish accent, he asked what the f*** we are doing at his room, and we, in the midst of a string of excuses and laughter, left. In other circumstances, maybe I would have died of shame, but after consuming a certain quantity of alcohol, the limits of your sense of shame expand. I don't know whether anyone saw us besides him, but tomorrow I'll be leaving the hotel in a hat drawn down over my face. Riv pushed me into the room – this time our own – and then we managed to give new content for the definition of a quickie. We broke our own personal record for speed, at least River for sure. I can’t say it was the most defining sexual experience in my life, but from a certain standpoint it was unforgettable, that’s for sure. A few seconds after the act, my gigolo flopped down on the bed like a mop with his boxers pulled down, and fell asleep. He's lucky he's so damn sexy, even from behind, that I can't be angry with him. About two minutes later, I collapsed into my dreams too, so I didn't have the opportunity to complain about sexual frustration.
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We had aspirin for breakfast. Both of us.
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It’s noon. On the train to Lisbon. Shit, I swear, I’ll never drink alcohol again.
What did I say about Seville? That I love it? Then what could I say about this here? Lisbon. Bairro Alto, the upper town. The meandering cobblestone streets of Alfama with its Mediterranean feel. Clothes drying on the barred balconies and in the windows with stone frames. Tiny shops. Little cafes. Pulsing nightlife. From St. George's citadel, a fantastic view of the river Tejo. Getting to the tower Belém, I couldn't resist pulling out my little notebook. I’m not a big talent at drawing, mostly I’m just sketching clothing models, but this fortification stimulated my imagination. The gathering clouds in the overcast sky provided a sinister background for the intricately carved balconies and towers. I just had to draw. I could imagine us living here. This city is amazing. It’s too bad that tomorrow we’re already moving on.
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On the 2-hour flight from Lisbon to Marrakesh, I broke my promise to never drink alcohol again. I don’t know what kind of turbulence we ran into, but I almost peed myself, that's for sure. I decided it was high time for a glass of vodka. River just smiled next to me. He was obviously enjoying the jostling. He was so sweet as he tried to relax me by kissing my neck and whispering into my ear all the playful things that he wants to do with me when we arrive in Morocco (If we ever arrive!). These images, and of course the vodka, finally had the desired effect. When we landed, I was already feeling pretty relaxed.
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Marrakesh, Marrakesh, you're terrific! I can't handle River. The more south we go, the more he just feels at home. Not long after arriving, we threw ourselves into the tiny meandering streets of the bazaar. It's a mysterious world of wonders, for everyone who can block out the disturbing images of tourists. There are so many things to see here it's almost impossible to process with your European brain. So, I tried to make a pro and con Marrakesh list. Here it is:
Pros
The whirl of Djemaa el Fna (the main square) is straight out of a fairy tale.
Fairy tale-like street views, and cosy, colourful buildings.
The dazzling smells, cheap food.
The bazaar. I swear, I saw a snake-charmer on the street, but I’m not sure if it’s a part of the cons instead.
Marvellous henna-tattoo for a ridiculous price.
El Badi Palace.
Pleasant climate: 27 °C in this season. |
Cons
The pickpocket who stole my wallet in the whirl.
The disastrous toilet situation.
The real danger of indigestion and diarrhoea.
They totally groped my bottom in the bazaar, regardless of the fact I was accompanied by a man.
I’m bargaining-incompetent. This is an accepted behaviour here, but I don’t like to do it.
Volunteer guides you can’t shake off.
The unbearable smell of horse shit. |
Overall, it’s an unmissable experience. Is it worth it to visit as a tourist for a couple of days? Yes. Do I want to settle down and spend the rest of my life here? No.
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River has lost his mind. He had mentioned this earlier, but I didn’t take him very seriously. While I was visiting Maison de la Photographie at forenoon, he bought a beat-up jeep, and now he wants to drive down the western coast of Africa to Mali in it. I checked the map. It's 2225 fucking miles. 2225! Even if we hit the gas and go without stopping, handling the bathroom breaks and food on the way, it's still 4 or 5 days inside this metal bucket. Of course, it's not that we're in a hurry to get there. Holy shit! How will this end?!
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We have been rolling on the A7 southbound for a day already. First, we went through a mountainous area. There was a surprising amount of green, I wasn’t expecting it, keeping in mind that this is still the western part of the Sahara. Moving southwest, after a few hours we arrived at a seaside city called Agadir. We parked the car where we could still see it and jumped into the ocean like crazies. It was amazing. We were both like little kids: screaming and shoving each other. I think we were making a scene. I felt almost reborn after a cool dip. I really needed it. We dried ourselves on the beach and even if I would really have liked to… there was no chance for it. There were tons of local people who were already staring at us strangely, so we packed our things and moved on.
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Shrubs and desert on the landscape as far as the eye can see. The highway winds in front of our eyes like a never-ending snake. Traffic is sparse, mostly we're speeding by trucks and lorries. Sometimes, a petrol station just appears out of nowhere, which somehow has a relaxing effect on me. I have no idea what the hell we would do if we ran out of petrol in the middle of the journey, or if the jeep broke down. I don't even want to think about this scenario. River is perfectly relaxed, and it seems like nothing can disturb his inner peace. He's in a royal mood. I get a chill every night fall, and we need to search for a place to sleep wherever we are, I don't have a problem in the daytime. In fact, I have to admit that I've also contracted the famous highway fever. Sitting at the steering wheel with the top open, the wind catching in my hair; I step on the gas, and the never-ending straight highway runs under the tires. I can't deny the whole thing gives me an adrenaline kick. But nights! I simply can't feel safe when we are sleeping in the car in some deserted parking place or thicket. It's a bit better if we find some beat up little motel on the way, but honestly, those don't count as safe either. Shit, we're total strangers in this country: we don't know anyone, we don't speak the language, and we don't know the first thing about the culture. Anyone could rob or kill us at any time. I know this is the scaredy cat in me talking, but still, that's the truth. River just laughs at my concerns and tries to convince me to relax and enjoy the whole thing. He's right. I'm trying. I'm really trying to relax, but it's not easy. The fact is, I have never had trust in people the way he does. I'm always suspicious and doubtful, thinking for days about each word or gesture. Every night spent outside is a new crisis. On a positive note, River's sex therapy seems pretty effective in my case. Maybe it’s crazy, but this is the only thing that can relax me. He also clearly knows this whole ultra-spontaneous, wild form of travelling is not for me, but he appreciates I’m going through this for his sake.
It’s getting dark again. Night is approaching. Brrr. It’s time to look for somewhere to sleep.
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Today we ran into a breath taking place in the southwestern corner of Morocco. A Berber village tucked between the desert and the ocean. Its name is Mirleft. The seaside there is gorgeous, and it’s obviously a surfer’s paradise. It was clear River couldn’t miss it. He paid for a few hours of surfing lessons, but my darling spent more time in the water than on the board. Well, this is not an activity you can perfect in just an afternoon. In the end, dead tired, he made excuses for the situation: the wind was too strong, and the waves were too big. Anyway, I had a great day. Beach, reading, resting, bathing, and last but not least, River Hailey, with his damn sexy ass, jumping between the waves, half naked, wearing his new skin tight speedos, fighting with the surfboard. By all means, it was well worth the money spent on the lesson. I know, I’m a naughty woman.
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Today we’re standing in a place called El-Ajún. It’s a dream beach. Pink buildings everywhere, and a real… yes, a real hotel! Honestly, there’s not so much I wouldn’t do right now for a soft bed and a hot shower. Riv is adamant about travelling further today, but I’m going to be stubborn. I’ll handcuff myself, if necessary, without a thought, to the hotel’s reception. And by the way, I'll say just quietly, that Tenerife is only 180 miles beeline from here. Just a flimsy 180 miles. You know, Tenerife, the place where everyone speaks Spanish, and next to the names of the hotels, there are lots of stars. Where you have cotton towels by your deck chair, and a smorgasbord breakfast from 8 to 11. Mamma mia! How much I miss civilisation! I can’t help being a city bitch.
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The rejuvenation at El-Ajún didn't last long. After one night, my cruel jailer rushed me onwards: south along the coast of West Africa. I told him if he keeps going like this, I might make a scene in a parking place, screaming something like: "Help, help, I've been kidnapped! Please save me! etc." But River just laughed loudly and answered that he’s not sure that my attempt would succeed in this part of the world. Shit. He’s probably right.
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On the right, the ocean. On the left, the desert. And it's been like this already for 48 hours. We left Western Sahara. We've arrived in Mauritania. I never would have thought in my life that I would have a chance to go to undiscovered places like this. I'm lucky.
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At long last, signs of civilisation again! We got to Nouakchott, the capital of Mauritania. But the notion of a big city has been thoroughly reinterpreted, given the state of things here. You rarely find a paved road, and few houses with multiple stories. The most common mode of transportation is the donkey cart. We ran into a market-like something, where I bought Gran a beautiful necklace made from opal-blue stones. She's gonna love it. And, I even sent her a postcard. I promised her that I would post her one from every bigger city we stop in. But in the last two weeks, I haven't really had the opportunity. We will recharge a bit, then leave the west coast. Direction: interior continent.
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The departure has been postponed. Some kind of infection with diarrhoea and vomiting knocked us out. Until now, besides a couple of cases of minor indigestion, we have been lucky, but now this has hit us hard. Since we left London, I've never felt worse than this and looking at River, I think he is the same feeling. We take turns going to the toilet in the hotel. If we're not sitting on the loo, then we're buckled over, or maybe lying on the bed, exhausted, like a dishrag, waiting for it to end.
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Fucking disease. It’s already had us stuck in the hotel for 3 days, but at least things are looking up, by which I mean we aren’t engaging in synchronised vomiting, we just have diarrhoea. At least it is only during the day, so we both slept through the night. People don't imagine honeymoon romance like this, that's for sure. I have to admit that now we have had a chance to see each other’s weaknesses completely. I’ve never seen River knocked out like this. I’d love to take care of him, nurse him back to health, but it's impossible while I’m in this storm-battered state.
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Finally, we've pulled ourselves together, more or less, and are headed southeast. Its 930 miles to Bamako, capital of Mali, where we are supposed to stay with River’s old college friend. But until then, two more nights await us in the desert. On the low plateau, we pass through dry, weedy grasslands and sometimes – for a change – small streams of water dividing the landscape.
We are running more and more into the gravel desert. It’s fucking hot. I would say my fat is melting, but I truly doubt after the episode of vomiting and diarrhoea I have an ounce of fat left to melt. Sometimes, to our surprise, dusty villages and lush green oases pop up out of nowhere, which seems to prove the strange fact that people live in this environment. The frontier station between Mali and Mauritania is not different from any other ordinary police checkpoint. A couple of men stand at the side of the road and wave the cars through randomly. The barrier which should signify the border looks so miserable I swear even I could DIY something more formidable. They were surprisingly relaxed about the whole thing. They didn't even stamp our passports.
We spend Sunday evening in a small hotel. We're dying for a bottle of cold soda, but it looks like the hotel doesn’t have these types of luxuries at their disposal. I scream with girlish enthusiasm when I find out our room has a bathroom. Then, I throw open the door to make this advancement of civilisation mine, but the knob stays in my hand. It’s my fault – I think guiltily. This all happened because of my fumbling rashness. The shower head is missing from the end of the pipe, but it doesn't matter. I'm determined; no power could keep me from showering. I open the tap, and the next surprise is that the blazing hot water trickling from the pipe almost burns a hole in my stomach. I'm overtaken by a convulsive burst of laughter, when River, hearing my wild screaming, runs through the door of the bathroom, pulls the shower curtain aside – and then the telescopic shower rod falls down on my head. At first, we just stare at each other oafishly out of surprise and helplessness. Then, we are overtaken by unstoppable, compulsive laughter, and I laugh until my sides ache. Then River climbs in next to me, just as he is: half-naked, in jeans. He's also wearied from the disease, but now his eyes shine mischievously as he steps closer and firmly presses his palms on me. I'm heaving deep, voluptuous sighs. It's a crazily sexy picture, as the lukewarm water flowing from the tap trickles down and makes his body wet. Everywhere. His hand starts to wander towards my hips, and in response, I involuntarily groan and pull myself closer to him. Ohh… I can see it's working for him. He bends towards my mouth thirstily, and just as our lips join, I realise how much I missed him. Him, and yes,… sex too. We haven't been together for at least two weeks, and this is too much time considering we're on our honeymoon. I think he's thinking the same because he reaches under my bare bum and pulls me onto his lap. He steps out of the shower, and staggers his way to the bed, still kissing me. On the way, my knee knocks against the doorframe, causing me to scream out in pain. River pulls his face from mine and blinks in surprise.
“Are you ok?”– He asks, a bit worried.
"Uh huh," – I nod quickly and press my lips to his again.
He almost runs into the corner of the bed, so we both fall on the doubtfully clean bedspread. In another situation, it would give me pause, but now I’m so turned on that I wouldn’t even care if we did it on the floor. River’s drenched body sticks to mine. I try clumsily to undo the belt of his jeans with my wet hands, unsuccessfully. Meanwhile, his hand wanders, exploring my whole body, and I continue to tug at his belt in frustration. After some time, he pulls back and grins at me playfully.
“May I help you with something?”
"I would appreciate it." – I answer, trying to force myself to stay calm, but my trembling voice betrays how impatient I am and how badly I want him.
He stands up and undoes his belt. Water drips from the shamelessly sexy locks falling across his forehead, then trickles down onto his shoulder and stomach. Finally, he pulls down his jeans, along with his boxers. I'm sighing deeply at the sight I've missed for so long.
"Are you satisfied, m'lady?" – he grins, satisfied since he sees how I'm feasting my eyes on him.
"Hm ... not quite," – I taunt him, tilting my head because he can't always be right. Self-satisfied bastard. A heartbreaking, self-satisfied bastard.
“Then some help is needed. I’m at your service, madame,” – he jokes, and with his eyes flashing mischievously, he jumps on me.
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We’re on our way to Bamako again, leaving behind the place which has somehow earned the title of hotel. I'm confident that I've never been to such a beat up place in my life. I'll never forget it, that's for sure.
Bamako. 34 °C with brutally high humidity. Stepping out onto the street, it was like it kicked me the chest and then pressed a wet sack on my head. I just can't understand how anyone can live here long term. Of course, it's possible that not every season is so cruelly hot and humid. Pete, River's friend, obviously doesn't really care about the climate. He's been living there for 2 years already, and he says this is his dream home. He's a pretty cool, easy-going guy. Apparently, he teaches at the local university in some archaeology-related field. His girlfriend, who owns this apartment, is a student. It was surprisingly comfortable and clean compared to my previous experiences. We stayed for 3 days. We looked around a bit and got to know the place while the guys tried to fix up the jeep.
The city is teeming with motorcycles, and it seems like they follow an entirely mysterious and inextricable set of traffic laws. Pete is a born tourist guide. He talked a lot about the local attractions. While meandering along the bank of the Niger, I found out that this city got its name from the crocodiles. Supposedly, this place was crawling with reptiles before, but their numbers plummeted because they were thoroughly hunted. Well, I can't say that I mind if I'm walking around here. Whether we're talking about animal protection or not, if you are forced to spend the night on the bank of the Niger River in a tent, and god forbid you have to go out to pee in the middle of the night, I swear you'd be eternally grateful the crocodiles in this area are extinct.
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We’ve been on the road for 7 days. We left Mali, got through Burkina Faso, and arrived in Benin, where the official language is French, making communication a bit more difficult. My secondary school French is really rusty, or perhaps non-existent. Riv doesn’t give up. He’s so sweet as he insistently keeps trying with his strong English accent. It’s undeniable that he’s often successful, but I’m not sure if it’s because of his French knowledge, or rather because