Last Day in Chaouen

I believe that today is my final day here in this mountain town. I have taken walks, I have eaten breakfast in nearly all the main plaza's establishment, I have cooked a variety of meals with local goods. It is time to go.

There are some people here whom I do not wish to emulate, people that somehow find this a perfect town within which to waste away, numbed by hashish, and occasionally alcohol. This man Pablo, whom I have mentioned before, is an intelligent, interesting man with a wealth of stories matched by few. He regales with tales of the jungle and the desert, tells me of stealing cars in the sixties and seventies, and of forging checks in the same epoch. He has lived in Afghanistan, Iran, India, and Pakistan. And yet he is always smoking a joint, and pours his first glass of pastisse or whiskey at eleven a.m., shortly after rising from the bed.

There is a young American in the hotel as well, and I have never seen him leave the confines of the place. He wanders aimlessly through the short hallways, his short yet ungainly arms hanging at his side, smoke pouring from his mouth.

Needless to say, I do not see myself as one of these people, but being around them for too long can grate on a person.

Tomorrow I believe that I will head to Fez, though this plan is based on the possibly incorrect assumption that the Gods of the bus schedules will smile upon me. We shall see.