The brand, the whole brand and nothing but the brand. I apologise in advance for this rant but I have to share my woes with someone, and unfortunately it has to be you. I’m not normally one for holidays, vacations and the like. If you like what you do and you’re any good at it you’re probably in full agreement, if not you most likely need more than a break on the beach, something along the lines of a life changing experience is in order.

So Chris and I, on the wholehearted recommendation of a friend of a friend took a chance on Essaouira for a 9 day getaway in the sun. In reality it’s a ramshackled deadbeat fishing village on the south west coast of Morocco that has seen better days I am sure – but we were fooled by the brochures, the online guides, and the word-of-mouth and mostly gushing feedback of the aforementioned acquaintance. We thought we were playing it safe by renting an apartment rather than a room at a riad (for some peaceful sleep), and extending our stay so we would be lively enough to enjoy the festivities and a few more days to laze around before our return.

So here’s the story. Firstly Gatwick and its customs controls are as fascistic as always, we booked the cheapest Easy Jet flights we could get and lavished a few extra quid on Speedy Boarding, in essence to avoid the queues, but airport security literally wiped the advantage clean when it came to stripping almost everything off with a few other thousand poor souls at the arrivals lounge. There was a machine for our hand luggage, belts, keys, lighters, coins and so on. There was a guy with a hand-held metal detector and very frisky hands just to make the ordeal last a little longer. Then there was another machine specifically to scan our shoes. There were passport checks after passport checks, surly staff, disgruntled travellers and tourists, expensive junk food, and yet more queues for everything from toilets to snacks to sun tan lotions and shaving cream and you name it we queued for it. After a few hours our flight which was already delayed flickered on to the board and we were all herded along and crammed into a tiny plane filled with extended families adamant that they should all be able to sit together. That delayed the flight further. Then a rather obese couple who couldn’t fit the seat belts around their generous girths made sure the flight would be further prolonged. Eventually all was well with the pilot, some blankly stared as the attendants lazily acted out emergency procedures and the plane, which was in dire need of an overhaul, lolloped off the runway into the lower atmosphere.

We arrived at Marrakesh in 40C+ heat and tracked down our taxi driver, we then faced a 3 hour drive to hell, arriving late at night we were finally greeted by Said who must be one of the friendliest guys I have ever met, patience of a saint, but highly troubled by the state of things in his once sleepy seaside town. He showed us a rather beaten up and grubby flat infested with ants that would be our home from home for the next week or so. He even tracked down a restaurant that begrudgingly served us a couple of late-night traditional tagines before he and his family settled down in front of the Moroccan equivalent of American Idol. We dragged our carcases back up the most dangerous looking alleyway we’ve ever encountered, reeking of urine, laced with broken beer bottles and packed full of drunk and violent Arabs and most likely a nearby brothel judging by the jeering and grunting sounds that were to confound our brief rest-bite each night as we attempted to sleep.

Now all of that was too be expected, I thought we’d made a mistake by choosing a holiday by the sea as we already live by the sea and I prefer the relatively cosmopolitan feel of most cities, even Marrakesh felt sophisticated and ‘worldly-wise’ in comparison. Still I was determined to enjoy myself. However when the festival began we immediately realised that Gnawa music is dull, it’s like Irish Celtic music with less melody and it repeats ad-infinitum for at least an hour or two. We did get to see Arrested Development which for a while was a massive relief, a brief lifeline back to the 21st Century, OK the very late 20th Century, but it was still a welcome experience for both of us.

There’s a lot more attitude in Essaouira than Marrakesh, many of the locals drank excessive amounts of wine and didn’t seem able to handle it. Many of the shops were run by guys who had seem to have sought their fortune in America and Europe and then returned to work for their fathers and uncles, all bearing a massive chip on their respective shoulders. One stall holder who had worked for Cirque Du Soleil for 6 months told Chris to "**** off" when she attempted to barter. His prices were outrageous and after a few moments of working out the currency rates we realised he was charging more than we’d pay at home for everything no matter how tatty or badly made. We subsisted in the markets buying basics, food, water, anything we needed to survive, all though the place looked like Beirut we knew we wouldn’t be able to budget for the whole break unless we really tightened our belts.

When we first arrived the sky was clouded over and we didn’t really notice how hot it was getting, we had a little problem with sunburn but nothing too outrageous. Then the skies cleared and everyone with any sense ran to cover, except Chris who put all her faith in a new sun lotion by Nivea, it was a clear and invisible spray, and she swore by the adverts and smiling suntanned faces of the actors in the TV campaign that it worked. It was rather a high factor so I went along with her claims and sprayed it all over, the first thing I noticed was a stinging sensation, not the cool feel of the thick white gunk I’d normally use. I checked the label, the spray was mostly alcohol, now I’m no chemist but I do know that alcohol dehydrates the body so I was rather dubious, but looking at Chris’ tan coming along nicely I went against my better instincts and carried on using the spray for a few more days.

I am home now, I am covered in 2nd degree burns, in fact chemical burns, to my face, shoulders, chest, stomach, arms and legs. When I move I bleed, when I don’t I itch, Chris is out on the deck topping up her tan, I am here ranting all my woes to an innocent stranger or two, wishing I had the patience to explore more of the wonders of graffiti and street art with you, but right now I just have to heal, so be patient with me and I’ll be back soon.

Just one word of advice, don’t trust any brand, they are all concocted by evil advertising agencies for evil corporations to make money, nothing more, nothing less. I just wish I’d realised I wasn’t trusting my partner’s judgement, but her belief in a brand, her trance-like fervour for a corporation with a slick advertising campaign that left me halfway to hospital. When I stop bleeding I will start writing, drawing, and preparing the studio again. Over and out. 

This post is tagged anti corporate, anti corporation, art, graffiti, Morocco, Nivea, sun burn