Off to Africa

Off to Africa Arrival in Morocco , Agadir Marina. For three days, Lady Mary had been beating into the trade wind, aiming straight for the very point it was blowing from. On the morning of the fourth day, the instruments showed that the marina was only 4 miles away, but there was no sign of land. Visibility was about 150 metres. The fog swallowed the sky, the sea, the land and the ships. Later, they emerged from all sorts of unexpected directions like silent giants. Finally, plastic bags, bottles and assorted filth began drifting towards us, filling our hearts with joy at the approaching shore. As is only proper, the approach to the harbour was blocked many times over by nets. Dodging them, we sometimes performed utterly mad pirouettes. Almost black fishing boats darted nimbly or glided smoothly between the nets. Many years ago they were probably colourful, but now they looked like characters from Pirates of the Caribbean risen from the ocean depths. The marina itself was surrounded by smart white buildings with little towers, cafés and shops. Someone on the quay was already waving to us. We rounded the first pontoon, terrified that they might berth us there: yachts were greeted by loons with wings spread in a welcoming embrace. They had been sitting here for many years, just as their mothers and grandmothers had sat before them: it would simply be impossible to plaster a pontoon so thoroughly in any less time. We were met by our French neighbour (we did not yet know that we would travel aboard our yacht together with his family ) and several workers, either from the marina itself or cleaners of motor yachts. They were all very kind, as the children put it. One of them spoke fluent Russian. It turned out that he was the skipper of the motor yacht next to ours. “Where did you learn our language so well?” “I work aboard ships. Lots of Russians book charters,” the Moroccan replied tersely. Customs: The stern customs officers, Arabs with French features, summoned the captain to surrender himself. Then they came back and peered cautiously into the galley to see whether we had any illegal immigrants or contraband aboard. But there was only the smell of chopped onions and me, cooking pilaf to mark our arrival in Africa. Besides questions about where we were going, where we had come from and all that, the captain was asked: “Do you speak Arabic?” “Nope. I know that trick. I don’t.” Once, at the Egyptian-Jordanian border, Andrey was asked the same question in Arabic, and he ingenuously replied, also in Arabic, “A little.” At that, our bald-shaven polyglot with a beard plaited into a braid (that was how he looked back then) was led away to the cells, while my companion and I spent two solid hours sitting on the corridor floor like homeless people, wondering whether they would let him out or not... They did. But ever since then, the captain speaks Arabic only at the market. Harbourmaster’s office: A friendly marina manager, the usual check-in procedure. “Why can’t we anchor?” “The police don’t allow it. There is a lot of cannabis (hemp) in Morocco . People come to collect it and smuggle it out. There are also those who want to emigrate illegally to the Canary Islands . So they keep watch. Although... peace reigns in Arab society only because everyone smokes cannabis.” Evening Revelries The Arabian night from Monday into Tuesday was cool and loud. Half past three in the morning. Across the harbour, they had been celebrating either a wedding or a birthday at a café since the evening. A toastmaster on the microphone, music blasting through the speakers—just like a City Day celebration in Russia. Maybe that is how they do things here? But we do not have to get up early for work, and we really like Arabic music too☺. And on Tuesday, The African Heat Arrived, and It Was +48°C .