GUEST BLOG POST by MATT LIDIS
I am sat next to the window of a Ryanair flight
from Marrakesh to Manchester. When I look out, I can see the dry,
featureless plains of North Africa separated from me by a few clouds
and a couple of panes of discount glass. I have spent the last week
mooching about Marrakesh, partly because I have never been
there and partly because it seemed the cheapest and easiest way to say
‘I’ve been to Africa.’ Although, now, 20 minutes into this flight it
doesn’t feel like I’ve been anywhere. I had big plans for this trip. Plans to detox
from my phone, to lay off the pizza and chocolate and mostly to get
some fucking writing done. I knew I would have to use my phone on the
first day to call the lady whose Air BnB I was staying in and
negotiate my way there. But then the phone would go off and out of my life
for a week. That was the plan. Before I left, I had looked up roaming
charges. It would cost me £6 a day to use my data allowance. I could
absorb £6.
£6 was not a lot. Especially as I am such a tight bastard I had already decided to walk if from the airport into the city centre (or Centre Ville – Grade B GCSE French 1996). When I switched my phone on in the terminal, I had a voicemail. This was almost certainly someone telling me I had won a writing competition. Or one of those millions of Vodafone competitions I had entered It had to be. This was going to be a great holiday. Turns out it was the Air BnB woman wondering what time I was going to turn up as the current guests weren’t planning to leave on time, and it would be cleaned by half 2. It was 11.30 so I had three hours to run riot in a new continent. An hour later I arrived in the centre of Marrakesh completely dehydrated with lungs full of motorbike petrol, the like of which I have not inhaled since the 80s. I had used my data to find my way around and finalised the details of my arrival via Whatsapp. I had also, very foolishly, worn a brand-new pair of Sports Direct fake Converse baseball boots so my feet were cut to pieces. I drew some Dirahms from the machine, sat down at a café and felt sorry for myself. Rather than lose myself gazing at the throngs of people sailing past on bikes, camels and horses I decided to get my phone out. After all, I’d paid £6 for the day and there were nearly 12 hours of that left. I was just getting my money’s worth. So, for the next hour or two I drank Sprite whilst going through my Gmail, Hotmail both of which had no new emails. I Whattsapped a few people to tell them I had arrived safe. I looked at my calendar – fuck me – a week in Morocco - what were the odds? Then twitter. The Instagram. I read the BBC news, The Bolton News, had a stab at the Guardian crossword. Had a look through my photos. Cleaned the junk from my cache. Updated my apps. And basically, went through the entire fucking palaver that seems to happen every time I look at my phone. By now of course replies had come back from the messages so I had reason to be staring at my phone. Replies became conversations and before long I’d checked all my emails again and gone round all the apps just because that is apparently how I spend my time on my phone these days. A few more of these and it was time to go. Thank god of my phone. Who knows what might have happened otherwise? I might have been forced to read, write or even think. I’d like to tell you that this was me flushing the phone blues away on the first day but I paid £6 a day every day of the remainder of my holiday just so I could keep Whatsapping clichéd photos to people I barely know. I was right up to date with the crisis at Bolton Wanderers and I spent my Saturday afternoon listening to the football on Five Live wishing I’d had the foresight to put an accumulator on before I left the country. I listened to Man City squeeze part Burnley on Sunday, Spurs lose 0ne-nil to Ajax on Tuesday and Liverpool lose three-nil to Barcelona on Wednesday. Three matches I would happily totally miss back home. But in the clammy, balmy, creeping heat of a North African evening - they were unmissable. But why? Why was I choosing Marks Chapman and Pougatch over my own mental health? There were exotic strangers to meet, mountains to be explored and tiny, labyrinthine medieval streets to get lost in. While I did my fair share of sightseeing and exploring I did not do Marrakesh the justice I did the 37th week of the football season and that is a shame in anyone’s book. With the possible exception of all those racist football fans. I genuinely hoped I would be able to switch my phone off and disconnect from the world I had ostensibly left behind. But I simply couldn’t. So embedded in the always on, constant flow of information lifestyle we all lead I went on holiday in body but not in mind.
£6 was not a lot. Especially as I am such a tight bastard I had already decided to walk if from the airport into the city centre (or Centre Ville – Grade B GCSE French 1996). When I switched my phone on in the terminal, I had a voicemail. This was almost certainly someone telling me I had won a writing competition. Or one of those millions of Vodafone competitions I had entered It had to be. This was going to be a great holiday. Turns out it was the Air BnB woman wondering what time I was going to turn up as the current guests weren’t planning to leave on time, and it would be cleaned by half 2. It was 11.30 so I had three hours to run riot in a new continent. An hour later I arrived in the centre of Marrakesh completely dehydrated with lungs full of motorbike petrol, the like of which I have not inhaled since the 80s. I had used my data to find my way around and finalised the details of my arrival via Whatsapp. I had also, very foolishly, worn a brand-new pair of Sports Direct fake Converse baseball boots so my feet were cut to pieces. I drew some Dirahms from the machine, sat down at a café and felt sorry for myself. Rather than lose myself gazing at the throngs of people sailing past on bikes, camels and horses I decided to get my phone out. After all, I’d paid £6 for the day and there were nearly 12 hours of that left. I was just getting my money’s worth. So, for the next hour or two I drank Sprite whilst going through my Gmail, Hotmail both of which had no new emails. I Whattsapped a few people to tell them I had arrived safe. I looked at my calendar – fuck me – a week in Morocco - what were the odds? Then twitter. The Instagram. I read the BBC news, The Bolton News, had a stab at the Guardian crossword. Had a look through my photos. Cleaned the junk from my cache. Updated my apps. And basically, went through the entire fucking palaver that seems to happen every time I look at my phone. By now of course replies had come back from the messages so I had reason to be staring at my phone. Replies became conversations and before long I’d checked all my emails again and gone round all the apps just because that is apparently how I spend my time on my phone these days. A few more of these and it was time to go. Thank god of my phone. Who knows what might have happened otherwise? I might have been forced to read, write or even think. I’d like to tell you that this was me flushing the phone blues away on the first day but I paid £6 a day every day of the remainder of my holiday just so I could keep Whatsapping clichéd photos to people I barely know. I was right up to date with the crisis at Bolton Wanderers and I spent my Saturday afternoon listening to the football on Five Live wishing I’d had the foresight to put an accumulator on before I left the country. I listened to Man City squeeze part Burnley on Sunday, Spurs lose 0ne-nil to Ajax on Tuesday and Liverpool lose three-nil to Barcelona on Wednesday. Three matches I would happily totally miss back home. But in the clammy, balmy, creeping heat of a North African evening - they were unmissable. But why? Why was I choosing Marks Chapman and Pougatch over my own mental health? There were exotic strangers to meet, mountains to be explored and tiny, labyrinthine medieval streets to get lost in. While I did my fair share of sightseeing and exploring I did not do Marrakesh the justice I did the 37th week of the football season and that is a shame in anyone’s book. With the possible exception of all those racist football fans. I genuinely hoped I would be able to switch my phone off and disconnect from the world I had ostensibly left behind. But I simply couldn’t. So embedded in the always on, constant flow of information lifestyle we all lead I went on holiday in body but not in mind.
As a kid I remember coming home from holiday and
the world I had not seen for a couple of weeks seemed like a long
lost friend who had changed since the last time I saw them. But that
was because I had changed. I had been forced into a world a strange
smells, unfamiliar flavours and textures. To live a different way
for a fortnight’s self-catering In Menorca was a big upheaval for
seven-year-old me. In the intervening 32 years I have been to 28 more
countries. I walked around the souks of Marrakesh thinking ‘This
place is a bit like Istanbul and a bit like North India.’ What a bell
end. My advancing years meant I had been reduced to categorising
places to make me feel safe. To make me feel like the me that I
should’ve left behind. Holidays should be a bit scary, a bit
uncomfortable and a bit weird. That’s how they broaden the mind and make us see
ourselves a little differently when we return. All this is
undermined when all that we are can be carried around in our pockets. I wish
I had had the balls to switch my phone off. Walk more, read more and
write more. But it’s so, so easy to retreat into the comfort of our
phone screens. And so comfortingly easy. Everyone we know is just a
few glass presses away and all that really means is that we never have
to spend any time with ourselves anymore.
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